“I don’t know,” Countess Castellani said. “Binkie got $250 million in the settlement. I hear she’s doing fine.”
They all shared a small laugh while Lady Ionesco stopped a waiter to switch out her empty glass of champagne for another. She sipped it and wrinkled her nose. “What is this?” she said. “I don’t recognize it.”
“It’s whatever is the most expensive and heavily advertised champagne on the market right now,” Laura said. “It’s what the rappers are drinking, which means it must be good, so just enjoy it, darling. You can purge later. Right now, just know that you’re getting Madison Avenue’s best.”
“Did you see the crackers on which they’re serving the caviar?” Countess Castellani said. When they didn’t reply, she lowered her voice to a hush and said, “They’re wrapped in gold leaf.”
“No,” Laura said.
“It’s true.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not that clever.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” Lady Ionesco said.
“Imagine how many Mexicans he employed to get that job done,” Laura said. “Dozens. And probably minors.”
“Illegals!”
“If he did hire Mexicans, I’m surprised there’s any gold left,” Countess Castellani said. She pressed her finger against her bottom lip in such a way that let the women know how naughty and racist they were being, which they all paused to consider before they laughed, genuinely this time.
“Why is Leana Redman wearing jeans and all those fake diamonds?”
“Because she doesn’t know any better.”
“Are they fake?”
“No,” Laura said, who considered herself an authority on diamonds. “Actually, they’re real. They probably belong to her imprisoned mother, Elizabeth, whom I hear is scrubbing toilets now, eating dog food and dodging lesbians at every turn. She certainly doesn’t need her diamonds now.”
“Leana’s husband is something,” Lady Ionesco said.
“I hear he’s Mafia.”
“Mafia?”
“That’s right,” Laura said. “Mario de Cicco of the de Cicco crime family. I think they’ve shot everyone who is everyone. But I do agree—he is easy on the eyes. Look at him standing there. Smoldering.”
“Did you see the press go wild outside when Leana arrived? You’d think she was a pop star, for God’s sake.”
“I’ve never understood the Redmans,” Laura said. “I’m sorry what happened to Celina, of course. Such a strange way to go. And she seemed to be the only one of them who had promise. She seemed to get the rules. But to what end? They’ll never be one of us. Try as they may, they won’t.”
“By the way, I love your dress, Laura,” Lady Ionesco said. “Who are you wearing?”
“Vintage Dior. 1958 couture collection.”
“I thought so.”
“You have a body for couture. Always have.”
“It was my mother’s, though I had to bring it in a bit. It would have hung on me otherwise.”
“She had such style.”
“You must still miss her so.”
“I do.”
“And then your father. Impaled on a trident! It’s all so soon. We’re so sorry, dear.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m surprised he wrote you out of the will,” Countess Castellani said. “I read about it in the Times, when you and your siblings were contesting it only to lose so quickly. It doesn’t seem in character for him to be so cruel.”
Laura flushed with embarrassment. Money never was discussed in her world. She was surprised that Castellani would even go there. “We weren’t exactly written out of it,” she said. “It’s just that he gave everything to Camille and Emma first, not that it matters much. Before mother died, she made certain the rest of us had nothing to worry about. Private accounts. Real estate in the best cities. Her vast jewelry collection. Paintings. That sort of thing. She was wonderful to us.” It was a lie, but she was damned if anyone was going to suggest that she wasn’t on solid footing when it came to her place in New York society. With the exception of Camille, she was as desperate as the rest of her siblings, but the trick was to not let it show. “What a boring party,” she said. “Going out used to be so much fun. Now, because of people like the Redmans, they’ve ruined it.”
She was looking around for a waiter to get a fresh glass of champagne when her cell phone beeped in her bag. “Excuse me,” she said to Lady Ionesco and Countess Castellani. “I’m expecting a call.” That also was a lie, but whoever was calling allowed her to move on with the night and see other people. She answered the phone, listened to Grace deliver the news that their brother, Scott, was dead, and felt a chill stiffen her spine.
“How?” she asked.
“I don’t know. We were on the phone and I heard him collapse. I think he had a heart attack.”
“It’s those goddamn Sobranie Cocktail cigarettes he smoked,” Laura said. “That’s what did it. That and he got fat.”
“Laura, please.”
“Tyler is with me,” she said. “We’ll be there soon. Call the police.”
“I can’t call the police.”
“Are you incapacitated? Do you want me to do it?”
“No. You don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? He’s dead.”
“There’s porn everywhere,” Grace said. “Gay porn. Bondage porn. Spanking porn. We need to get it out before we call the police. It’ll cause a scandal if it’s found. You know it will. We can’t let that happen.”
She kept her voice light and low in case anyone was eavesdropping. “Understood. Call everyone. We’ll be there as soon as possible.”
She clicked off her phone, collected herself and walked over to her brother, who was deep in conversation with their closeted gay cousin, Addison Miller.
