The Conspiracy of
Silence
by
Augustine Sam
Blurb:
The conscience of a town steeped in sexism, vanity and
hypocrisy is pricked by the brutal murder of a mysterious woman in an LA park.
But the shock is transformed into a steamy, seductive scandal when the corpse
turns out to be Susan Whitaker, the flamboyant wife of the governor of
California.
A secret lover/blackmailer theory leads to the indictment of
Hollywood's most influential black celebrity. It is only the beginning, for
Susan Whitaker did not, in fact, exist. Little does anyone realize that this
colossal fraud is a mere curtain raiser to a chilling world of ugly skeletons
dating back to the assassination of a U.S. senator in a Washington hotel sauna,
skeletons connected to riveting sex scandals in high places, skeletons the FBI
and political kingmakers will kill for...
Where to buy the book:
Amazon: http://goo.gl/osU1VZ
CreateSpace: https://www.createspace.com/5718139
Barnes & Noble:
http://goo.gl/N6WXJ4
About the Author:
Augustine Sam is a bilingual Italian journalist and an award
winning poet. A member of the U.K. Chartered Institute of Journalists, he was
formerly Special Desk editor at THISDAY newspapers, an authoritative Third
World daily first published in collaboration with the Financial Times of
London. He later became correspondent for central Europe. His poems have been
published in two international anthologies: The Sounds of Silence &
Measures of the Heart. One of his poems, Anguish & Passion, was the winner
of the Editors’ Choice Awards in the North America Open Poetry contest, USA.
Augustine’s debut novel, Take Back the Memory, was awarded a
5-star medal by Readers’ Favorite. And
his collection of poems, Flashes of Emotion, was the 2015 International Book
Award Finalist. Augustine lives and works in Venice.
Author’s website: http://goo.gl/A5jRnj
Twitter: http://goo.gl/Yzan2G
Facebook: http://goo.gl/W7W1Ta
Google Plus: http://goo.gl/yruj3D
Goodreads: http://goo.gl/NjAxV9
Book Trailer: https://goo.gl/wZ4F3g
Author’s Blog: http://goo.gl/VIRVmM
Pinterest: https://goo.gl/3qw53R
Excerpt:
Prologue
The dim figure continued to lurk in the dusking patch of
tangled shrubbery until he was completely enveloped in darkness. Then he choked
and swore and frothed at the mouth and went down on all fours. After a while,
he clambered out of the shrubbery like a ghost, picked himself up deftly, and
wiped his hand across his brow. He was tall and had an athletic build. His
hands were covered with fleeced gloves, his face partially masked by a hood. He
had a definite presence in spite of the aura of repulsion that swelled around
him like foul breath. For a spell, he stood in death-like silence, in a navy
hooded sweatshirt, a pair of matching pants, and black running shoes. His dark
brown eyes studied his environment like a bloodhound determined to unearth a
misplaced object without losing its sense of smell.
A short distance away, small cylindrical light bulbs cast an
eerie glow over the lush greenery of Glennon Park, capturing its beauty in a
halo of kaleidoscopic brilliance. And then a throng of men in fancy tee shirts
and short pants intermixed with women in jeans and sleeveless tops, whisked
into view. The dim figure, hearing their muffled voices over the sound of the
fountain’s cascading waters, stiffened. Like him, the fountain stood in a
poorly lit area of the park. Surrounded by luxuriant shrubs, it was the place
where randy youths prone to exploiting the semidarkness for romantic mischief
loved to loiter.
On this particular night, there were no lovers necking by the
fountain, but there was something else. A black diamond Cadillac was parked
beside the fountain. The curiously unusual sight caused the dim figure’s hands
to shake with excitement. Cars were not allowed that far into the park, so whatever
fantasies within the limits of human accomplishment the Cadillac’s driver had
conceived, this was the wrong night for it, he mused. This’ll be my last
murder, he decided, the climax of a long, enterprising career as the greatest
hit man of all time. He was a killer so efficient and so elusive that even the
FBI nicknamed him Shadow of Death for his uncanny ability to dissolve into a
penumbra after every hit.
He immediately recognized the wonderful head of hair and the
slender, sensual neck as the lone occupant of the Cadillac appeared in
silhouette against the fountain. Suddenly his pulse quickened. He mopped his
brow with a handkerchief and contemplated the lady’s mesmerizing beauty. It
seemed odd to him now to think of her as a victim. He had loved her once; in
fact, he still loved her. And therein lay the quandary—a lethal clash between
his obsession and his survival instinct. The survival instinct, of course, must
win, he mused; for between them now stood the only thing that love could not
subdue—a very dark secret.
The Shadow of Death moved with stealth in the semidarkness
toward the Cadillac, his hands slightly shaking with excitement with every step
he took. His only accomplice was his own
shadow, perceptible to no eye but his. It seemed innocuous even to him, like a
specter, only there to see, not to arbitrate. It moved when the assassin moved
and stopped when he did, like a minion with no initiative of its own, an
android programmed to repeat the action of its mentor, silently, as only a
ghost would; and then saddled thereafter with the damning knowledge of the
truth, a truth that would elude the rest of the world—an everlasting witness, a
ghost that would never die.
There was deafening silence inside the Cadillac. All around
it, darkness closed in as slowly and unfalteringly as the approaching evil. The
assassin’s face was impassive, his heartbeat regular, but his muscles were taut
as he strained to open the driver’s door with his gloved hand.
She did not see him, could not see him, because she was leaning
face downward on the steering wheel.
Gripped by a morbid fascination with death, he stared down at
her, the roaring tension inside him silenced by his cold determination.
Everything would depend on this moment, this act, he mulled over, darting a quick
glance at the fountain. He did not want any interruption and there was none. He
reached for her throat silently, swiftly, giving her no chance to react.
There must be no error, he mumbled. His pressure on her
throat was fierce. Time, thoughts, fear, regrets, all ceased to exist as an
eternity seemed to roll by in a matter of seconds. And then relief flooded his
being.
It was
over, he almost smiled. It bore the mark of his usual professional
touch—smooth, fast, painless, and very peaceful.