A Rush to Violence (A Spellman Thriller)

by Christopher Smith

  Once, years ago while on vacation at the Miller estate on Grindstone Neck, each got a little tipsy over drinks at the famed Asticou Inn and decided to have a go of it in one of the restrooms. To this day, she could remember the disappointment that crossed Scott’s face when he saw that one of Carla’s several operations included the removal of Carl’s penis. When he was faced with what appeared to be a vagina, that was it. Awkwardly, they dressed, he mumbled something she couldn’t understand and then he left quickly so they wouldn’t be seen leaving the bathroom together.

  Tacky, she thought then. Hilarious, she thought now.

  Back in her prime, Carla could have had any man she wanted, and did. As a man, she had a lithe body and a beautiful, feminine-looking face that lent itself more to being a woman than it ever did to being a man. Operations aside, her transition into becoming a woman had been relatively easy. The only reason she lowered herself to hook up with someone as unattractive as Scott Miller was to blackmail him for money if Sophia ever got tired of her.

  She looked at her watch and felt a little thrill when she realized that for her, Scott Miller’s death actually was something of a gift.

  She dropped an extra olive into her martini, turned off a few lamps and started for the staircase. As she usually did when she knew that Sophia would be out for period of time, she went upstairs to Sophia’s dressing room with plans to try on her clothes, her shoes and especially her jewels.

  She got undressed and layered herself in Sophia’s perfume, which she loved because of its lilac and heather undertones, but which she’d need to shower off before Sophia returned.

  She tried on the new Givenchy evening gown Sophia recently purchased in Paris and, pairing it with strapless Dior heels, she walked around Sophia Miller’s dressing room with her martini in hand while she admired herself in the clutch of mirrors that encompassed the room. She really was a knockout, even at her age. Few ever would know she once was a man.

  She put her hand to her throat and wondered which jewels to choose? Certainly, the teardrop sapphire necklace, which would complement the color of the dress. And maybe to mix it up she’d select the ten-carat emerald-cut canary diamond ring she loved so much. As for earrings, she’d wear the matching sapphire teardrops, which always worked to bring out the blue in her tinted blue contacts.

  She went to Sophia’s wall safe, entered the code and took out several boxes, each of which held a treasure from Sophia’s mother. She put on the jewels and then went to look at herself in front of the mirrors. Perfect. She turned to glance down at her ass, which had held up nicely due to the implants she added two years ago with Sophia’s financial assistance. She smoothed her hands over them and when she did, she heard a knock at the front door.

  Carla stopped. Listened. Nothing but silence for a moment—then the knock came again, only more aggressive this time.

  She downed the rest of her martini and wasn’t sure what to do. It could be one of Sophia’s other brothers or sisters who had recently gotten the news and was so rattled, he or she made the mistake of coming here.

  She had to answer the door, but taking off the dress, jewels, and shoes would take time she didn’t have. She’d have to answer the door like this. Steeling herself for whatever fallout would occur when Sophia learned that Carla was dressing in her clothes, she rushed down the staircase and hurried to the door.

  She peeked through the peephole and saw nothing but the tree-lined sidewalk and cars going by on the street. But the knock came again and when Carla asked who it was, it was Camille Miller who announced herself.

  Carla opened the door and was shocked to find Camille standing there with her hard eyes and a hood pulled over short blonde hair. She thought she had returned to Paris with Emma. With her was a man. Muscular and swarthy, just like Carla liked them. Together, she watched them size her up, which made Carla straighten a little.

  “Hello, Camille.”

  “Carla.”

  “I thought you’d be back in Paris.”

  “Not quite yet. Is Sophia around? I’d like to speak to her. It’s important.”

  She’d be damned if she was going to tell Camille that her brother was dead. Let her find out on her own. “Your sister is having dinner with friends. I don’t expect her back until late.”

  “Judging by how you’re dressed, that’s clear. Do you always wear my sister’s clothes and jewels when she’s out of the house?”

  “I have permission to do whatever I like.”

  “I wonder if Sophia knows that.”

  “Of course, she does. We’ve been a team for more than three decades. She’s pleased that she’s in the position to make me happy.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the Sophia I know.”

  “That’s because you don’t know her, just as none of us know you.”

  Camille cocked her head to the side. “I’m sorry, Carla, but when did you become a member of the family?”

  “Let’s just say long before you became a blonde.” She looked at the man standing next to Camille. “Who’s he?”

  “A friend of mine.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Most people do.”

  “Are you going to introduce us?”

  “Carla, this is Sam. Sam, this is Carla, who used to be Carl. Years ago, when Carla was Carl, he met my sister and they bonded over martinis at Studio 54. Then Carl became Carla and my sister employed her as her assistant, whose perks allegedly include the permission to wear my sister’s clothes, shoes and jewelry.”

  Sam rolled back on the heels of his feet and nodded. “Sounds complicated.”

  Carla started to close the door. “If you want to see Sophia, it’ll have to be tomorrow.”

  “One last question,” Camille said. “Have you seen Emma tonight?”

