Death Pact: Murder, Mystery and Kidnapping in Hollywood (A Tale of Murder)

By E. Bamford

Murder. Mystery and Mayhem!

Nightmares! Don't you just hate them?

Los Angeles based Oscar-winning film director, Richard Sanchez has one: a burning car; dead bodies, a crying baby and the pact he made as a youngster. For over thirty years Richard has kept his past a closely guarded secret. Why now has the nightmare returned? What is it trying to

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. Bamford
• Release date: Jul 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781908135995

E. Bamford

E. Bamford writes about women who are faced with frightening dilemmas. Why are friends dying one by one? Who will be next? Was she pushed or did she jump? Will she be rescued or will she be killed? Can the police be trusted? Will the boy use the gun or the knife to kill her? Is the movie set jinxed? Is she guilty? The answers to all these questions and more can be found in Tales of Murder Series: Death Pledge; Death Pact and Death in Rio! Death Stings, Book One of the Chasing the Dead trilogy is a complete standalone story... but watch out... there is an underlying plot that will carry on for two more books, all featuring Sir James Marchant.

Book preview

Chapter One

The freak blizzard intensified; visibility was zero. He tried to stop the car but the weighty vehicle continued to glide with the grace of a lone skater on a frozen pond.

Moments later he felt the impact, heard the explosion and was scorched by the ferocious heat.

Next came the crunching and twisting of metal and the hissing of escaping steam followed by the two things he most dreaded: her dying sigh and her baby’s cry. He thought he had buried it deep in the abyss of his mind, but it had, like a phoenix, resurrected itself. Why had the nightmare returned: why now and would he ever be free of it?

He knew the answer: the answer was - No.

Richard Sanchez sat behind his large rosewood office desk and stared at hypnotic, billowy clouds as they drifted across his computer screen. He was not as focused as he usually was; he had not expected to have to address this matter again.

This morning he had thrown on khaki shorts and a red, open-necked, short-sleeved, shirt. He was up earlier than usual having been woken by his recurring nightmare. He stretched his bare legs beneath his desk, leaned back, clasped both hands behind his neck and wondered if his shorts had shrunk.

His office was in the eastern part of the mansion. It was furnished in moss green and gold: and to his left was what he called his Visitor’s Corner. It consisted of four matching, antique green, leather Chesterfields, each one large enough to seat five people. They were positioned to form a square. In the centre of the square, standing on a large Persian rug was a low, circular, bevelled glass-topped table. In the centre of the table a Waterford crystal vase overflowed with bougainvillea, which had been picked from his garden. Petals from the purple and red flowers had dropped on to the glass.

A bronze statue of a scantily dressed young woman stood close to the door. He had bought it in New York six years ago and was very fond of it; it was a talking piece. His more familiar visitors would joke making facetious remarks as they covered her one bare breast with their jackets.

Floor to ceiling bookshelves covered the walls on both sides of a massive marble fireplace. The glass doors to the bookshelves had been removed long ago, since he considered them a hindrance. Books covering a vast range of subjects tumbled from the shelves. Other walls were decorated with stills taken from the films he had made, and on the mantelpiece, stood the numerous trophies he had won.

To his right, a door led into the office where his irreplaceable Personal Assistant, Sue Chambers, worked. Adjacent to her door an open archway led into the boardroom, there, patio windows stretched the length of the room and opened on to a wide terrace. An extensive manicured lawn, with a magnificent centrally located five-tiered fountain, swept away to meet a ten-foot high wall covered in multi-coloured bougainvillea, which surrounded the property.

When he had bought the mansion, he had chosen the east side of the building for his suite of offices because he liked to get up early; it was when he was at his most creative.

Sanchez leaned back and rested his elbows on the padded arms of his well-worn, green leather chair and pondered.

Perhaps he should have told her before now. But… at what age would she have been capable of understanding?

He didn’t know.

Would she understand now?

He didn’t know.

What if she didn’t understand? What if she hated him for keeping such a secret?

