A Rush to Violence (A Spellman Thriller)

by Christopher Smith

  Beth directed everyone to the stone wall.

  Above them, the argument escalated.

  Gloria handed Brian Moore the rifle. She searched his eyes to see if he knew how to use it, but by the way he looked at her with a mix of bewilderment and concern, it was clear that he didn’t. She turned to Jack and glanced down at the gun he was holding. He gave her a quick, reassuring nod and switched it out for the rifle, which Brian immediately looked comfortable holding. They all sagged against the wall and waited for the inevitable.

  But Gloria knew better. Who were any of them kidding? This wasn’t going to go well. She knew it, she knew the adults knew it, but she hoped her children didn’t know it.

  If he was going to make an effort to come down here, there’s no way it was going to be for a mere visual check. He was going to want to talk to his colleague and then wonder why his colleague wasn’t talking back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When Sam Ireland came to Camille Miller’s apartment, he was all business, which was a relief to her. She didn’t want to discuss their past. She just wanted to deal with the present and fix it before it was too late.

  Over the course of ten minutes, she debriefed him on the situation, leaving out nothing, including the part where Emma asked whether Sam was her father.

  That was a mistake. That’s when it got personal.

  “Did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Do you have a photograph of her? If we’re going to search for her, I’ll need to know what my daughter looks like.”

  They went into Emma’s bedroom and she showed him the photo of Emma and her grandfather that Emma kept on her desk. Sam looked at her for a long moment but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Watching him, Camille could tell that he wasn’t just committing her face to memory. He also was trying to see traces of himself in her, which were there.

  Like her father, Emma possessed high cheekbones and smooth olive skin that appeared almost as if it was without pores. Her eyes mirrored his in that they were the color of chestnuts, only not quite as dark or as hard. They had the same thick lashes, which could not be attributed to any member of the Miller family. It was all him.

  “She’s beautiful,” he said.

  “If we’re lucky enough to find her, you two will meet.”

  “If she’s as bright as you say she is, she’ll also see the similarities.”

  “I understand that.”

  “But you’re not happy about it.”

  “It’s not that I’m not happy.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s that I don’t want her to get hurt. She recently lost her grandfather. He meant the world to her. Now, she’s about to meet her father. Do you know how huge that will be for her? How many questions she’ll have for you? How much she’s going to want to get to know you? But what if you also disappear from her life? Once, you had the chance to choose us, but you didn’t. When I got pregnant and told you I was getting out, you pretty much wished me the best and went on your own way. You washed your hands of us, Sam. I know you well enough to know that you could do that again. That kind of emotional turmoil isn’t something I want for my daughter.”

  “Neither do I. We were kids back then, Camille. We thought we could change the world. I think we each see things differently now.”

  “Do you? You’re still in it, Sam. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you haven’t left that I know of.”

  “I only provide weaponry to those who need it. That’s the extent of it. I haven’t accepted a contract in eight years.”

  “Why?”

  “I knew I could help in better ways.”

  “So you continue to take risks. You’re illegally selling guns and God knows what else to an underground market that could turn against you at any point. And you’re doing it in New York City, of all places! Because of that, you’re still just as much a target as you’ve always been.”

  “Maybe. None of us really change, Camille—you proved that by calling me today and asking for your own supply of weapons. We just get older. We re-prioritize. I still believe that any individual actively and repeatedly harming innocent civilians should be taken out. I still think that all over the world, countless judicial systems are a joke. Unless something radical changes, which it won’t, I always will believe that. But here’s what you need to know. Nobody receives weapons from me without first telling me why they need them. It has to be a reason I believe in. I need to know the circumstances. I need to know who they’re targeting and why. And I need proof of all of it. My ideals haven’t changed since you and I were crossing the globe and doing the work ourselves. It’s just that now I’m the middleman, not the shooter.”

  When she didn’t respond, he said, “Tell me you’ve changed. Tell me you’ve had an epiphany and now believe that our governments and judicial systems are working properly to protect the innocent.”

  “I never said that.”

  “My point taken.”

  “Actually, it isn’t. I have changed. I’ve been completely out of it for sixteen years. You said it yourself, Sam. When we were young, we thought we could make a change for the better.”

  “Do you think we did?” he interrupted.

  “In some ways, yes, I do think we did. There are certain people I’m glad are no longer on this earth. They needed to be dealt with.”

  “Murdered.”

  “Fine. Murdered. Whatever. But evil always will be present. It always will dig down its roots and find its way to reach up and harm people. When I got pregnant, I knew I couldn’t bring my daughter into what increasingly was becoming a tenuous and losing situation. No matter how hard we tried, there always would be others. It became clear that we’d never keep ahead of them. At some point, you have to accept that. I got out for that reason and I did it for my child.”

  “And you’re still looking over your shoulder.”