“Laura,” Addy said. He kissed her on the cheek. “You look beautiful.”
“It’s good to see you, Addy.”
“Is that Dior?”
“You’re the only man here who would know.”
“I doubt that. Have a look around. Frankie von Schreckenstein is here with that trick of his.”
“You’ve got a point. Do you mind if I borrow Tyler for a minute? Something’s come up and we need to leave.”
“I hope it isn’t urgent.”
“We’ll be seeing you soon, Addy. Give Tootie my best.”
She took her brother aside and told him the news. In the silence that stretched between them, his eyes hardened.
“Do you think it was a heart attack?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But we need to get there. Grace is in a state.”
“Is she calling the others?”
“She is.”
“Then, let’s go. We both know Grace. Before long, the artist in her probably will be inspired to paint the damned scene, if she hasn’t already.”
* * *
When they arrived at their brother’s house, it wasn’t Grace who opened the door. Instead, it was their niece, Emma. For a moment, they just stood on the steps, not understanding. Then Emma, whose cheeks were flushed and looked as if she’d been crying, stepped aside so they could enter.
“Emma?” Laura said. “What are you doing here? Is Camille here?”
“She’s in the other room with Grace and Sophia.”
“I had no idea you still were in the city.”
“Really?”
“Of course not. I thought you’d be back in Paris by now. Where are the others?”
“In the living room.”
“And Scott?”
“He’s there, too. On the floor. His head is against the wall.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Part of it is anyway.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll see.”
They walked to the end of the hall and turned right. Laura saw Grace and Sophia standing across the room. They looked grim. Upset. She
was about to ask where Camille was when she noticed the wide red streak leading across the parquet floor and into the next room. On the wall behind Grace and Sophia was an undeniable spatter of blood and other matter. The room was in disarray, as if from some kind of struggle.
Tyler stepped forward. He was tall and athletic, somewhere in his mid-forties, with dark hair just starting to go gray at the temples. He looked at the floor, the wall and then across at his two sisters.
“What the hell?” he said.
Laura turned to look at Emma, who had lingered behind them. She saw the gun pointed at her face, the red beam flash across the distance between them and connect with her left breast. She took a step back in surprise. “What are you doing?”
“Holding everyone accountable.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She thinks we killed our father,” Grace said. “She’s convinced we did it. She killed Scott. She almost killed me.”
“You killed your uncle?” Laura said. “You killed my brother?”
“That’s right,” Emma said. “And soon, when Michael gets here, which should be any minute now, I’m going to ask all of you what I’ve already asked Grace.”
“And what’s that?” Laura said.
“Which one of you killed my grandfather?”
* * *
On the sidewalk outside Laura Miller’s townhouse on Sixty-Second Street, Camille looked over her shoulder as the door clicked shut behind them and then turned to Sam, who was hoisting the duffel bag higher onto his shoulder and looking at her in disappointment. They’d struck out again.
“How can they all be out?” she said. “Is this really how they live? Parties every night? A new restaurant each evening?”
“I think you and I both know the answer to that, Camille. Your brothers and sisters live lives we’ve never lived.”
“Even with no money?”
“We don’t know how much money they have left. And besides, depending on who you know, your life still can be grand even if you’re penniless. It’s all in how you play the game, not that I’m telling you anything you don’t know. I would imagine having one of Kenneth Miller’s children show up at a dinner party or at an important event would still mean a great deal to a lot of people—especially after his death. Some would think, ‘Oh, look. That Miller is one of those Millers. And they’re here. With us.’ They’re socialites. There’s more weight to your name now than ever. You know that. They’ll use it for as long as they can.”
She knew it was true, but the thought of it made her want to retch. “I don’t know what to do. Only Michael and Scott are left. I suppose we try them and see if Emma is there.”
“Who’s closest?”
“Scott. But like Michael, he’s on the East Side. We’ll need to take a cab.”
“Have you checked your phone for messages?”
“I did when we left Tyler’s house. You saw me.”
“Texts? E-mails?”
“Emma and I don’t communicate via e-mail. It’s either text or a voice message.”
“Always?”
“Well, not always. But most times, yes.”
“So, humor me. Check your e-mail. That can be encrypted. She may have reached out to you that way in an effort to keep you from knowing where she is.”
“Emma knows nothing about encryption, Sam. I can tell you that. I know my daughter.”
“Really? How well do you think you know her after today?”
That got her. She pulled out her phone from her pants pocket and turned it on. No voice-mail. No text. But there was an e-mail, though it wasn’t from Emma. It was from [email protected] and it was dated earlier that day, well before Emma left.
“I have an e-mail,” she said. “But not from Emma.” She showed it to him. “I don’t recognize the address.”
“So, open it.”
