A Rush to Violence (A Spellman Thriller)

by Christopher Smith

  “And you’re an investigative journalist. So, why do you need him?”

  “He’s the one who owns the gun.”

  “And you think you need one?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “Because of the bruises on your face? Your split lip? That it?”

  She smiled at him. “This is going to be fun,” she said.

  “Who is here with you?” Marty asked.

  “Nobody.”

  “Unless you wear perfume, that’s a lie.”

  “A client of mine left not long ago.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “There’s a reason why I’m successful, Mr. Spellman.”

  “Who left?” Jennifer asked.

  He leveled her with a glance. “I’m afraid that is confidential, Jennifer. It has no bearing on Kenneth Miller’s case and I’m not sharing it with you.”

  “How do we know it doesn’t?”

  “You don’t. You’ll need to trust me.”

  “But that’s the problem, Eliot. We don’t trust you.”

  His features remained poised and neutral. In spite of the situation, his eyes were relaxed and unflinching. “And you came to that conclusion because…”

  She held up the envelope. “Because of what’s in here.”

  “And what is in there?”

  “A surprise,” she said. “At least to us. It won’t be to you.”

  “Why don’t we step into the living room and have a look?” Marty asked. “Or maybe one of the sitting rooms? Perhaps your office? Or any of the dozens of rooms you have in this joint?” He looked around the space, which was clean and modern in ways he didn’t expect. The exterior of the building screamed high Victorian, but Eliot Baker had turned the interior into a space that felt almost clinical and devoid of emotion. White walls. Sharp lines. A shiny white marble floor that stretched in all directions. “Choose the room and we’ll talk about what’s inside the envelope.”

  Nothing rattled him. Eliot Baker merely shrugged and motioned to the room beside them, which suggested to Marty that someone might be in the house with him. He was taking this too calmly. The perfume was too fresh. If someone was here, where were they? Did they have a gun?

  “We can sit in there,” Baker said.

  “Lead the way,” Marty said.

  Baker looked down at Marty’s gun. “Is that really necessary?”

  “It is.”

  “Overcompensating for something?”

  “Hardly,” Jennifer said.

  They entered a room streamlined with white leather furniture accented in chrome, recessed lighting in the white ceilings, glass tables on either side of the sofas and for an unexpected shot of color, red silk curtains at the windows.

  A white grand piano was in the far left corner of the room with its lid down. No photographs on top of it or anywhere else in the room. It was as if Baker had depersonalized it. The piano bench also was white, but it was fitted with a cushion that was the exact color of the curtains. The room housed a few paintings, all done in colors that ranged from gray to black. To Marty, it looked like a set.

  Two sofas faced each other in the center of the room. They were divided by a glass table, on which was a book on modern architecture. They sat opposite Baker, who folded his legs at the knee and clasped his hands in his lap. With his silver hair, gray suit and red tie, he complemented everything around him.

  “Where were you when Kenneth Miller died?” Marty asked.

  “I was here. Jennifer knows that. She asked for a quote from me. She came and got it.”

  “Where were you when they wheeled Miller’s body out of his house?”

  Baker looked down at the envelope, which Marty had tossed onto the table. He didn’t answer because he knew it was pointless. He nodded toward the manila envelope. “May I?”

  Marty listened for any sign of movement in the house. “Be our guest.”

  Baker took the envelope and fished out the photos. He flipped through each one carefully while Marty continued to listen for something—a sound, a hint of disturbance in the air—that might tip him off that they weren’t alone. His gun was in his lap and pointed at Baker. Unfazed, Baker fanned through the photographs. When he finished, he selected one and held it up for them. It was the last photograph in the group, the one in which his face was lifted to the sun. “I was here,” he said.

  “It’s a good shot of you,” Marty said. “Taken just after you slipped the cell phone into your pants pocket.”

  “That’s right. And I agree. I like the sun on my face. And the suit is good.”

  “Why are you involved in this?” Jennifer said. “He was your friend. How could you do this to him?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You’re part of this. You betrayed him.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “You think my part in this is voluntary? That’s quite an assumption, Jennifer. I was approached and I was threatened, just as your husband was.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I have nothing to prove to you. Kenneth Miller was one of my dearest friends. I never would have betrayed him unless I was forced to. End of story.”

  “Who’s forcing you?”

  “You probably know him as ‘Carr.’ But that’s not his real name.”

  “What is?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just smart enough to know that a man in his situation wouldn’t use his real name. Too risky. He seems brighter than that.”

  “They have my family and friends,” Marty said—and he stopped short. Just saying the words made him his stomach turn. He was worried about them and frightened for them. But because he knew that this man might have answers that could bring him to his family, he pressed through the weight of those emotions and shoved them aside. Right now, besides Jennifer, all he felt he had left was his ability to focus.

  “I know they do,” Baker said. “And I’m sorry about that. I also know you have the chip, just like I do. I’m sorry about that, too.”

  Marty furrowed his brow.