  “Of course, I am. I always will be. Right now, someone we murdered twenty years ago has a son or a daughter who’s pissed off that they never knew their father. There will come a time when they will be told what happened to their father. And regardless of how careful we were to conceal our identities all those years ago, we weren’t perfect. We made mistakes even we don’t know about. They’ll dig, they’ll learn who we are and they’ll come after us. They’ll want us dead for all they believed we cheated them out of. And I suppose on some level they have every right to do that. I live with it every day. I expect it to happen at any point. I know you do, too.”

  “Do you think your brothers and sisters killed your father?”

  “The question is whether I believe all of them are responsible. That’s what I was trying to get across to Emma. I needed to look each in the eye. I wanted to hear the tone in their voices when they answered me. Only then would I know for sure.” She stopped herself and looked at him when it occurred to her. “Which is what she’s planning to do.”

  “Or is doing right now.”

  “We need to leave. We need to get to the city. She’ll be at one of their houses. I don’t know which one, but she’ll be at one of them.”

  “I want to get to know her, Camille.”

  “To what end, Sam? We live in Paris.”

  “So, there’s no such thing as a plane? Skype? E-mail? Facebook? Cell phones? The possibility of us getting back together?”

  She wasn’t going near that. She grabbed her keys from the kitchen counter and dropped them in one of her jacket pockets. She went into her bedroom, grabbed the duffle bag with the rifles and the ammunition, and swung it over her shoulder. “We’ll discuss it later.”

  “When she sees me, she’ll know who I am. What if she wants to get to know me?”

  “If you keep pressing, then she can get to know you when she’s eighteen. Right now, she’s a minor. It’s my decision. I’m her guardian and have full control over her.”

  “Really? You call this control?”

  “That’s a low blow.”

&
nbsp; But as they left for the door, she knew he was right. She had no control over her daughter. None.

  * * *

  When they stepped out of the building, Camille asked where he was parked.

  “Three blocks east.”

  “Three blocks? There was nothing closer?”

  “Camille, in this neighborhood, I was lucky to get a parking spot that close.” He nodded at the duffle bag. “Let me carry that.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “It’s heavy.”

  “Just walk to my left. I don’t want to be seen.”

  “You think I do?”

  But he moved to her left as she lifted the hood on her jacket and put it over her head. Street traffic was moderate, but the sidewalks were busy. It was a warm summer evening and people were out in force in an attempt to enjoy it. Some were out for a stroll while others, the twenty- and thirtysomething crowd, were hurrying to get to the subway so they could be in the city and plunge themselves into all the nightlife it offered. They were loud, full of life and ready for whatever adventures awaited them.

  Camille watched them go and wondered what her life might have been like if she hadn’t gone to Paris and made decisions that would shock most. When Emma was born, things changed. She saw the world through her child’s eyes and it was a brighter world. Through her daughter, she realized there was something to be said for being frivolous, which she’d never been. She wanted that opportunity to continue for Emma’s sake. She wanted her daughter to have a normal life. She wanted her to go through her early years with a light heart. She wanted her to take risks. To fall in love. To have the kind of youth Camille denied herself because she chose another route.

  What had she missed by doing so? What was it like to be driven by no other concern than fulfilling your own joy? The idea of living a hedonistic lifestyle in a world that offered countless entries into it was foreign to her.

  When she and Sam were together, there were a few times when they held hands and took a walk in a city that seemed designed just for that activity, but too often life was about work, the sort in which you walked away with blood on your hands and a knot in your gut.

  Being with him exposed her to the cruelty of the human spirit. Bringing up Emma on her own exposed her to the possibilities of the human spirit. She didn’t regret her time with Sam. He opened her eyes to a world from with most look away. But as much as she loved him them, she regretted that his passion was saved mostly for his work and not for her. That wasn’t his fault—it’s who he was. It was her fault. At that age, railing against coming from such a wealthy family, Sam Ireland offered her a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn away from that life. When it was offered to her, she ran toward it and faced real issues. Her hands got dirty. For the first time in her life, she thought she was making a difference.

  “If she could be anywhere, right now, where would she be?” Sam asked. “Who is she closest to?”

  She was so deep in thought, his voice surprised her. She came back into herself. Focus. “None of them.”

  “There has to be someone.”

  “There isn’t. They’re all poison. Don’t forget, they’re one of the main reasons I moved to Paris in the first place. I didn’t want to be anywhere near them then, nor do I want to be part of their lives now. I’ve kept Emma away from them. She’s only seen or talked to them a few times in her life.”

  “But you’ve talked to her about them.”

  “Sometimes. But only when she asks questions, which is rare. She did hear about them through my mother and father. Especially my mother, who loved them to a fault. Whenever we’d visit, she’d try to arrange a gathering. Once, when Emma was young, Mother was successful only because she blindsided me with it. Otherwise, it’s been a person here, a person there when we visit. I never stay long if someone else is at the house.”

  “Who’s the ringleader of the group?”

