A Rush to Violence (A Spellman Thriller)

by Christopher Smith

  Why?

  If he wanted her brothers and sisters to have nothing, why had her father put that provision in the will? She suspected it had something to do with her mother, who doted on them. He might have done so out of respect for her memory, not thinking they would come after Camille because of what they knew about her.

  In the Miller family, it was no secret to anyone how she lived her life when she was young. Would they dare to come after her knowing that? She wasn’t sure. What she did know is that she hadn’t forgotten anything from her past life. It was all instinct. She could slip back into that life if she had to, even if she didn’t want to.

  She turned in front of the mirror and picked up a handful of her hair. She pulled it sharply away from her face and hid it behind her head. It wasn’t enough. Even if she cut it all off, they’d spot her in a second. She’d need to dye it another color. She’d need to wear makeup, something she rarely wore. She’d need new clothes. New shoes.

  She’d need to change herself completely.

  None of her siblings knew where she lived now and, with the exception of her father’s attorney, they had no way of contacting her. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t find out. And what then?

  She went to the bathroom window and looked down the street. She could see a pharmacy, a grocery and what looked to be a trendy second-hand clothing store. She could use items from each, but what she really needed was something more extreme.

  She reached into her pocket for her cell phone. She scrolled down the list and found his number, which she hoped was still active. It had been years since they talked. When they last spoke, she convinced him that she was out of it for good, which she was. When he moved to the States, he gave her his number to make sure that if she ever needed him, she’d have a way to reach him. “It’s my cell, so expect it to change frequently. I’ll let you know when it does.” And he had, though the last time was a good six months ago.

  She tapped the number and listened to it ring. A woman answered. “Yes?”

  “May I speak to Sam, please?”

  “Who is calling?”

  “Camille Miller.”

  The slightest hesitation. “I’ll see if he’s available.”

  She wondered who the woman was. His wife? A girlfriend? He came on the line almost immediately. “Tell me one thing only you and I would know.”

  “We had a good time in that alley back in the day.”

  He laughed. “So, this is you. It’s been a long time, Camille.”

  “Too long.”

  “Are you working?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “I might be.”

  “I heard what happened to your father. I’m sorry. I know what he meant to you. In spite of the circumstances, he always was kind to me.”

  “That’s because he was a good man. I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

  She heard her own voice grow thick when she said that. She closed her eyes to compose herself. A silence passed. She cleared her throat.

  “I thought you were finished,” he said.

  “Things change.”

  “Is this about your father?”

  “It is.”

  “Do you think—”

  “You already know what I’m thinking,” she said cryptically. “Yes, I think they’re involved. It’s why I’m calling you. I need help, Sam. Are you still in business?”

  “Business is strong. What do you need?”

  “One for each hand and maybe an extra. I’m out of the loop, but you know what I like. Get me the best and a few boxes of trinkets for each. I’ll also need something sharp. Maybe six inches.”

  “Done. When do you need them?”

  “Is now too soon?”

  “Not for you.”

  “I’m not able to leave. Can you bring them by?”

  “Of course. I’d love to see you.”

  “Emma is sixteen now. She still knows nothing about us. She’s here with me. Can you wear sunglasses of some sort? A cap? We’ll need to be brief.”

  “Understood.”

  “How soon?”

  “Give me an hour.”

  She gave him the address.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In his apartment, Marty went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and then went into his office, where he removed the contents of the manila envelope Carr gave him and put them on his desk.

  For the most part, inside was a mix of handwritten correspondence between Camille and her father that spanned several years. None of the letters were in chronological order, so if Marty was going to get a sense of Camille Miller’s life, he needed them to be. There were so many letters, it was a daunting task. An hour passed before he was able to sit down and start reading from the beginning.

  All of Camille’s correspondence came from Paris, while her father’s came from various parts of the world. Most were brief—often a paragraph at most—but all came weekly, thus suggesting their love for each other and the need to stay in touch.

  Initially, the letters themselves were benign. He read through them.

  “Emma and I are going to Provence for a week,” Camille wrote on August 27, 2008. “I’ve rented us a house, which I let her choose because we all know she needs to retain some sense of control. So, I gave it to her. It’ll be good for her to get out of the city and into the country, though she’d rather stay put. She doesn’t understand why she has to go to ‘someplace so boring’ because she’s never spent time out of the city. I swear to God, Dad, if it kills me, I’m going to have her hands in some dirt by midweek and we’ll plant a little flower garden in the fresh air. We’re going to go to markets and we’re going to cook together. My daughter is going to learn things that my grandmother taught me. My cooking is questionable, so pray that I don’t burn everything. Otherwise, she’ll lose all respect for me and press me to go home sooner.”