The thought was unbearable. She was his life and everything he had ever done, he had done for her.

There was one possibility and although he felt it was cowardly, it appeared to be the only way. It would give her time to think, time to analyse his words before maligning him.

Sanchez picked up his silver pen; the one she had commissioned for his fiftieth birthday. A rare find these days, its shaft was engraved with ancient Aztec hieroglyphics. The symbols, when translated read: Fly forever, Oh Magnificent One.

He smiled. He could almost feel her, with her arms around his neck, as she rocked him from side to side, asking him if he had any idea how difficult it was to buy a present for a man who had everything. He had laughed and replied: ‘you are quite right, I do have everything, because, I have you.’

Richard Sanchez, known to everyone as Rick, was almost fifty-three, very tanned and usually very fit, weighing in at around one hundred and eighty pounds. He was a colourful man, the sort that women found irresistible. He was tough; mentally and physically. He could take care of himself; he had learnt how to do that at a very early age.

Rick had not been born into a family, wealthy or poor. As a child; he used to wonder if he had been born at all. He imagined he’d been brought to Earth on the back of some mythical creature. All he knew about himself was that he was found wandering the streets of Chicago. He was three years old when he was taken into the care of the City, at least he thought he was three. Since then he has celebrated his birthday on the day he was found, the 22nd February. No one ever claimed him.

He had been a disturbed, difficult and frustrated child making adoption quite out of the question. His early years were a blur but he remembered that at the age of ten he was moved to The Beeches and he stayed there until he was of an age to leave and earn a living. It was at The Beeches, that he met his one and only true friend.

Rick and his friend would visit the movie theatre once a week and it did not take him long to get hooked. Not having had a role model, Rick would take on the persona of one of his movie heroes. One day he would pretend to be the sophisticated Cary Grant, the next day it would be Bogart, Steve McQueen, or Cagney.

John Wayne was his favourite, because he was big, tough and a great leader of men.

It was after watching one of John Wayne’s movies about a young cowboy and a young Indian boy who became blood brothers that he and his friend decided to seal their friendship.

They made a Pact.

They sliced their thumbs with a knife, mixed their blood, made their vows and sealed their Pact with the words: Till Death. The scar was still visible, constantly reminding Rick of that day and the promises they made to each other. It was because of this pact that they managed to survive until adulthood.

The time came when the two boys were sent out into the world and the first few years job-hunting were hard; together they took a variety of dead-end jobs, anything from washing cars to filling shelves in local supermarkets. One day, when Rick was passing a small store, he noticed a number of postcards stuck in the window and he stopped to read them.

Some cards advertised the skills that people had to offer perspective employers and some were cards with details of goods for sale. But it was the card in the middle of these that attracted young Rick’s attention: Men wanted. Excellent pay. The job was in an out of town sawmill. It was a big outfit and the job also offered accommodation.

Rick couldn’t believe his luck. Both he and his friend applied to the outfit and were hired. This was their first real break.

It didn’t take long before they came to understand why there was such a huge turnover of manpower. Their boss, Mario, was only a kid himself and control of The Mill had been handed to him on his twenty-first birthday. He was spoiled, arrogant, and cruel and thought that verbal abuse was the answer to any problem. Bust-ups were frequent but the older men refused to answer back when constantly baited and just walked out; they had no intention of waking up dead in a ditch or at best doing time for beating up the twenty-one year old owner’s son. According to rumour, the family was well connected and… you didn’t mess with a connected family.

After they had worked at The Mill for some weeks, Mario began to pick on them by making insinuating comments about their close friendship; trying desperately to provoke. For a short while the two boys ignored Mario: Rise above it, Rick had said not wanting to cause trouble as they found the job easy and very well paid, along with, the added bonus of having a roof over their heads.

Rick increasingly found their miss-treatment very hard to take until one day he laid into the older Mario with such fervour that he left him cowering, covered in blood and pleading for his life. After the attack the boys packed their few belongings and ran. As daylight was beginning to fade they began the long trek; back to civilization.