  “Scott’s the oldest, but I wouldn’t exactly call him the ringleader. He’s flaky. He lives in this bizarre, manufactured world. But he’s also a conniving son of a bitch, so who knows? Sophia is a possibility. She’s as strong-willed as I am and probably just as stealthy, but that’s where the similarities end. She’s an arrogant snob. Lives for power and knows she has it. She has this way about her that influences the others. She’s the one who forged the effort to contest the will. Scott paid for it, but it was Sophia who wanted it.”

  “Does Emma know that?”

  A police car turned a corner, its headlights flashed across their faces and it started to cruise past them. Each lowered their heads and looked slightly to the right until the car was gone.

  But then, behind them, came a flash of brake lights.

  Instinct made them pick up their step without making it look too obvious. They took longer strides while keeping their bodies loose, not tense. Those lights could be for anyone. Someone crossing the street. Maybe an animal. Anything. But they weren’t taking chances. The lights flashed off and they heard the car speed forward.

  He asked the question again. “Does Emma know Sophia contested the will?”

  “She knows.”

  “Are we having the same thought?”

  “We are. Sophia lives on the Upper West Side. Beautiful townhouse filled with all the beautiful things my mother’s money could buy. We go there first.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The man shifted impatiently in the crowd, stood on tiptoe to look over the heads of those who had pressed against him, and then started taking photographs with his cell phone the moment Kenneth Miller’s body was pulled out of his house and lifted into the back of the medical examiner’s van.

  He wasn’t alone in taking his share of photos—the majority of those lined up to see Miller’s corpse stuffed into a body bag were doing the same. But there was something about him that was too odd to ignore. Part of it was his sense of urgency, the aggressive way he pushed forward to make sure he got the shot even though he obviously wasn’t a professional. The other part was even more curious. When Miller was out of sight, the man handed his phone over to a man standing behind him, who cut through the clutch of people before rushing with the cell phone until he was out of the mix.

  This was Marty’s fourth time looking at this section of the video and still he had one key question, the answer to which would only deepen the mystery. Why would someone take photos of Kenneth Miller’s dead body and then hand his cell over to another man who then fled with it?

  It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Somebody obviously wanted evidence that Miller was dead. The question was who.

  He called out to Jennifer. “Come check this out.”

  She stepped into the room as he was rewinding the video. He motioned toward the screen. “Tell me what you see.”

  She folded her arms as he played the video again. An image of her flashed onto the screen, her eyes level with the camera as she delivered her live report. Behind her, it was fireworks. Cameras were popping and people were pushing forward to get a better look as Miller was wheeled through the double set of doors, off the sidewalk and into the street, where the sun struck the stretcher and the black bag resting on top of it. Marty waited for a moment and then stopped the tape. “See anything?”

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  “Look to the right. In the crowd. I know the camera is focused on you and that the background is out of focus, but you can see what’s happening well enough to have an idea. Watch this man.” He pointed at a figure on the screen, rewound the video and played it again for her.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Just watch.”

  “Who’s the man behind him? Why’d he give him his camera?”

  “Camera or cell?”

  “Back it up a bit.”

  He did and she leaned closer to the screen.

  “Cell. Why did he give it to him?”

  “You’re the reporter. You tell me.”

  “To prove that Miller is dead. Look how the other man
is hurrying to get out of there. I just wish we could see him better.”

  “We will. I’ll call Roz at the FBI. She’ll have the video rendered to a point that we can see him as clearly as we see each other now. She’ll burn the video, put it on a thumb drive and also give us photographs of each man. Depending on how burdened she is, that might take some time. If we’re lucky, she might be able to turn it around quickly. Either way, when she delivers—and Roz always delivers—they might be useful.”

  Jennifer’s cell rang. She reached into her pants pocket and answered it. “This is Jennifer.” Beat. “Is he alone? Just make sure he stays alone and send him up.” She pressed a button and tucked the phone in her pants pocket.

  “The will?”

  “The will.”

  “About time.”

  “Let’s just say that the feature story I promised to do on Eliot Baker just got shortened by half. He should have had it here thirty minutes ago.” When she started for the door, Marty pushed back his chair. She looked over her shoulder at him and saw that he was holding his gun. “The doorman said he was alone,” she said.

  “Since when do you believe a doorman? They’re one of the easiest bribes in the city.”

  But it was fine. Miller’s lawyer used a courier to deliver the will. Jennifer took the manila envelope from the man, thanked him, tipped him and went with Marty into the living room, where they sat opposite each other in the Chens’ swanky leather chairs. She opened the envelope, slid out the will and handed it to Marty.

  “Hefty,” she said.

  “Let’s hope he had something interesting to say.”

  He started fanning through pages of legalese until he came upon a personal message handwritten by Miller himself. It was addressed to his children. He showed it to Jennifer, who looked up at him.

  “Read it,” she said.

  “Did you notice the date?”

  He showed it to her and her eyes flicked up to meet his.