A Rush to Violence (A Spellman Thriller)

by Christopher Smith

  He turned to his wife, who was dressing for work at Channel One, where she was its star investigative reporter. He showed her the fold between his thumb and first finger. “That's fat.”

  “That's skin and muscle. In fact, you’re pretty much all muscle.” She lowered her eyes to his crotch and smiled. “And that's just plain thick.”

  “Maybe I'll take up running again.”

  “Maybe I'll join you.”

  He hesitated. Jennifer was a lot of things, but in spite of how fit she was, she was not athletic. “On second thought, maybe I'll take up jogging again.”

  She had a towel around her damp hair and took it off to snap it at him. “I'm an excellent runner.”

  “You've never run a day in your life.”

  “Please. It's one foot in front of the other, only fast. How hard can it be?”

  “Ask me after your second mile, newbie.”

  She ran her fingers through her blonde hair and shook it out. She flipped it up over her head and looked at him while he got dressed. “Tonight, we run,” she said.

  “Tonight, we take the girls to dinner.”

  “That's tonight? I thought it was tomorrow night.”

  “It's tonight. Seven sharp.”

  She came over and put her arms around his waist. She kissed him hard on the lips and then said in his ear, “Are you going to eat something fattening for dinner? Maybe some greasy ribs that’ll stick to your own?”

  “You're hilarious.”

  She patted his flat stomach. “And you're neurotic.”

  “Is seven going to be cutting it too close for you?”

  “You never know what the day will bring.”

  In his own line of work as a private investigator, he knew that was the truth.

  “But if anything happens, I'll either call to say I'll be late or that I won't be able to make it.”

  “Try to make it.”

  “I haven't seen the girls in a week. Believe me, I'll make it.” She stepped into a pair of shoes. “What's on your agenda?”

  “I'm meeting a new client.”

  “Who's that?”

  “You can't handle it.”

  Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “I'm all ears.”

  He admired her body. “And other parts. I'm meeting Lia Costa.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, no, you're not.”

  “Oh, yes, I am.”

  “What does she need from you?”

  “No idea. I'll find out in an hour.”

  “Her husband was strangled to death in their home last week. She found him in their bedroom when she returned from shopping. I covered it. It was huge news.”

  “I remember. I saw your report.”

  “When did she call you?”

  He pulled on a pair of socks and then looked for his shoes. “Two days ago.”

  “And you're telling me now?”

  “If I told you when she called, you would have been like a dog on a bone and I never would have got you into bed.”

  “That's probably true. And you were especially attentive last night, so I'll let it pass. If there's anything good, will you share it with me?”

  “I'm not supposed to.”

  “But you will if I can help you?”

  He found the pair of shoes he was looking for and put them on. “That's generally how it goes.”

  They left the dressing room, finished in the bathroom and left the building. When they married, they each sold their former apartments and they now lived in one of the penthouses of a new high-rise on Sixty-Third and Fifth. Marty was so busy now, he couldn’t remember the last time he reviewed a movie for his website, which was the one hobby he loved.

  On the street, it was warm and bright. Across from them was the park, which after his dream last night, stopped Marty cold. Already, parents were taking their children there for a day in the sun. The sidewalks were busy. New York had jumped headlong into summer and on a beautiful day such as today, it was especially alive.

  “Are you all right?”

  He shook his head. “I was just thinking of the girls.” He nodded over at the park. “I used to bring them there when they were young.” He looked uptown for a cab. “Do you want to share one? I can drop you off.”

  “You've only got forty-five minutes to get there. We’d each better take our own.”

  She stepped onto the street, tossed back her hair and held out her hand. Within a minute, she snagged a cab.

  “Why can't I do that?”

  “You need these shoes,” she said.

  “And apparently your legs.”

  They kissed each other on the street just as quickly as they always did. But this time, before she could pull away, he drew her close and gave her a more meaningful kiss.

  She smiled at him in surprise. “What was that for?”

  As much as he wanted to kiss her again, to hold her and to tell her how much he loved her and how much she meant to him, he got inside as casually as he would have on any other day. He couldn’t tip her off. She was too bright and knew him too well. “Just because,” he said. “I'll call you later.”

  “Hopefully sooner, stud.”

  He leaned toward the driver. “West Eighty-Sixth Street. Drop me at the park.” He said it so she could hear it. As they pulled away from her, he looked over his shoulder and watched Jennifer step back into the street. Her hand went up. A cab pulled toward her and she got inside.

  He watched her until she faded from sight. His stomach seized up and seemed to collapse when he realized that if he didn’t handle this correctly, he might never see her again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  He checked his watch and asked the driver to take him to a different address. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Drop me at East Fourteenth.”

  It was the morning rush and traffic was heavy. He took out the TracFone he purchased yesterday and made the call that would protect Jennifer until the people he hired were instructed to back down. “She’s on her way to Channel One now,” he said. “Nothing happens to her. Nobody touches my wife or gets near her. Are we clear?”

  “We’re clear.”

  “Don’t fuck it up.”