Rick was badly bruised and his ribs hurt like hell. Mario had put up a good fight and the cut above Rick’s eye would not stop bleeding. They had walked, without seeing a soul, for over three hours. With little money in their pockets, they were concerned that they would have to spend the night out in the open.

Just as they were losing hope, a cloud of dust unexpectedly appeared on the horizon and they watched, as it grew larger and larger.

A black stretch limousine came into sight and drew up alongside them but their hope turned to deep disappointment when two men jumped out and bundled them into the back of the vehicle.

Each time they tried to speak guns were nudged against their bodies. They were driven in silence through remote and unfamiliar territory. The changing landscape was bleak and uninviting and looming ahead of them was a range of mountains that appeared to be sucking them in.

Unexpectedly the vehicle turned right and bumped uphill along a track then again turned sharp right on to a concealed shingle drive. It was now dark. In the distance, they could see what looked like a fortress. The car took a left, then a sharp right and skirted the property, eventually pulling to a stop at the rear.

The two boys were ordered out of the car.

The smell of wood smoke gave them a false sense of security but only for a moment. They were then shoved fifty yards towards a slightly ajar door. They didn’t need to be told where they were, they knew.

They were at Daddy’s Mansion and like The Mill it was just as isolated. The two boys were pushed through a door into a small passageway and then into a well-lit kitchen. The aromas of food cooking made them salivate; reminding them that they hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

A woman stood with her back to them.

She turned on hearing them enter and came towards them smiling.

She was a pretty woman in her forties; slim and neatly dressed in pale-mustard trousers and a white tank-top. She wore a flowery apron with a bib.

Her cheery: ‘Hi, I’m Carolyn. I’ve been expecting you,’ baffled them. ‘I’m sure you must be starving after your long walk...’

The men who had brought them pushed them towards the end of a long rectangular table and then they left by another door. The two frightened boys had thought of escaping in the car that they knew was still outside; but neither could drive.

They looked at each other reading each other’s minds.

We’ll eat and bide our time; we can escape later.

‘I have some homemade vegetable soup for you and to follow I have something very special; traditional English roast beef. To finish I have made an apple pie for you.’ She spoke with a funny accent which they guessed must be English.

The meal was unbelievable and Rick remembered asking for more of the delicious apple pie.

When they had finished eating, the two rough men returned and took them down a narrow flight of stairs into a basement and there they were led along a windowless corridor. They came to a door and one of the men unlocked it.

The door led into a room, which was surprisingly bright, considering it had no windows.

No means of escape.

A small cabinet, on which stood a lamp, separated two single beds dressed with plain lemon bedspreads.

A room opposite the beds led into a bathroom. Fluffy lemon towels were piled on a white stool. There was plenty of soap and little packets containing a toothbrush and toothpaste.

Airline complimentary packs, he knew that now.

He remembered gasping. It was luxurious and he had never seen anything like it, except in the movies that he loved: it was so very different from The Beeches or the bunkhouse at The Mill.

They were told that Mr Vincenzo would see them in the morning and then the door was closed behind them. They heard the key turn in the lock.

The two young men stared at each, both ready to cry but trying not to. They were below ground, with no means of escape and had seen enough movies to know what their fate was to be.

The condemned men ate a hearty meal.

At dawn, they were brought up from what they now considered to be a cell, and led to another part of the mansion; not at gunpoint this time, but guns were evident beneath the men’s jackets.

Mr Vincenzo sat behind the biggest desk in the largest office they had ever seen. He was an old man, probably about fifty. He didn’t look like a Mafia boss, he looked normal, kindly in fact, but their intuition told them that looks can be deceptive.

They stood before him, trying not to show how afraid they were. The old man stared at them for a long time, then he eventually tapped his fingers on his brown, leather-topped desk and said: ‘I guess you know who I am and why you’re here.’

They kept their heads lowered and didn’t reply.

