A Rush to Violence (A Spellman Thriller)

by Christopher Smith

  “Why would you put surveillance on Camille at that point?”

  “We didn’t. Camille lives in the Marais. She shops there. There are bank surveillance cameras where she shops. We knew you’d need a fairly recent photo of her and my contact at one of those banks found one for me.”

  “I need to know exactly what you want from me.”

  “It’s simple,” Carr said. “You’ve got seventy-two hours to find Camille Miller and bring her to us alive. If you fail, we will kill one of your children—Katie or Beth, your choice—then the clock starts again. If you fail a second time, we’ll kill whichever daughter is left. Rinse and repeat until we get to your ex-wife, your current wife and then finally to you. You will never know where we are. If you go to the police, we’ll know and somebody will die. There is so much money at stake, Mr. Spellman, that we’ve been able to employ an army to keep watch on you. It was expensive, but what’s a million or two to the Miller siblings when they’re about to inherit so much?”

  “This army,” Marty said, not fully believing one existed. “Why don’t you just have them track down Camille?”

  “Because none of them is Marty Spellman and we need this finished quickly before Camille does something with the money.”

  “What would she do with the money?”

  “There’s the chance that Camille is legit. Maybe she really did love her father and doesn’t want anything to do with his money. Maybe she just loved him for him.” He leaned forward. “Brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it? So, knowing that’s a possibility, there’s a very real possibility that Camille will just give the damned money away. For years, she’s been working hard to wash away the sins of her past. In her mind, this could be one way to do it. She might give it to a shelter, for God’s sake. Or worse, to help cure some obscure disease.”

  “What sins are you talking about?”

  “You’re not going to like this at all.”

  “I already don’t like this.”

  “Well, it’s about to get worse. When Camille was in her twenties, she had an unusual job.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Camille was an international assassin. She got mixed up with the wrong people when she left the States for Paris. But when she got pregnant with Emma, she decided that was it. She’d made her millions. She was set for life. The people she worked with let her out and she never went back. Then the regret set in. Then she completely turned her life around so she could care for her daughter.”

  He lifted a finger. “For you, the trouble is this—old habits die hard, Mr. Spellman, and Camille was nothing if not a gifted assassin. It’s likely she still has those instincts and if she becomes aware of you should you find her, I have no reason to believe that she won’t go to any lengths to protect herself and especially her daughter.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Marty looked out a window and watched the traffic crowd around the limousine as they moved along the Upper West Side. They’d been in the car for twenty-five minutes and what he felt in his gut was an ugly truth.

  He was dealing with professionals. He knew in his bones they were serious. He had to protect his family because he knew what they would do to them if he didn’t agree to help them.

  So he thought. Fast.

  He felt he had the tools to find out where Camille Miller was now, but many of those tools were connections he had made all over the city throughout his years as a private investigator. He needed access to them. Period.

  He looked at Carr. “I’ve worked a certain way my whole life. I’m successful because of the people I know. You say you have an army watching me, but what I need to hear from you is whether you’re going to allow me to be successful and find Camille, or whether you’re going to allow me to fail because you don’t understand the ramifications of what you’re doing.”

  “Of course, we want you to be successful. What’s the point otherwise? And what do you mean I don’t understand the ramifications of what I’m doing?”

  “I need to be able to use my connections. That’s how I’m going to find Camille. Some of my connections are cops. Some of them are drug lords, detectives, everyday people—even my wife, who is one of the best investigative reporters in the city. These are the people I work with on a routine basis. If you think I have the reputation for ‘being one of the best,’ they’re part of the reason why that’s the case. If you don’t allow me access to them and trust me enough to pull this off for you, then you might as well kill me now because I won’t have the tools to get the job done otherwise.”

  “You’re asking us to allow you to tell people that we plan to murder Camille Miller?”

  “Is that what you plan to do? Kill her? What happened to talking to her first?”

  “We’ll talk. She won’t listen. Bang, bang.”

  He knew this was a set-up for murder. He just wanted to put Carr on the spot and hear him say it. “Whatever your plans are for Camille Miller, they aren’t my business. You’re asking me to find her for you. I can find her with my contacts, but I’ll never find her without them. It’s that simple.”

  Carr studied him. “We’ll be tracking you. You won’t be able to get away from us.”

  “I don’t intend to. But if Camille is as sophisticated as you say she is, she will become acutely aware of me if your goons are tailing me. Do you see the big picture now? I need to be stealth. If I have your army up my ass, she’ll know it, particularly if she’s as good as you say she is, and there’s no telling what she’ll do if she feels that she’s in danger. She’ll likely run.”

  When Carr lifted his eyes, Marty sensed him weighing his options.

  “You’ve only given me seventy-two hours,” Marty said. “If you want me to deliver Camille, you’re going to have to back off and let me work the way I’ve always worked. It’s what I know.”

  “Fine,” Carr said. “I’m not comfortable with it, but I see your point. Use your contacts if you think they will help bring in Camille Miller. No one will follow you. Telling them you’re looking for a missing person should alarm no one, particularly since no one knows what Camille did in her past. You talk about stealth? I’m here to tell you that Camille Miller defines stealth. She murdered dozens of people when she was young and no one knows who she is or what she’s done other than her family, who kept quiet due to Kenneth Miller’s threats of cutting them off.”