  He was uneasy trusting anyone now, but he had no choice. He could only hope they treated the situation as if it was their wife or a member of their own family being threatened.

  He hung up the phone, rested it in his lap and prayed for it to ring. Five minutes passed and it did. He looked down and read the name on the screen—Gloria, his ex-wife. She was on time and knew the drill. One ring meant she and their two daughters were away and safe, at least for now. Two rings meant he needed to answer because they were in trouble.

  One ring, her name flashed off the screen and the screen went dark. They were safe. He opened the window and tossed out the phone. Now, nothing could tie him to either of those calls.

  The cab raced, swerved and jerked down Fifth.

  Two days ago, he received a telephone call instructing him to meet today at the corner of Fifth and Fourteenth. He was told that if he didn’t arrive at precisely 9:30, his wife and two children would be murdered. He was instructed to tell nobody anything. If he did, they’d also kill him.

  What the caller didn’t know is that he and his ex-wife had plans for situations such as these. Years ago, when they were married and he was just starting out as a private investigator, they developed those plans out of necessity. Sometimes, his job could be dangerous. Sometimes, people threatened him, as they were doing now. They learned from earlier mistakes and made sure they always had ways to communicate with each other.

  In this case, he sent an encrypted e-mail to a friend who was a florist. He told him what to write on the card. Whoever was threatening him was watching Gloria’s high-rise—that was a given—but a delivery of flowers being walked into her building was hardly suspicious, especially since they weren’t going to Gloria. Instead, they were being delivered to their good friends, Brian and Barbara Moore, who would read the message and take
it from there. This way, if someone at the front desk was being paid to watch for any messages or deliveries to Gloria, they’d have nothing to report.

  It took thirty minutes before the cab pulled to the corner of East Fourteenth. Marty paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk. Just as the cab drove away, two men moved beside him. One was about his size, a little over six foot two, but the other was a beast. Younger, muscular, towering, intense. Worse, neither of them looked stupid.

  “You’re on time,” one of them said. “And I assume you don’t have a gun?”

  “I don’t,” Marty said, looking around at the crowds passing them on the sidewalk. “But feel free to check while they watch. It’ll give them something to talk about at work. What’s this about?”

  A black limousine pulled alongside them.

  “Inside. Mr. Carr will let you know what we expect from you.”

  * * *

  The car was large and dim. Marty got inside and was asked to sit in one of the black leather seats just behind the driver, which he did. Sitting across from him was the man who must be Carr. He was impeccably dressed but said nothing as the other men got inside.

  Marty studied him. The man was bald, probably around sixty and wore a blue Brooks Brothers suit decorated with a red tie. The limousine smelled of a freshly stubbed cigar.

  One of the men from the street, the bigger one, took the seat beside Marty while the other sat next to Carr. The car sped into traffic. Marty stared at the man while he held out his arms to be patted down in case he was carrying a gun, which he wasn’t. He tried to place Carr but couldn’t. He wasn’t familiar to him.

  With the pat down finished, Marty lowered his arms.

  “He’s clean,” the brute beside him said. “But there’s this.” He held up Marty’s real cell phone.

  “See who he’s called and who has called him over the past forty-eight hours.”

  Marty kept his gaze level with Carr’s.

  “No calls to or from the ex. Many calls to and from his wife. One call from one of his kids. All brief.” He held out the phone for Carr so he could see it for himself, but Carr refused it.

  “Good to see you’re taking this seriously,” he said to Marty. “You must love your wife.”

  “And my daughters.”

  “Give him back his phone.”

  Marty took it, discretely turned it off and put it in his pocket.

  “None of this needs to be difficult,” the man said. “Just do as I say and you and your family will be safe. You have my word on that.”

  Which means shit to me, but thanks. He sat unmoving. When it was clear that the man was waiting for him to respond, he said, “What do you want from me?”

  “You have the reputation for being one of the best.”

  “That’s stretching it.”

  “Your modesty is moving, but it won’t sway me. We know you are. And I don’t remember a time when we’ve been wrong.” He turned to the man at his left. “Do you, Alex?”

  Alex shook his head. “We’ve never been wrong.”

  “And you, Marcus?”

  “Wrong ain’t part of my vocabulary.”

  Carr looked at the brute. “What an interesting way to put it. I’ve never asked. Are you from Jersey, Marcus?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Just a guess. And you’re right. We’re never wrong. Mr. Spellman here has one of the finest reputations. I think he should be congratulated for it. And look how well it’s paid off for him. If he wasn’t so good, he wouldn’t be sitting here right now wondering who we are, what we want and whether we will murder him and his family if he doesn’t come through for us.”

  Marty bit down hard on the anger that flashed through him. Now wasn’t the time to show it. He shoved it inside and stifled it. “How can I help you?” he asked.

  Carr raised his eyebrows. “Help?” he said. “Well, that’s a fine attitude. I like a positive attitude.” The man crossed his legs, revealing black stockings and custom-made shoes. “I also like results. Mr. Spellman, what we need from you is simple. Do you know of a woman by the name of Camille Miller?”

