Shadows of Darkness: Mystery Thriller and Romance Drama

By David S. Fisher

The background to this mystery thriller and romance drama is the idyllic town of Sanremo on the Italian Riviera. Not the place to expect to find murder, corruption and political intrigue. Or so Nico Moretti, an attorney, thought when he moved there from the Big City in search of a more peaceful life.

But overnight, he and his intrepid, bodacious girlfriend, Susanna, become the chief suspects in a case of double murder. Faced with the seemingly arbitrary acts of the police and justice authorities, they need to have their wits about them as they attempt to prove their innocence. But the deeper he and Susanna get involved in tracing the true culprits, the more they are subjected to shadowy, psychological terror from mysterious political quarters. With their backs to the wall, there is only one way out. But, to Nico, it seems they are jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Susanna, though, is willing to take the chance.

Amazon stars rating 4.6/5.0 based on 12 reviews:-

"People who like the thriller genre—conspiracies, political corruption, mystery—will be entertained by this trip to Italy." Laura.

"A crime thriller of global proportions." Kurt Schuett.

"A well written, suspense mystery thriller with a smouldering, hot storyline and an action-packed, fast-paced tempo that twists and turns when you least expect it." Cathy Wilson.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Irresistible Reads Press
• Release date: Oct 18, 2018

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PREAMBLE

Sanremo is a pretty town on the Italian Rivera, close to the French border. It is busy in the summer when the tourists arrive and, after they leave, you couldn't imagine a more peaceful place nestling between the Maritime mountains and the Mediterranean sea. I had moved there from Milan to escape the big-city hectic and the professional rat race as a lawyer and to settle into the quiet life of a provincial advocate. It worked. And after meeting Susanna, I couldn't have wished for a more fuller life.

But it was too good to last.

I remember the day it all began quite clearly – one stormy day when heaven turned to hell.

A spring thunderstorm had been raging along the north Italian coastline for most of that day, and Sanremo appeared to be in the eye of it. It was evening and the rain was still bucketing it down. I'd put off going out to dinner, hoping the squalls of driving rain would do me a favour and move on. But no go.

In retrospect, I suppose what happened that day was an ironic quirk of fate.

If only I had braved the weather and gone to dinner, I'm sure I wouldn't be telling this tragic story now.

CHAPTER 1

I was sitting at my desk, watching the torrential rain beating against the office window, debating with myself whether to brave the weather and make a dash for it to the restaurant on the corner or wait a while longer hoping the rain would lessen, when the phone rang.

I hit the button on the intercom automatically. Si, pronto?

Avvocato Moretti? a woman's voice said.

Yes. This is Nico Moretti speaking.

I've been recommended to you. I need your assistance. I must see you urgently. I'm sure my life is in danger.

Er, my office hours are-

It must be tonight.

Well, all right. I am still at the office. You have my address?

Not your office, she said, her voice suddenly low. I don't want to be seen with  ...  you, a lawyer.

Look, who are you?

Can we meet in an hour, say at ten? At  ...  At the north gate to the town's communal park?

I looked out of the window casually. The rain was still hammering against the windowpanes. It's pretty wet out  ...   I began to protest but got no further.

I have a car  ...  Please, oh, please. I must see you.

Look, how can I help you? And  ...  and what was your name again?

But she had already cut the connection.

I sat back and lit a Camel. Now, what the hell was that all about? Nice, husky voice. Youngish, I guessed. A damsel in distress, I hoped. But the bloody weather! And, Jesus, the communal park! That was in the middle of nowhere.

Still, my sense of gallantry and the thought of a new client won the day.

I had a busy day behind me and was still wearing my attorney gear: a dark-blue suit and striped tie. A white shirt. Clothes cut to emphasize my tall, slim figure. Normally, I changed to something more informal before I went out in the evening. But now, I couldn’t be arsed. So, driven by curiosity, I threw on a Burberry trench coat, grabbed my hat and went out in the rain to meet the lady.

Driving out to the meeting place was a slow process. The evening traffic in Sanremo was moving at a walking pace. And sight was down to almost zero. Only the flashes of lightning provided any real vision. My headlamps were almost useless.

It was shortly after ten when I got to the park entrance gate. The roads were already underwater. But no new client waiting. No car in sight. I kept my lights turned full on more as a hazard warning than to see by.