  Another letter, this one from Kenneth to Camille, dated October 2, 2009. “I have a new dog,” Miller wrote. “He’s a Great Dane and he lives up to his breed. I’ve called him Blue because his coat is a unique, silvery blue. He’s spectacular. Good demeanor. He’s taken to his obedience training well. He’s growing by leaps and bounds, and he has me out walking again, which is good, I suppose, because my doctor won’t get off my back about how important it is that I exercise. I’ll send along a photo of Blue next week. Tell Emma that she’d love him and that if you both moved back to the States, I’d buy her one. I’d even go for two if that would seal the deal. Love you, Dad.”

  Marty kept reading and learned how close they were. Then he picked up a letter Camille wrote to Kenneth in June 2010.

  “God help me, but I think Emma has a boyfriend. Or she hopes she has one. I’m not sure if she’s landed him yet. Either way, I’m freaking out about it. Isn’t fourteen too young for this? Don’t answer. I think I had my first boyfriend when I was twelve. His name was Nick and he was fantastic. We lasted six months before we decided our passion was too much to sustain. Or something like that. I actually think Nick joined the basketball team behind my back and wanted to put his energy there. Boys and their balls. I never told you about him because you would have killed me. But enough of Nick. You and I both know that I don’t have the skills to handle the wave of hormones that are headed my way. Emma’s walking around the apartment practically bumping into walls. She’s scribbling his name—Luc, Luc, Luc—everywhere. And I mean everywhere. I’ve seen it on napkins, on her schoolwork, on the wings of a paper airplane she keeps in her room, on newspapers and even on a roll of toilet paper. I’ll admit that last one made me laugh—does she not understand the implications of where his name will eventually end up? Obviously not. I’ve never seen her so thick. If she carves his name in the dining room table, we’ll have to have a serious talk. If you can provide any insight, I’d appreciate it. Or prayer. Light candles. Send books. Talk to you next week, hopefully not from a psychiatric ward. Love.”

  It
was in September of 2010 that the tone changed.

  “There’s no good way to say this, Camille, so it’s best to just to be out with it. That’s how you and I have always been together—straight talk. Your mother has ovarian cancer. She’s in treatment, but the cancer is aggressive and as you know, it’s among the least treatable. I know your relationship with her is strained because of your past, but would you and Emma mind coming for a week to see her? I think it’s important. I’d hate for her to pass without you two having made amends of some sort. Let me know what you think. I could use seeing you both, as well. And Blue would like to make new friends.”

  It was the next letter from Camille that piqued Marty’s interest.

  “Dad, I just received your letter about Mom and I can’t say how sorry I am. I’ve talked to Emma, who’s upset, and we’ll come in two weeks, when she’s on holiday from school. If you think we should come sooner, just say so. In the meantime, Emma made something for her grandmother. Take your laptop to Mom and bring up this address in your browser: http://on.fb.me/FQ2MuT. There’s a surprise there. We’ll see you soon. I’ll call you when I know my itinerary. And please, whatever you can do, keep my siblings away from me while we’re there. That might not be possible given the situation as I imagine they’re at her bedside collecting whatever checks from her while they can, but I’d rather be alone with Emma, Mom and you when we come to visit. If that’s not possible, don’t worry about it. I know you’re under a great deal of stress and I can shut them down myself if I have to.”

  Marty looked at that web address and wondered. He took the letter over to his computer, opened a proxy server, and then opened a new browser. If Carr and his cronies were watching his IP address and following his tracks on the web, with the proxy in place, they wouldn’t be able to do so now.

  He typed the address into the browser, hit enter and a photograph of Camille Miller and her daughter, Emma, appeared on the screen. A rush of excitement went through him. Finally, a clear image of Camille and also of her daughter. He dragged the image to his desktop and then printed it out. Emma was holding a large cardboard heart in her hand that she’d colored red. In black marker, she wrote in the center of the heart: “I love you, Nana. More than anything. Please be well. We’ll see you soon. Love, Emma.”

  The web address Camille provided was truncated for brevity. The real address was ILoveMyGrandmotherMoreThanAnything.blogspot.com. Blogspot was a Blogger address. To gain entrance, you needed an e-mail address and a password.

  It’s the e-mail address Marty wanted.

  He picked up the phone and called the one person who could get it for him—his contact at the FBI, Roz Shibles.

  “Do you think you can get it?” he asked.

  “Let me look into it. I can try. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Use this number. It’s my satellite phone.” He gave it to her, knowing that the phone couldn’t be traced.

  In the interim, he made sure the proxy was still active before he sent the photo of Camille and Emma in an encrypted e-mail to Mike Hines, one of his detective friends at the NYPD. He had a circle of friends at the NYPD who were well-compensated for helping Marty do his job. In turn, when he had information they didn’t, he provided them with it.

  He asked Mike to circulate the photograph and to ask others to keep a lookout for Camille and her daughter. If anyone saw either of them and could provide evidence of where she was, there was ten grand in it for them. If they actually learned where she lived, there was twenty-five grand on the table.

  When Roz called back, she gave him the e-mail. “It’s an old account,” she said. “Which means the e-mail address is old. The site hasn’t been active since that first post.”