Vincenzo took a deep breath, sighed then shouted; his voice deep and threatening.

‘Cat got your tongues?’

Silence.

Then he barked: ‘Have it your own way. You know what to do with them, Zozy.’

Put us up against a wall and shoot us, yes, they knew all right.

They were forcibly taken back through the house, and out into the yard. The sun had risen and in its light they squinted as they saw a man who was waiting for them. Rick couldn’t understand how his legs had worked, as he had never been so frightened in the whole of his life.

To their surprise, they were not shot, but put to work and they did exactly as they were told. They worked day in and day out, from dawn to dusk. They ate in the kitchen and at the end of their evening meal they were taken back to their room and locked in for the night.

There was no way to escape; they were watched at every moment. But at least they were alive.

Vincenzo gazed out of the window at the two young men at work, his thoughts miles away. Patricia entered the room and joined him.

‘What are you thinking?’

He sighed, heavily. ‘I was thinking of when I was a boy and wondering what I should do with these two.’

‘Darling, Mario is fine and you can’t hold them here much longer.’

‘I’m not holding them.’

‘They think you are. They are put to work each morning and locked up at night. I understood such a thing is called forced labour, but it could also be called abduction or kidnapping - take your pick.’

‘You know why I’m doing it, surely? If they were to make a run for it and I believe they would, they’d never survive in this terrain, we would find them dead by morning, if we found them at all; you, of all people, should know that.’

‘I understand… but they don’t. Vincenzo - they must be scared.’

He turned towards her. ‘I suppose you’re right, but, in some strange way, they remind me of myself. My life was very different, of course, but I was just as scared. I had no one to confide in after my father died. They have no one either. I thought they would be better here, until I decide what to do with them.’

‘You’ve checked up on them?’

She should have been surprised but she wasn’t. Her husband was a decent man; not cruel but very sincere and generous to a fault. Only a few people close to him knew the real Vincenzo.

‘Of course, otherwise I would have contacted their parents by now. Both were brought up by the State and have no known relatives.’

‘Well… I…?’

‘Patricia, you know all about my family’s history. I have never hidden anything from you, in fact if it hadn’t been for you I don’t think I could ever have left the Syndicate.’

‘But you did.’

‘You have no idea what it was like.’

‘Vincenzo, please, there is no need for this, I thought you had forgotten.’

‘How could I forget? That is something I will never be able to do. I remember it all as if it was yesterday. How would you feel having Al Capone as a Godfather? To this day, I cannot understand how the man had the audacity to attend church and stand before God the way he did, knowing that at some point in the future he would eliminate us all.’

‘I’m sure he hadn’t that in his mind at the time.’

She tried to console him but she had learned a lot about Capone after his death and how he had run his business like a brutal dictator. Her husband was upset and she was at a loss to know what to say. It had been years since she had seen him this way. Best just to listen, she decided.

‘Patricia, I remember people calling every morning during the hour that my father gave audience. They queued for hours waiting to see him. I didn’t understand why. I overheard women crying and pleading to my father to spare the lives of their husbands. I couldn’t believe that my father was so powerful. I thought he must own the world. Only later did I learn he was a Don and everything he did was criminal: bootlegging, illicit gambling, drugs, prostitution and murder. What a legacy!’

‘Vincenzo stop this, I insist. You were too young and you don’t know for sure what your father was involved in.’

‘I know that I was left a lot of money and there is no proof as to how my father made it.’

‘And you put it to good use. You set up legitimate businesses. Think of how many people you have helped and how many lives you have saved. Vincenzo… you must put it behind you. It had nothing to do with you; it was your father’s life, not yours.’

‘I know, I know,’ he said, without emotion, as he continued to stare out of the window. Then he sighed. ‘It’s so very hard, Patricia. Every night, in my dreams, I hear the sound of rapid gunfire, see the blood splattered walls, hear the screams and see the dead bodies lying spread-eagled on the floor. My whole family murdered, my father my mother and my two sisters all dead. I was the only one to survive and the irony of it was that I was taken under the wing of Joe Malone. The one who, along with Capone’s boys, had massacred my entire family.’