  Baker leaned forward and his face softened a bit. “All right,” he said. “What the hell? My time is up, anyway. I’ll play. I’ll talk. But we’ll do this nice and slowly so no one gets trigger happy, OK? I’m going to take off my jacket now. See. I’m just taking it off. Now I’m going to take off my tie. See that? There goes the tie. Now the top half of the shirt. Everyone calm? Good. Now I’m going to dip down and show you where they put the chip. It’s in my shoulder. You can see the mark for yourselves. See it? It’s that gray little blip right there.”

  When Marty and Jennifer looked at each other, Baker leaned back on the sofa and started to button his shirt. “I’m a dead man,” he said, looking at Marty. “Both of us are.”

  “You know something I don’t?” Marty asked.

  “Logic.”

  “When did they get to you?”

  “Eight weeks ago.”

  “What did they want from you?”

  “At first? Proof of Miller’s death. They knew that as his lawyer, I’d be on scene when I learned that he died. They knew I’d see him dead before they put him in the bag and took him out. To protect themselves, it was my cell phone they used to take the photos. They’re a paranoid bunch. They didn’t want any of their personal accounts associated with the photos. When they got the shots they wanted, they handed the cell back to me, I printed them off at home and gave them to Carr.”

  “How are they using you now?”

  “They want Camille Miller. They think because I was close to Kenneth that I naturally would know where Camille is. But I don’t. Nobody ever really knows where Camille is. I told them that. When they finally believed it, they asked me how they could find her. I told them to hire a private investigator.”

  The room went silent as the pieces fell into place. Baker paused and seemed to make a decision. “I gave them your name, Mr. Spellman. Over the years, you’ve worked for several clients of mine, always to their satisfaction. I know you’re good. I know of your reputation
. I thought if anyone could find Camille, it would be you and maybe they’d let me out of this mess. But that was stupid of me. They won’t let any of us out. Instead, they’re going to kill us. We’ve seen their faces and because of that, they’ll never let us out alive. We’re just marking time and frankly, time is running out.”

  * * *

  Though he could feel Jennifer’s rage coming off her in waves due to the situation Baker had put them in, for Marty, there was no sense in getting angry or even responding to it. What’s done was done. Now, if he had any hope of getting to his family and friends in time, he needed to manage this and get the answers he needed. Fast.

  “When we arrived tonight, there were several men outside your house. Were they Carr’s men?”

  “Not that I know of, though they do like to check in on me. It could have been them, but I doubt it. When they come to see if I’m being a good boy, they make their presence known. We usually sit down and have a nice little chat.”

  “Do you have any idea where they could have brought my family?”

  “Maybe, but it’s a stretch. I can’t imagine he’d bring them there.”

  “Where?”

  “Carr lives in the city. I assume you know that.”

  “I never assume anything, but it makes sense.”

  “Well, he does.”

  “Great, Eliot. Do you know where?”

  “I might. When they picked me up two months ago, it was morning and they were waiting outside for me. I came down the stairs, they approached me on the sidewalk and asked me to get into their car. When I was inside, one of them put a black hood over my head and we started to drive around the city while Carr told me everything I was going to do for them. Then he received a call. It sounded urgent. He told the driver to take him home and for his men to tuck my head between my legs so I’d have no chance of knowing where he lived. But what he didn’t consider is that if you’ve been in this city long enough—and I was born here—you know the neighborhoods. You know how they sound, sometimes even how they smell. I already knew we were driving south when they put the hood over my head. After that, we made one turn west, then a right, which left us heading south again. So when the driver turned left to take Carr home—and then when he took another left—I knew we were headed north. At that point, I figured we were on the East Side. We drove for probably twenty minutes or so. No bullshit driving to distract me. Just a straight shot uptown. Then another left. Then the car stopped, the door opened and I heard what Carr never wanted me to hear.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A woman, probably on her cell, saying that she was on Ninety-Third Street and would be there soon.”

  “Did Carr react?”

  “He didn’t. He was back on his cell at that point. He went inside for approximately fifteen minutes before he returned. For the duration, my head was held down. But I know what I heard and what I heard is that Carr—or whatever his name is—lives on Ninety-Third Street.”

  “It’s mostly residential there,” Jennifer said.

  “Especially near the park.”

  “I actually think he lives near the park,” Baker said. “I think we traveled two more blocks before turning left, which would have put us on Fifth. You always know when you’re on Fifth. It has its own rhythm. It also doesn’t have the restrictions of a side street, which can make for a jerky ride. On Fifth, it’s relatively smooth, especially if you’re up in the nineties.”

  “The perfume I smelled earlier. Whose was it?”

  “Pamela Decker’s.”

  “Why was she here?”

  “Let’s just say we had a nice little chat.”

  That’s exactly how he referred to his meetings with Carr’s men. “Are you saying she’s part of this?”

  “I’m not sure. I meant what I said earlier on the phone to Jennifer. Taking out eight people to get her hands on Miller’s money is extreme. I don’t see her doing it, but I could be wrong. Extreme could work in her favor. Get the right people on the stand, establish credibility and she could walk. What’s odd is that she’s been here twice in the past two days when she’s only ever been here once before. And that was years ago.”

  “Why has she come by?”

  “To discuss the will.”

  “Let’s see. She doesn’t like where she falls on the list?”