The minutes ticked by slowly. Still, time was relative in this part of the Italian backwoods. And, then again, the weather might be causing her a delay.

I searched in my shirt pocket for a Camel. No luck. I’d left the pack on my desk. Now, I was truly pissed off. I needed nicotine as a bird needs air. Even if I did periodically give up smoking.

The next time I checked my watch, it was ten thirty. My patience wasn't known for its longevity. And by now my nerves were jangling. Where the hell was she? Or was this some sod’s idea of a practical joke? OK, I'd give her another five minutes. Then write off the prospects of a new client to experience.

All of a sudden, a pair of headlights turned full on materialised from the blackness. Adrenalin kicked in. Action at bloody last!

I got out of the car full of expectation, braving the freezing squalls. But the other car went straight by, parting water like the bows of a boat. Right, that's it. To hell with her. But as the car's lights passed the entrance to the park, I thought I’d seen something lying on the ground. A bundle of sorts. It was probably nothing. Just a trick of the imagination in the darkness. But my curiosity was aroused. I switched on my beacon spot lamp, pulled my trench coat tighter around me and went to look.

In the beam, I saw that it wasn't my imagination. There was something there after all. A discarded bin liner full of trash? I went a step closer. No. Bloody hell, it was a bundle of clothes – with, Christ, a body inside!

I stood looking at the corpse for a long moment, the torrential rain now forgotten. It was lying on its back, arms and legs twisted at impossible angles as if it had been hit by a car going at speed. I shone the light in its face. It was a woman. I peered closer. By the horrible marks on her neck, she didn't look like the victim of a hit-and-run accident.

I backed away carefully and then trudged through the puddles and over the soggy grass to my car. As I called the local cops on my mobile, I checked the time. Ten forty-five.

An official voice identified Sanremo police headquarters, the questura in local speak. I asked for Gianni Olivera. He was the chief of police for west Liguria. He lived in Sanremo. I didn't expect him to be on duty at this hour. Still, the questura would know where to reach him.

We were pals, well sort of. We crossed swords at poker games occasionally. And I was known around the courts and his cop shop in Sanremo.

I waited. I was glad when Gianni's voice eventually replaced the nerve-racking brass band holding music.

What's up, Nico? he growled. "Madonna, I'm on a roll. Dio mio, you should see the cards I'm pulling."

That's history now, Gianni. I’ve got a body for you. In Sanremo.

A body? He didn’t get to see many in this neck of the woods.

Yeah, and as dead as a dormouse.

A door  ...  mouse?

Italian is my first language, my mother’s tongue. But my father was from New England and I was born and raised in the US. For this reason, Gianni liked to practice his English on me.

Just an expression, Gianni, I said. But you’d better get an ambulance and a pathologist down here quick fast. And add a forensic team. And a couple of divers. Everything’s underwater out here. But they might be able to salvage something.

What the hell are you talking about?

Just get here, OK?

Fuck, where are you?

The Sanremo communal park. North end gate.

At this time of a night?

It's a long story. And, hey, this body isn't getting any warmer.

Are you drunk – or strung out on something?

Look, make it snappy, Gianni. I’m soaking wet, dog tired and want to get home to my bed. But I was thinking more about cuddling up to Susanna, my girlfriend.

Tell me, Nico, why is there always trouble when you are around?

Good question. I wondered if anybody had put the same question to my hero, Perry Mason, the legendary US defence lawyer.

As a lawyer by profession, I'd specialised in criminal defence law. Hence Perry Mason and Philip Marlowe, another hero of mine, were required reading. But since I'd graduated with a degree from Yale, a master's from Cambridge, England, and bar exams in Milan, I'd gone downhill a bit. Three years in a Big Law sweatshop in a sprawling metropolis like Milan had taught me that I wasn't cut out to work thirty hour days or rip-off clients, even if they could afford it. The pay was good. But I wanted an easier means of earning my daily crust.

While I was waiting for Olivera, I took some photos of the corpse with my digital camera.

Gianni Olivera was a colonel in the Carabinieri, the Italian elite police service. He was in his forties, a metre eighty-five tall, heavily built but not running to fat. He had the kind of toughness that could break bricks. A cop from Italy's Big Apple, Rome, he was a seasoned, hard-nut professional. And a bad man to get on the wrong side of.