She clicked on it and saw that it had been forwarded from an old account she set up when her mother was dying. She and Emma had sent her mother a photo of them. They used Blogger and made a simple site that included the photograph and a message from Emma. That was years ago, but she must have forwarded the e-mail address associated with the account to her private account in case her mother wrote back, which she never did. Instead, Camille remembered her mother calling to thank them. She was in the final stages of cancer at that point. She remembered her mother asking her when she and Emma planned to come. “Make it soon,” she said. “It’s in my bones.”
Sam was peering over her shoulder, his chest pressed against her back. She could smell him. She remembered that smell. “What does it say?” he asked. “Who’s it from?”
She scrolled down and they read it together.
It was from someone named Marty Spellman. Private investigator. Hired by someone named “Carr” to find her and bring her in. Her siblings were behind it. They want Camille and Emma dead so they can inherit the Miller estate. Carr gave him three days to find her. If he failed, the man would start murdering members of Spellman’s own family until he came through. “I know what you once did for a living, Camille, and because of that, I know I’ll probably never find you, at least not in three days. He said he’d murder my girls first. I can’t lose them. As a mother yourself, you know I can’t. Is there any way that we can work on this together? How can we bring down Carr and hold your brothers and sisters accountable for what they’ve done? I need your help. Please call me at the number below.”
“Is it a trap?” she asked Sam.
“Maybe. But he just showed you all his cards. And it rings true—I can see your brothers and sisters doing this. They contested the will and they were shut down by the judge in the first week. Now this. You know they want that money. If they’re desperate, which they probably are, all it takes is for one to come up with the idea and then sell it to the others. They’d have you and Emma murdered and they’d be next in line to receive your father’s estate. None of them like you or love you. It would be an easy sell. This could be legit.”
“If it’s not and if I call him, they could track where we are.”
He reached into his pocket. “You’ve been out of the game too long. Use this.” He held out a phone. “It’s a satellite phone. It can’t be tracked. I’m surprised you don’t have one yourself.”
“I left that life a long time ago, Sam.”
“So, you keep reminding me. But that life will never leave you. You should know better.” He handed her the phone. “Call him. Feel him out. He says he’s a PI. If he’s good, who knows how deep he’s into this? He might even have a lead on Emma.”
That’s all Camille needed to hear. She looked down at the number he left in his e-mail, turned on Sam’s phone and dialed it. The phone was answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Marty Spellman?”
A car swung onto Sixty-Second Street and Camille turned away from it. She waited.
“Who is this?”
“Camille Miller. You’re looking for me?”
“Camille?”
“I received your e-mail. What’s this about?”
He told her everything. She listened. When he mentioned what happened to Baker, she closed her eyes. “Eliot killed himself?” she said.
“Carr got to him two months ago. He shot himself in front of me and my wife. Do you have any idea who Carr could be?”
She was having difficulty hearing him. It sounded as if wind was rushing into his end of the phone. “I don’t. But if what you’re saying is true, he’s obviously not using his real name. Are you in a car? I can barely hear you.”
“We’re in a cab. Carr abducted my family and two of my friends. Before he killed himself, Eliot gave me a lead on where he might live. We’re going there now.”
“Where?”
“Eliot thought Carr lived on Ninety-Third Street. Close to the park. He was almost certain of it.”
She couldn’t have heard him right. She cupped her hand over her free ear so she could hear him better. �
�Did you say Ninety-Third Street?”
“That’s right.”
It didn’t make sense, but her gut nevertheless sank. “I need you to listen to me,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“My father had a mistress for years.”
“I know he did.”
“Then you know her name. Pamela Decker. Unless we’re dealing with the biggest coincidence in the world, it’s she who lives on Ninety-Third Street, not Carr.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“I was told Decker lived on Park,” Marty said to Camille. He was in the back seat of the cab with Jennifer, who had her hand on his leg, her head turned to face him. She was listening intently.
“My father bought her an apartment on Park and he gifted her that brownstone, which was in my family for years.”
“But Eliot would have known that.”
“Not necessarily. My father did what he wanted. He didn’t involve Eliot in everything, certainly not when it came to the shit work. In this case, all my father had to do was put her name on the title. I’m telling you, Pamela Decker lives on Ninety-Third Street.”
“Do you have an exact address, because I don’t.”
“It’s been too long. My father owns too many properties in this city. I can’t think of the address, but I do remember the house is about two blocks before the park. Right side of the street as you’re facing Fifth. It’s a brownstone. Bright red door. I remember that. At this point, they could have painted it another color, but the last time I saw it about four years ago, the door was red.”
“Camille, I need you to know that I have no interest in you. My focus is on my family. I need to find Carr before it’s too late. I need to take them from him. We’ll probably never meet, but before I let you go, I want to know if you need anything from me.”
The line went dead.
“She hung up,” Marty said.
“I’m surprised she gave you as much time and information as she did. I only heard your side of it. What did she say?”
A Rush to Violence (A Spellman Thriller) Page 23