She slipped her arm through his and laid her head against his shoulder. ‘Darling, if these boys are upsetting you so much, let them leave, please…’

Vincenzo squeezed her arm. ‘Ask Zozy to bring them to me.’

‘Have you decided?’

He looked down at her and smiled. ‘Yes, I’m going to make them an offer they can’t refuse. In the old days, it was family against family. The family controlled the rackets but now the drug pushers are on every street corner, outside schools and, in the nightclubs. Respectable women secretly prostitute themselves to pay for their habit. Drive-by and gang killings are rife and it’s happening all around us. Do I need to go on? Yes, I know what I’m going to do.’

The two boys were escorted to see Vincenzo. He informed them that his son Mario would live and that charges would not be brought against them and he actually thanked them for giving his son the best lesson of his life.

Totally confused the two boys sat and listened as the elderly man explained how Mario came to be running The Mill.

He had put his son in charge and Mario had taken advantage of his privileged position. Vincenzo had hoped it would help his son mature; however, Mario was a firebrand with silly, romantic ideas linked to the past. He hankered for the way things used to be in Sicily. He listened to old dying men talk of capos and men-of-honour and the all-prevailing Law of Omerta: the code of silence that every Mafiosi must abide by.

He failed to accept that he was a citizen of the United States and now had to live by his adopted country’s rules.

Vincenzo explained how he did not believe in violence; he never had. Any such lesson Mario had to learn had to be handed out from outside the family. He had waited a long time for someone to stand up to his son.

Rick remembered it well although he had not understood a word and had left the room feeling totally perplexed.

After being incarcerated for five days, the two boys were taken back to The Mill, given a substantial amount of money for their work at Vincenzo’s home and an increase in their rate of pay at The Mill.

Mario was shipped off to work in another business owned by Vincenzo.

The lure of the movie business never left Rick and at the age of nineteen he decided to follow his dreams, helped by the powerful Vincenzo, who obtained a position as a trainee technician in a local television station. It was a start and, in the evenings, Rick went to college to learn about movie making and in particular directing.

His friend continued working at The Mill and eventually became the manager

Over the years, Rick became proficient in every aspect of the movie business, slowly rising to the top of his field. He now produced and directed successful movies and had been nominated six times for an Oscar, gained two, and he had five BAFTA and two Best Director Awards to his credit.

He was a genius at getting the best out of actors and they scrambled to work with him. He was known in the business as the last gentlemanly director and had the least amount of trouble with the stars.

The movie business was changing constantly; in the very early years, there was no such thing as a star, the actors were not even known by name, and the studios had all of the power. Gradually that changed, as the public began to take an interest in the actors who soon realised their power and began to make demands. Thus the star was born.

Realising their power, they could disrupt the making of a movie, and get away with it; no matter how much money their pretentious behaviour cost the studio.

It was when he was a young Assistant Director left in charge of shooting the movie Killer that the lead actress, having one of her frequent tantrums, pushed him too far and he did the unthinkable, he fired her.

It was as if a hurricane had swept through Hollywood.

The sacking was on the front page of the tabloids for days but Rick rode the storm. The studio was behind him which gave him time to see if he could turn the tide and put an end to the petulant prima donna.

Refusing to take any crap and keep the movie more important that the stars, earned him a lot of respect.

He had also written seven best selling thrillers; Rick knew how to spin a yarn. He knew all about fantasy… and dreams. It was his dreams that had kept him alive. Now he was able to transfer those dreams on to the silver screen.

His world was made complete by the accomplishments of his talented and stunning daughter, Charlie, who acted in many of his movies.

Richard Sanchez took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Was it all going to fall apart?

It was possible… but he knew instinctively that the time had come.

He had made the decision to tell her… in a letter, and that way he could convey to her his innermost feelings and his reasons for doing what he had done.

He would write it in his