  “Why would I ever see Emma? You’ve kept her from your family since the day she was born.”

  “Just asking,” Camille said. “Now, go and have a nice soak in Sophia’s tub, Carla. Use her pricey products to scrub away whatever’s left of the old Carl. Bathe yourself in luxury while she still has it for you to steal. Make an effort to overlook all those unfortunate scars that crisscross your body. If you’ve stuck by her this long, you deserve it. I’ll give you that. And better yet, if you hurry, you still have time to do so before she returns.”

  * * *

  On the street, Camille and Sam moved toward the park, which was just ahead of them.

  For a moment, they said nothing. Camille lifted the duffel bag higher on her shoulder while Sam stepped to her right to offer her the concealment he knew she wanted.

  A couple walking a dog turned the corner onto West Seventieth and started to move toward them. She and Sam kept their heads lowered until they passed. It was nearly ten o’clock and there was no sign that the city was slowing down. The streets were alive with traffic and the summer air was heavy with the scent of rubber, oil, gasoline, tar and, from the park, the hint of something fresh struggling to cut through, but failing nevertheless. The humidity was too high and there was no breeze to allow it to break free.

  “Carla was a man?” Sam said.

  “Hard to believe, but true.”

  “Didn’t expect that.”

  “I doubt if Carl’s parents did, either.”

  “You never know.”

  “That’s true.”

  She shot him a sidelong glance. They hadn’t shared that kind of rhythm in years, but when they were at their best, that’s how they’d been in their youth. She reached out a hand and placed in on his cheek. He leaned into it. She’d been hard on him. There was nothing to say. No apologies to make. The gesture alone let him know everything she wanted him to know. She was grateful for his help. Even if they had only another day together, she was happy to be with him again.

  “Where to now?” he asked.

  “Emma could be anywhere. The next closest house is Tyler’s. He’s five blocks up on Seventy-Fifth. Let’s try there and see if we have any luck.”


  But when they arrived at Tyler’s, they were told by his butler, Harvey, that he was out.

  “Do you happen to know where he went, Harvey?”

  The man, who was somewhere in his late sixties and as polished as she’d expect from her brother, who embraced the full weight of the Miller name and made every effort to keep up the expected appearances that came along with it, looked down at Camille and chose his words carefully. “Anastassios Fondaras is in town with that yacht of his,” he said. “Mr. Miller was invited to have a private dinner with him and a few other friends while he’s in town.”

  “Fondaras does private dinners? Since when?”

  “Leana Redman is opening a new hotel on Park Avenue. Fondaras is helping her by introducing her to the right people.”

  “That’s kind of him. When do you expect Tyler back?”

  “Camille, I’ve already told you more than I should. The directive I have from Mr. Miller is never to tell you anything. I’m afraid that’s all I can say.”

  She shrugged. “Just one last question. Did you happen to hear from Emma tonight?”

  “Who is Emma?”

  “My daughter.”

  His brow furrowed. “I haven’t,” he said. “And I’m not sure why I would. She’s never been here.” He looked over at Sam then back at her. “Is she in some sort of trouble.”

  “No,” Camille said. “Well maybe. Who knows with kids? Before we left for Paris, she expressed interest in seeing Tyler because she knows he’s a writer, which she herself wants to become. Even though I told her that all of Tyler’s manuscripts have been rejected by New York, she still wanted to pick his brain on the writing process. She’s not answering her cell and I’m just concerned. She’s probably out with friends. Thanks for your time, Harvey.”

  She walked down the granite stairs to the sidewalk and Harvey stopped them before he closed the door. “You won’t tell Mr. Miller that I told you he’s with Fondaras, will you?” he said.

  Camille shook her head. “Your lie is safe with me, Harvey.”

  He lifted his head. “And yours with me, Camille.”

  * * *

  At the street corner, Camille pulled out her cell to see if there were any messages, but there were none.

  She called Emma again, but there was no answer, just her voice mail, which Camille already had populated with messages. Frustrated, she clicked off her phone and shoved it in her pocket.

  She was angry. She was scared. It was getting late. Too much time had passed. Increasingly, her worry was turning to panic. When she was young and with Sam, panic never was part of the equation. They had each other. They always were in control. But this was different. This was personal. She felt as if she had no control. This was her daughter and the need to protect her was all-consuming.

  Where are you?

  Sam reached out and took her by the hand, an unexpected gesture of concern that she welcomed. His hand was large and rough, just as she remembered. He squeezed hers and in spite of herself, she squeezed back. When they were together sixteen years ago, any kind of affection was confined to the bedroom. He never would have crossed that line in public, regardless if it was about their daughter. He said he’d changed. Had he?

  “Why did you say that Harvey’s lie was safe with you? What was he lying about?”

  “Anastassios Fondaras never gives private dinners, unless private means he’s serving five hundred people or more. I can’t imagine him doing something intimate to help anyone, even if it was one of the Redmans. His time is too important to him. He uses that yacht to impress and to court business opportunities, not to throw a little dinner because Leana Redman is opening a hotel.”