His sin was poker, also one of my pastimes. As a rule, I could earn some cash on the side at it. But not with him at the table.

It didn't take long for him to get there. He must have been close by. I was glad to see him as he wound his bulk out of the car. He pulled on ill-fitting, police issue black oilskins and a yellow fisherman's sou'wester. I had to smile. He was usually so particular about his appearance. But I supposed they didn't have standard storm ware for police chiefs.

A couple of black Carabinieri cars drew up behind. A bunch of cops spilt out in their black uniforms, cursing the rain as they struggled to get into their black, waterproof jackets.

Got a smoke, Chief? I gasped.

A smoke?

I was dying. Jesus. A cigarette.

You always talk such screwed-up English, he said with a grimace and handed me a pack of French filters. It is you being American, I suppose?

I was too busy lighting up to give him a fitting answer.

He went over and took a look at the body. I was left to draw on a soggy cigarette that tasted like hogweed. I glanced around the crime scene and saw his deputies, looking by now as if they’d been dragged out of the river, begin cordoning off the area.

In this weather you won't get much evidence, I said to Gianni, nodding towards his men.

Yeah? he said and gave me a hard, wary look.  

Hey, I didn't kill her. It was meant as a disarming joke.

He didn't smile. Well, somebody did and they may have left something behind.

Perhaps he was taking the piss in his inimitable way. Irony was part of his make up. But I was too buggered to care. I was cold and wet and mentally fatigued by what was happening. Still, I hung around. I wanted something from the pathologist.

He was kneeling in the wet grass, examining the body. He was wet through and his instruments case full of water, but he plodded on. Gianni and I stood to one side, half watching. While we waited, I filled him in and told him about the strange phone call.

You think it is the same woman? he said when I was finished.

I shrugged.

Did she give a name, this woman?

No. Then again she may have. I don’t remember exactly.

He eyed me curiously. Are you bullshitting me, Nico?

Come on, Chief. Why would I need to bullshit you?

He gave me the local patois shrug he'd picked up along the way. It was useful body language. It could mean anything. But it was never positive.

Does she have any ID on her, Doctor? Gianni said, addressing the pathologist, and speaking Italian again.

No handbag, he replied. No wallet. And nothing lying around here.

Can you give a time of death? I asked, getting to what was uppermost in my mind.

The pathologist and I knew each other by sight from court appearances, but he glanced in Gianni's direction first.

Well? Gianni said.

Hard to say in these damned weather conditions, Chief. But I’d guess she's been dead a couple of hours.

I did some quick arithmetic. It was almost twelve o’clock by now. That meant she died an hour after phoning me. Her body must have been dumped just before I got there. Jesus. It was just what I didn't want to hear.

Gianni was eyeing me keenly. Is something on your mind, Nico?

No ... no. It was just that the woman I was to meet phoned me around nine.

"Hmm. What time did you get here, did you say?"

Hey, look  ...  Dammit, she was dead when I arrived.

You saw nothing?

In this weather? Come on.

Gianni turned to survey the crime scene which was lit up by car headlights and silently flashing blue lights. He seemed preoccupied with his thoughts. He didn't appear to notice the rain pelting down.

If you don't need me any more, Chief, I'll be moseying along. I wanted out of there. Before I catch my death of cold.

It wasn't a particularly wise choice of words.

He scowled at me in reply.

At that moment, one of Gianni officers tapped him on the arm and held a short-wave radio out to him. More drama, the man said.

Gianni put the phone to his ear and listened. He grimaced. Then with a grunt, he cut the connection. He handed the phone back. You did not perhaps have another meeting arranged for this evening, Nico? On the bypass.

Come again?

The highway police have just found another body. A man … shot dead.

Christ, that shook me. Two murders in one night. And that in a place where you can count the number of felonies in a year on one hand.

A black squad car drew up behind him; the driver opened the passenger door.

Gianni turned and ducked to get in. I will be wanting to talk to you again tomorrow morning, Nico. At the Sanremo questura first thing  ...  So make it early. His head disappeared inside.

I watched the rear lights of the Carabinieri car dissolve in the pouring rain. Then I drove straight home.

I didn't like Gianni's attitude one bit. And the fact that this young woman died around ten didn't thrill me either. It put me in the bloody time frame.