  “There’s one other thing,” Marty said. “Tonight, I’m expected to have dinner with my ex-wife, her new husband, my wife and daughters.”

  “We know that.”

  Of course, you do. “I can’t break those plans. I have to be there or they’ll suspect something. This is a monthly date with us. I never miss it.”

  “I don’t expect you to. We knew about this when we contacted you. We took action. My people will be there watching you. Since there’s no need for you to share anything about this with your ex-wife or daughters, I expect you to just enjoy your meal and keep your mouth shut.”

  “My ex always asks what I’m working on.”

  “Then tell her you’re looking for a missing person, but the job is confidential and you can’t discuss it. It’s really not that difficult, Mr. Spellman, so stop making it appear as if it is.”

  He asked the driver to pull over. “Use your contacts. I get it. I understand they’re important. But if you believe that being followed could compromise the situation, we’ll have to follow you another way. Take off your shirt.”

  “Why?”

  “Would you like some help?”

  Marty took off his shirt while the brute seated beside him pulled out a black briefcase from beneath the seat. He opened it. Inside was something that looked like a gun, only it wasn’t a gun. It was shiny and clinical-looking. Marty knew what it was the moment he saw it. They were going to implant him with a computer chip to keep tabs on him.

  The man swiped some rubbing alcohol over his shoulder and pressed the cool instrument against his skin. He fired, Marty winced and suddenly he
was tagged. A bandage with a smiley face imprinted on it was pressed over the wound and he was free to put his shirt back on.

  Carr checked his watch. “We’re finished with you, Mr. Spellman. You’ll be hearing from us in seventy-two hours unless we hear from you first. And let’s hope that’s the case. Seeing a child in a casket is a terrible thing. And if it has to be a closed casket?” He clucked his tongue. “It’s awful. When the casket is closed, you always know something went wrong with the face. They can hide any number of wounds with the help of clothing, but they can do nothing about the face. Have you ever seen what someone looks like when they’ve been shot at close range in the face? Yes? Then you know it’s like hamburger, only with the bone left in. And the gristle.”

  He pointed to the door. “I’d hate that to happen to one of your daughters, but that’s up to you to fix. Now, get out. And hurry. Your time starts now.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In the modest Brooklyn apartment she rented the day after her brothers and sisters contested her father’s will, Camille Miller sat in the living room and looked across the river at the tip of the New York skyline, which was becoming visible as the morning fog lifted.

  She hadn’t missed any of it. She didn’t want to be here or anywhere near this city.

  And she wasn’t alone in her feelings.

  Her sixteen-year-old daughter, Emma, was in her room “fixing it up” and Camille could hear her frustration from where she sat. Chairs were being pushed with force across the hardwood floors. As a statement of protest, Emma was listening to the popular French music she favored and singing just loudly enough so her mother could hear her. At one point, there was a thumping noise that ended in a crash. Moments later, a door slammed shut.

  “I got it, Emma,” Camille called out. “I hear you!”

  The music got louder.

  God help me, Camille thought.

  She leaned back against the beige sofa and tried to tune it out. She didn’t blame Emma. They had lived in Paris since Emma’s birth and the girl was not happy to be in the States now. She missed her friends and she missed exploring her favorite haunts on her summer holiday from school. She loved her grandfather just as dearly as her mother did and she always enjoyed coming here to visit him. But to actually stay here beyond a week? To rent an apartment and leave behind her friends for some unknown period of time? It was unfathomable to her.

  What Emma didn’t know is that Camille didn’t plan on staying long.

  In her hand was the letter her father wrote to her on the day he presumably tripped over his beloved Blue and fell down the staircase, which ended with him being impaled by the iron trident Neptune held on top of the newel post.

  Her father’s will left explicit instructions for her to check his wall safe, a fact which was revealed privately to her by his lawyer, Eliot Baker. Baker gave her the combination. What she found there was a letter written personally to her in the event of his death. It was brief yet powerful. Essentially, it told her how much he loved her, that he forgave her for her past and that he wasn’t sure what he would have done without her in his life.

  Then came the meat of it.

  He told her that things were unraveling around him and that the atmosphere was growing tense. With his wife Katherine, dead, his six other children were demanding that he give them the same allowances their mother gave them for years. But he wouldn’t, they knew it and as the weeks turned into months and their financial situations became dire, Miller began to sense a change in the air that might lead to his own end.

  With the exception of Camille, he knew his other children didn’t love him. But they certainly loved his money. Would they kill him for it? Sure, they would. He wouldn’t put it past any of them and so he changed his will the day he wrote the note. He left everything to her.

  “I’m being followed,” he wrote. “I can sense it when Blue and I are out for our walks. A week ago, I saw your brother Scott drive by us. He pretended he didn’t see me, but I know he did. I saw his eyes looking at me in the rearview mirror. Then, a few weeks ago, there were Grace and Laura. I was at Bloomingdale’s shopping for a tie. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them behind a stand of shirts, but when I moved to speak, they slipped away. I know they don’t give a damn about me and I don’t think I’m being paranoid. Something isn’t right. I tried calling you earlier but you were out. I wish I could come for a visit. It’s been months since I’ve seen you and Emma in person. I miss you both terribly. If anything happens to me, always remember how much each of you mean to me and that I love you.”