  “He never said the party was little.”

  “True. But he also never corrected me and said he wasn’t lying.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe there is a party. I hope Tyler is having the time of his life.”

  They kept walking.

  “You’re not in this alone, you know?” he said. “I can feel you, just as if it was twenty years ago. I know you’re worried and you have every right to be. But you need to know that even though I’ve never met my daughter, I’m committed to finding her before she does something reckless.”

  “If she hasn’t already done something reckless.”

  “Right now, there’s nothing we can do if she has. What we need to do is get to her and prevent her from doing something else, if that’s even the case.”

  “Killing them—that’s what she has in mind. She’s convinced that all of them are involved. But I’m not sure whether that’s true. It might only be some of them. One of them. Two of them. All of them. That’s why I wanted to confront them. If any of them lie to me, I’ll know it.”

  “We need to get in front of this and move faster than we are now. Where is the next closest house?”

  “Laura’s.”

  “Then we go there. Here. Give me the duffel bag. You’ve been carrying it long enough. Come on. Just give it to me.”

  She gave it to him.

  “We’ll find our daughter,” he said.

  “We’ll find Emma,” she corrected him.

  “Fine. We’ll find Emma. But can you give me a break? I’m not the person I used to be. Neither are you. Give me a chance to prove it to you.”

  She wanted to, but it was too late. Her wall went up. Before it went any further, she had to stop this now. She let go of his hand and looked at his face in the changing colors of the night. “Just listen to me for a minute. You hurt me once, but I can’t let that happen again. OK? I can’t. If you think that what’s happening now is going to lead to a situation where we get back together, I need you to know that’s not an option. I can’t take that risk again. I appreciate your help tonight, Sam—and I mean that—but my focus is on my daughter. I raised her by myself and I will find her by myself if I have to. The fact of the matter is that in spite of the fact that I still love you, I don’t trust you. I can’t let you burn me again. Are we clear?”

  He didn’t answer directly. “I still want to help.”

  “Then help. But do so knowing that anything between us is off the table.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  From the Chens’ office, Marty Spellman sat listening to his wife grill Eliot Baker, Kenneth Miller’s longtime lawyer and confidante, over a speaker phone in the next room. Her pointed questions and the controlled heat in her voice were clipped and intense. It wasn’t often that he had heard her in action as a reporter, but when he did, she never disappointed him.

  “I need to know a few things, Eliot,” she said. “First, did Kenneth Miller have an appointment with you on the day he died or did he call you that day or the day before, demanding to see you first thing?”

  Marty waited for an answer.

  “He called me the night before.”

  “Why?”

  “At that point, I didn’t know why.”

  “He didn’t tell you why?”

  “He didn’t and I certainly didn’t question him. He might have been a close friend, but he was my client first, and considering who he was, I didn’t question him. If anything, I was at his beck and call. If he wanted to see me at three in the morning, I would have made that happen. We both know why. Having Kenneth Miller as a client elevated me. He helped to make my career into what it is today. Obviously, I’d be a fool not to meet with him when he wanted to meet with me. In this case, it was nine that morning. Sharp. I had to clear the books, but I was ready when he walked in.”

  “What did you see when he walked in?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was he agitated? Calm? What was his mood?”

  “Kenneth Miller was always cool. Few things rattled him. But I knew him well enough to know when something was pressing and had to be dealt with quickly, which was the case that day.”

  “Which leads me to this question. Why did it take you twenty-seven minutes to approve the changes in his will? That seems like a long time to me, especially since you conside
red yourself ‘at his beck and call.’ You yourself said that you didn’t question Miller. So, why did you sign his changes nearly thirty minutes after he brought them to you? Were there that many changes to the will?”

  “You’ve misinterpreted me. Just because I never questioned him doesn’t mean that I didn’t advise him when I thought it was appropriate.”

  “Did you advise him that morning?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “Oh, please. At this point, we’ve set fire to client confidentiality and shoved it over a cliff. Just answer the question, Eliot. Did you advise him that morning?”

  Nothing.

  “All right. How badly do you want to be profiled by me?”

  Silence.

  “Because I have a feeling that my reach will be as important, if not more important, than your lucrative association with Kenneth Miller, which for the most part ended with his death. In fact, we both know how important I am to you now. Especially now. I was planning on changing things up a bit. Earlier, we discussed profiling your next case. But now I think the story should focus on why Kenneth Miller chose you to represent him. We’ll talk about your long working relationship and your collaborative successes. That’s going to translate into you nailing prestige clients who didn’t even know you represented Miller. It’s money in the bank, Eliot, and a lot of it. Seven figures of it. Likely more. So, I’ll ask again. What did you advise him on?”

  “He made a change to his beneficiaries.”

  “And that change was adding Pamela Decker?”

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s the logical choice. Who is she?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Why stop now? Who is she?”

  He paused and Marty could feel him weighing his options. “She was his mistress,” Baker finally said.

  “His mistress?” Jennifer couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. She recovered before she spoke again. “For how long?”