CHAPTER 2

It was still chucking it down when I got to my girlfriend Susanna’s house. I ran the few metres from my car to her door. The garden and house lights were on. She was back early. The restaurant she owned and managed didn't usually close until after midnight. This evening must have been quiet.

I shed my wet kit as I made a beeline for the lounge, leaving a trail of sodden clothing along the way. She was sitting on the couch, a magazine open in her lap. Some business papers were at her side. The TV was on but turned down low. She'd changed into loose pyjamas which would have done a Chinese coolie proud. She eyed me sardonically as I came in. Susanna was a few years older than me, tall, dark, had a pretty nose and sexy, liquid black eyes, and a figure that amounted to a traffic hazard.

How much did you lose this time? she said, all sweetness and light. But you couldn't overlook that her thermostat was set at zero.

No card game. I had to meet a client, I said and made my way to the downstairs bathroom.

At this time of night?

Yeah, funny as that may seem.

She followed me into the bathroom. I let the steaming hot water thaw out my frozen bones.

Why are you so anxious to get a shower? she said, her eyes flashing. Getting rid of the evidence?

Take a sniff at my clothes, sweetie, if you don’t believe me.

She returned holding my wet clothes at arm's length, her nose screwed up.

I gave her a little smile. They didn’t get like that shafting some bird in the hay, I’ll tell you. And I’m too old for wet hay, I might add.

Ha.

But she was running out of steam. What were you up to then?

I told her the whole story, and that I believed the dead woman was the one who phoned me. There was an incredulous look on her face. And I couldn't blame her. In hindsight, it did sound a bit far-fetched. Murders just don’t happen in Sanremo. It was bad for business!

I towelled myself dry. She dumped my saturated clothes in a linen basket and returned with a bottle of VSOP brandy and two snifters. I downed my first shot in one go.

While I pulled on a bathrobe, she refilled my glass. We sat down opposite each other at the dining room table.

Do they know who she was? Susanna probed, sipping her drink.

No. No ID on her.

A local girl?

How would I know? She was dead.

You spoke to her on the phone, didn't you? Did she have an accent?

I thought about it. Italy was full of regional accents. And, it being so close to the border to France, you get to accept a French accent as part of the scenery. Come to think of it, yeah, she did. A Frenchie.

Susanna nodded as if she were ticking off a checklist – as well she might have been. She had a leaning for logical explanations. For her, nothing happened without a reason, and the obvious reason was rarely the true one. A real angel of truth, she was.

Did she sound frightened or alarmed?

No  ...  Well, yes. More uptight like. She said she needed to see me urgently and wanted me to meet her at the gate at the north end of the park.

She shook her head. You know you surprise me sometimes. I thought you lawyer types were supposed to be intelligent?

I gave her my intelligent look.

Oh, God, don't you see, you walked right into this!

What?

Weren't you suspicious? No name, nothing? And a meeting in a secluded place in the middle of the night?

I could see her point; my situation did look bad.

Her eyes suddenly narrowed. You aren't bullshitting me, are you?

That was the second bullshitting accusation in one night. It really did look bad. Hell, it happened like I said. And I can always use new clients.

She laughed ironically. More like a French lay?

Ha ha.

Susanna reached over for the bottle and poured fresh brandy into her glass. She took a sip. What did this woman look like then?

I have a photo.

She raised her brows. I experienced a moment of professional pride.

My iPhone was in my trench-coat pocket. I retrieved it and showed her the photos I’d made of the body. Her face went whiter than new bed linen. Oh, my God. Oh, Jesus Christ  ...  That’s  ...  That looks like Denise.

You recognise her?

Yes  ...  yes, I think so. If it really is her, she  ...  She works at Maria's restaurant, across the road from mine.

The story poured out. They had met at the vegetable market where Susanna did her buying. Denise was a student, studying hotel management and Mediterranean gastronomy. She had a field job at Maria's. Denise would come around to Susanna's restaurant to chew the cud, go over her work assignments with her. She had mentioned that she was looking for a good local lawyer. Susanna had recommended me. That was two days ago.

Well, that took care of the why me? But not of the mystery wrappings, like why a meeting in the dead of night. But if she was scared, I supposed she had every right to want help – fast.

CHAPTER  3

The foul weather had moved on by the next morning. Susanna's restaurant didn't open until half twelve. If I wasn't busy at the office which was the state of affairs at