  “It’s worth a try,” he said.

  She gave him the address. “Lunch or dinner soon?”

  “Either works for me. I’d like you to meet Jennifer.”

  “It’s about time I met the other woman. See you soon, sugar.”

  He hung up the phone and sat down at his desk to craft an e-mail to Camille Miller.

  CHAPTER SIX

  In her bedroom, Camille stood at the window facing the street while a cab pulled alongside her building and Sam emerged with a duffel bag over his right shoulder, aviator sunglasses at his eyes but no cap. He might not have had one.

  He was older than she remembered, but he was still muscular and darkly handsome, though the thick head of dark curls she once loved had been shaved in favor of a military cut. He looked up at the building, saw her in the window and she couldn’t help wondering when he nodded at her if she’d made a mistake all those years ago by choosing not to be with him.

  Sam Ireland was Emma’s father. When Emma was conceived, both Camille and Sam were working assassins. When Camille learned that she was pregnant, she told him that she was getting out and that she hoped he would do the same. They couldn’t raise a child under these circumstances.

  Her reasoning was sound. They had more than enough money between them to live out the rest of their lives in comfort. They could marry, go away, start somewhere fresh in a new country where no one knew them. But Sam chose not to leave, which angered her as much as it hurt her. She couldn’t believe he’d choose this life over being with her and his child.

  But now? Now, Camille was older. Now, she saw things differently. Back then, both were young and idealistic. They killed for money, but money isn’t what motivated them. Before they agreed to any job, there needed to be a moral and ethical reason behind the kill. Did the person rape someone and get off? Kill someone undeserving of having their life taken from them? If they were dealing with a political leader who was compromising his or her people, they’d only take the job if they felt strongly that murdering that person would improve the lives of the innocent.

  On the day she left, he told her that his life’s focus was to help those powerless against the hand of others. He encouraged her to stay and to fight alongside him as she always had. But she hadn’t—she had a child to bear, protect, and raise. Looking back, their lives seemed ridiculously romantic to her. She didn’t regret how she once lived, but she certainly no longer felt the same passion that once fueled her life.

  In her youth, so much seemed black and white to her, probably because she was born to privilege and thus given the luxury of idealism. There were no gray edges. Now, at thirty-nine, she had a better understanding of the world and her place within it. She was a daughter and a mother first. That’s where her priorities lay.

  It was five years ago, in Paris, when she and Sam ran into each other in the Marais.

  He was working another job. She was alone and doing her shopping for the day. When they saw each other, they spoke for several minutes on the street before deciding upon having a coffee at one of the nearby cafés. It was clear each needed and wanted to catch up.

  When they did, the eleven years that had passed since the last time they saw each other seemed to dwindle. They fell so easily into conversation, it was disarming. The rhythm and the intensity were still there, as was the attraction and, for her, as the conversation unfolded and she saw that he was happy, an undercurrent of anger. He asked about the child and she told him a bit about Emma. Not too much, just enough so it hopefully stung. She wanted him to know just how much he’d missed out on by choosing not to be part of their lives.

  Ever since then, each had known how to contact the other. They were a part of each other’s lives, but only tangentially.

  So, what would happen between them now? Was he married? Was that his wife on the phone earlier? A girlfriend? Five years ago he was single and said he planned to stay that way, but people change. Earlier, on the phone, when he said business was strong, was he talking about the arms market or that he was still an assassin? She was so far removed from the life she once lived, she didn’t know the answers. But she was curious and a part of her was frightened by why she was curious. In spite of her better judgment, she still loved him. Perhaps a part of her always would because of their past
and because he gave her the love of her life, Emma.

  A knock came at the door.

  Emma was playing her music again and while it was loud, Camille wasn’t sure if she heard the knock. She hurried out of her bedroom, moved through the living room and opened the door at the end of the hallway.

  And there he was, smiling at her. Five years was a long time and so she reached out and hugged him. To her surprise, he lowered the duffel bag to the floor and held her. She could feel her heart pounding. Memories of the two of them in Paris came flooding back. Being so close to him again was bracing and upsetting. She pulled away and placed a hand against the side of his cheek. Even with the sunglasses, he looked so much like their daughter, it was disconcerting. She couldn’t remember a time when she felt so conflicted. “Emma is in her bedroom,” she said.

  “I can hear that.”

  “I can’t ask you in.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “It’s just that I need to protect her.”

  “From what?”

  “You know she can’t know.”

  “Maybe things are different now. Maybe she should know.”

  That stopped her cold, but only for a moment. She nodded at the bag. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  “I might. I don’t know what I’m facing yet.”

  “Do you think they’re all involved?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me, but I need to be sure.”

  “How will you find out?”

  “The moment I’m alone with them.”

  “And then?”

  “If they killed my father, I’ll know. I’ll see it in their eyes. And if I do, I’ll kill them.”

  “Don’t you think they know that?”