  She folded the letter in half and closed her eyes. There was an ache within her that wouldn’t cease; instead, it thrummed. Her father had long been her best friend. They spoke frequently on the phone. Often, they Skyped. With each passing day, it became more clear to her just how large of a hole his death had created in her life.

  She needed to put the letter in a safe place. She looked around the room and stopped at the bookcase across from her. Perfect. She chose one of her favorite books, Dominick Dunne’s An Inconvenient Woman, and slipped the letter inside. The irony, she thought. But her father would appreciate this and she knew it. She’d been an inconvenient woman for the better part of her life.

  She thought about what she needed to do now and her mind began to work in ways it hadn’t in years. Her father was no fool. In his own way, he was reaching out to her in that letter. He may not have fingered anyone specifically, but between the lines, he was asking her to check into it, should anything happen to him.

  So, who killed him? It had nothing to do with Blue. That dog was magnificently trained. He wouldn’t have got in her father’s way. And her father died on a Sunday, when the staff had the day off. Coincidence? Camille didn’t believe in such a thing. Her siblings knew his staff had Sundays off. They knew he’d be alone.

  She was thinking of each of them when Emma cranked up the music louder, which made another statement about how unhappy she was. In her own way, she was calling out for Camille—and Camille needed to take time out her.

  She went over to her daughter’s closed bedroom door and knocked hard enough to be heard above the music. When there was no answer, she edged the door open and saw Emma sitting across the room on her bed. She had the same delicate features as her mother. The same brown eyes as her father. Her hair was as dark as chestnuts and as thick as Camille’s, only shorter. It came just to her shoulders, whereas Camille’s dipped slightly lower. Emma looked as if she’d been crying and defiantly wiped away her tears.

  “Que voulez-vous?”

  “I thought we’d talk.”

  “Je n’ai pas envie de parler.”

  “How about if we try communicating in English?”

  “Je ne suis pas anglaise. Je suis française.”

  “I know you’re upset, Emma. I’m upset. I miss my father. This is difficult for each of us. I need you now more than I’ve ever needed you.” She winced at the music. “But I also need to hear you.” She looked at the boom box on the table beside Emma. “Would you mind turning it down? Just for a minute?”

  “Quel que soit.” She turned off the music.

  Camille went over and sat next to her on the bed. “We won’t be here forever. I promise.”

  “How long, then?”

  Progress, Camille thought. “I’m not sure. I need to check on some things and clean up your grandfather’s estate before we leave. Maybe a month?”

  “But that’s the rest of the summer!”

  “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Anything you want.”

  “You can’t make up what I want. It’s summer. I want to be home with my friends.”

  “I don’t want to be here either. I don’t like it here. But sometimes as adults we need to do things that we don’t want to do. We have responsibilities that we can’t ignore. That’s the situation I’m in now. One day you’ll be there and I hope you make the right decision no matter how difficult it is. I need to make sure everything is right before we lea
ve, if only for your grandfather. We owe him that, don’t we? We owe him one month of our lives to make sure he’s taken care of.”

  Emma’s face softened. When it came to her grandfather, Camille knew that she’d do anything for him. “What’s to take care of?”

  Camille leaned over and kissed her daughter on the forehead. I’m about to find out. “Just some odds and ends. You know how your grandfather felt about your aunts and uncles. He asked me specifically to make sure that certain things were done in the event of his death. We need to honor his wishes. He loved us so much, I think he deserves that more than anyone.”

  “Ughhh!” Emma said, lowering her head. “You’re right. What am I thinking? I loved Papa.” She looked at her mother. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch. We’ll get to Paris when we get to Paris.”

  “You’re not a bitch, Emma. And don’t say that word.”

  “Oh, please. Did you just see that performance I gave? It was epic. It even had a French soundtrack. I was so just a bitch.”

  “Blame it on me,” Camille said, holding her daughter close. “You’re my daughter. Believe me, if sometimes you’re difficult—”

  “You mean, a bitch.”

  “I mean difficult. And if you are, it’s because it runs deep in the genes.”

  * * *

  She went into her bedroom, closed the door and stepped into the attached bath. She looked at herself in the mirror and already saw the transformation taking place in her eyes, which were harder than they’d been in years. She didn’t like that look. It had taken her years to remove herself from the life that created it.

  Focus.

  She looked at her body. At thirty-nine, she might not be in the best shape of her life, but she wasn’t far from her prime. She still worked hard to stay in shape and it showed. She was lean, chiseled, athletic. And she always had been fast.

  Think.

  If her father was being followed, there was no reason to believe that she also wouldn’t be followed and possibly targeted for death. The will specifically stated that should she die, the estate would go to Emma. And if Emma died? Everything would be evenly dispersed between Kenneth Miller’s remaining six children. So, Emma also was at risk.