  “I don’t.”

  “I didn’t think you would. She’s something of an odd little recluse, that one. But you likely know of her recently deceased father, Kenneth Miller.”

  “The billionaire?”

  “That’s right. Camille is one of his seven children. She’s the family outcast, the one who spent much of her life in Paris before returning to the States with her now sixteen-year-old daughter, Emma, when she learned that her father had died. No one knows who Emma’s father is. In fact, some in the family believe that Camille fucked her way through Paris, not that that mattered to her father. Camille was Kenneth Miller’s favorite because, as unlikely as it seems, she never wanted anything from him but his friendship and his love. Isn’t that sweet? With all that money, it’s also difficult to believe. But that’s our Camille. Or is it? It could be that Camille actually is rather cunning. Perhaps she had a plan all along. Maybe pretending to want none of his money is how she wanted to be viewed by her father. After all, if that’s the case, it recently worked out favorably for her.”

  “How so?”

  “She inherited Miller’s fortune. All of the money, all of the real estate, all of the businesses. You get the idea. At the age of thirty-nine, Camille Miller is now one of the wealthiest women in the United States. As for her siblings, let’s just say they aren’t happy about that. They feel cheated. Slighted. And they’re angry. Hurt. They don’t understand why it was all for Camille. They resent that Emma is next in line. They feel that a wrong has been done and they want it corrected.”

  “Maybe they should contest the will.”

  “Oh, they did, but Miller’s will was so iron-tight, so well-worded and specific, the judge dismissed it at once. So, now we’re at a point where rash decisions have to be made.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as finding Camille. Hopefully reasoning with Camille. Her six brothers and sisters are used to a certain lifestyle, which for the most part ended two years ago, when their mother died. Whereas Kenneth never gave his children a dime, Katherine was generous with them. She saw to it that whatever her children needed, they got.”

  “How often did Camille come asking for money?”

  “Never that I know of. As I said, she’s an odd one. She always wanted to do it her way. On her own. Her own accomplishments. Sinatra would have loved her.”

  “And all of this is bad because…?”

  “It’s not that it’s bad, Mr. Spellman. It’s just that right now, she believes that her siblings should make their own way. The trouble is that none of them want to. They have their families and their friends and their expensive lifestyles to maintain. They enjoy traveling. Their lives are bigger and more distinctive than most, but who are we to judge them for it? It’s all they know. Why should they be prevented from enjoying the best the world has to offer when there is so much money at hand? It doesn’t make sense to them, so they want to do something about it.”

  “And what do they want to do?”

  “As I said, they want to reach out to Camille. They want to reason with her.”

  “And if she’s not to be reasoned with?”

  Carr held up his hands. “Well, naturally, they want her dead. It’s the only sensible thing to do. They never liked her that much, anyway. And in the will is that lovely provision, the one each of them can taste as if it was caviar on the tip of a spoon. If Camille dies, everything goes to her daughter, Emma. And if Emma dies, next in line are Camille’s six siblings. They would finally get to partake in their father’s fortune, which is only fair. Don’t you agree?”

  “I think if you can manage to become a billionaire, you know exactly what you’re doing when you write your will. When it was contested, the judge came to the same conclusion. I think his wishes should be respected.”

  Carr dismissed this with a roll of his eyes. “Oh, please,” he said. “Th
at’s ridiculous. With the exception of Camille—who spent so many years in Paris, I never got to know her—I know Miller’s children. With what little money they have left, they pooled it together and came to me for help. It made me want to cry when they came to me, but that’s what I’m here for. To help. So, they hired me to see that they get what they deserve—their share of the money. Or all of the money. And you know what, Mr. Spellman? I think it’s going to be the latter. I think they’re going to get all of the money because nobody likes a greedy little cunt like Camille Miller, do they? Nobody likes anyone who refuses to share the wealth.”

  “Do you have any idea where Camille might be?” Marty asked. “Is she here in the States or back in Paris?”

  “No idea. She came for her father’s funeral and for the reading of the will. She returned when the will was contested.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last week.”

  “Do you have a photograph of her?”

  “Actually, I do, and several other goodies you can put to good use.” He pulled out a large manila envelope tucked beside him and handed it to Marty, who opened it. Inside, the envelope was stuffed with all sorts of information Marty might find useful later, but eventually he came upon the black-and-white glossy photograph and removed it. His eyes flicked up to meet Carr’s. “This is a surveillance photo.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I can barely make out her face.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Can you get me another photo?”

  “I can certainly try.”

  “It’s critical that I know what she looks like. Obviously.”

  “I’ll ask one of the siblings to e-mail me something and I’ll forward it to you if they have it. I don’t expect they will, but I’ll try.”

  Marty looked down at the photo. It was grainy. A woman with dark hair was crossing a cobblestoned street. She was slim and elegantly dressed, but given the quality of the photo, he couldn’t get a true sense of her. The surroundings, on the other hand, were clear. She was in Paris. “When was this taken?”

  “A few months ago. Spring, I think.”