  “That’s an understatement. She wants to contest it. I’m advising her to save her money because the judge wouldn’t give Miller’s own children a dime.”

  “But that’s because of what he wrote to them in the letter,” Jennifer said. “It states why he structured the will the way he did. He said he hated his children, not Decker. She received no such treatment. She may feel she stands a chance.”

  “In a way, she does. But what I keep reminding her is that it’s on record that she received twenty million dollars in cash from Miller before his death. The judge would know that. He or she would say that was Miller’s parting gift to her and she should be thankful for it. Case closed.”

  “I’m not convinced,” Jennifer said.

  “Nothing motivates somebody like greed,” Marty said.

  “True,” Baker said. “But I still think she’d lose and I told her so.”

  “Which might make her consider alternative options. What were your last two meetings like?”

  “Intense. She’s borderline frantic when she’s here. Does she want access to that money? No question. Would she kill eight people to get it?” He shrugged. “Who knows what someone would do?”

  “Did she hire Carr?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. She’s never let on that she’s involved with him, but as I said before, Pamela Decker is dumb only when it comes to managing her money. Otherwise, she’s smart. And manipulative. She’d never show her hand so easily.” He looked at them both and held out his own hands. “Do you mind if I get up? I’ve been as forthcoming as I can with you. I need a drink.”

  “That’s fine,” Marty said. He watched Baker walk over to the mirrored bar that was across the room. Earlier, in his expensive suit and expensive shoes, he was ready to spar with them. His eyes were bright, his answers clipped. But now, with the truth out, he looked exhausted. Beaten down. He grabbed a highball and poured Scotch into it. He swallowed it, poured himself another shot and downed that as well.

  “I will tell you this,” he said as his hand pushed the bottle of Scotch back into its place and tucked behind one of two shakers. “If Pamela Decker is involved with Carr, she knows where your family is. I gave you her address on Park and her cell. Use them if you need to, but do so with caution. I told you I think Carr lives somewhere on East Ninety-Third. I’ve given you all that I can. And I’m tired. Two months of this bullshit is enough. There’s no way out of this for me. And I’m not going to let them kill me when I’d rather do that myself.”

  Marty saw it too late.

  Baker turned and in his hand was a gun. He didn’t point it at them. Instead, he lifted it to his head while holding out the palm of his other hand in an effort to suggest he intended them no harm.

  Jennifer gasped.

  Marty stood.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  But Baker had made up his mind. The decision was there on his face, which now had morphed into a mixture of despair and resolve. “You don’t need to see this,” he said. “It won’t be pretty. Why stay around to watch? I have every right to get out of this on my own terms. Just leave.”

  “There are other ways to get out of it, Eliot,” Marty said. “We can beat this.”

  “No, we can’t, Mr. Spellman. I’m sorry I offered them your name. And I’m sorry they have your family and friends now. It’s all because of me. I just hope they’re still alive when you find them. Use the information I gave you. Talk to Decker. And when you find Carr, which I believe you will, do me a favor and shoot him in the face for me.”

  Before Jennifer could turn away, he pulled the trigger and she saw it all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

 
; Before she received the phone call from her sister Grace telling her that their brother was dead and that she needed to come to his house immediately, Laura Miller was a star, which she thought was exactly as it should be in spite of the attention Leana Redman was receiving.

  Along with her brother Tyler, who was looking smart at the bar with his cigar between his fingers and the warm light taking years off his already handsome face, she was on Anastassios Fondaras’s yacht, which was moored at the North Cove Marina on the Hudson. It was 180 feet long and when they arrived earlier, it glowed bright white in the waves of swirling lights shining upon it.

  She thought the light show was garish as hell, not unlike something Trump would attempt to pull off, but there was no denying the yacht’s streamlined beauty. Fondaras did well for himself there. It looked like some of the yachts she’d seen in Dubai or Monte Carlo. She thought it was lovely.

  But inside, everywhere else she looked was a horror show. Nothing was subtle. Too many towering flower arrangements on too many gilt tables. Ridiculously expensive champagne and caviar was being offered by the liveried servers. Playing on the deck was an orchestra flown in from St. Petersburg. The lot of it was pure, misguided overkill.

  Still, she was happy to be here, if only because she was seeing friends she hadn’t seen in months, such as Countess Castellani and Lady Ionesco, each of whom now had her ear.

  “Horrible party,” Lady Ionesco said.

  “Ruinous,” Countess Castellani said.

  “The orchestra is actually playing Felicia Sander’s cabaret version of ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’” Laura said. “Which is fitting, I suppose, because if I had my choice, I’d rather be up there than down here. I mean really. Would you look at Epifania Zapopa? What a fool. She’s actually shimmying around poor Charles to this of all songs. I’d die from embarrassment if I were him.”

  “Charles has had his share of embarrassment lately.”

  “Maybe, but you know, I liked things the way they were. I’m sorry Binkie caught him and Epifania doing it doggy-style on the priceless Aubusson rug Binkie inherited from her great-grandfather, but she should have worked things out. Otherwise, they were a fine couple. They should have stayed together. People like us overlook those sorts of things. He should have just bought her something from Van Cleef and reeled her back in.”