A Rush to Violence (14 page)

When he said it, Emma knew what he meant because of what her grandmother told her, and she hated him for it. She had never liked him. He was a cold bastard who had joined the rest of them in bilking her grandmother when she was alive. Harvard grad. Never married. Dabbled in nothing. Got fat because of it. Owned a swank, fifteen-room townhouse on Fifth and Sixty-Eight Streets thanks to his mother, who bought it for him outright.

Emma wouldn’t be surprised if he had led the effort to kill her grandfather, not knowing that he’d left everything to Camille. It was either him or Sophia, a royal bitch if there ever was one. Michael and Laura were possibilities if only because their lifestyles were the most extravagant. They’d need the money they thought was coming to them. She wasn’t sure about Grace and Tyler. She felt sure all were a part of it, but she didn’t see the latter two leading it. Grace and Tyler were the family artists—the former a painter, the latter a writer. They were well educated, but had no common sense. Emma wasn’t sure if they could find their way out of a burning building even if it had flashing arrows pointing to a safe escape.

That’s why she’d take her uncle Scott first.

She pushed the gun between her pants and her back, pulled her shirt down low to conceal it and left the room to grab a cab for the Upper East Side, where she planned to pay her uncle a visit.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Camille Miller read the note a third time before putting it next to her on the sofa and running a hand through her freshly cut blonde hair. She looked out the window, down the street and gazed at the tip of Manhattan, which gleamed tall above the water that separated her from it. What she once considered a beautiful view scared the hell out of her now.

Where are you?
she thought.

The note said she was going to a hotel. But where? Here in Brooklyn? Camille knew her daughter better than that. Emma would go to the city. She didn’t know Brooklyn and she didn’t particularly like the borough when Camille decided to rent here. In fact, she had resisted the idea.

So, that’s one down. You’re in the city. But where?

She literally could be in hundreds of different locations. The moment Camille found the note, she ran a check on her daughter’s credit cards, which told her everything she needed to know. Emma was bright—she always had been. She knew enough to use cash so as not to leave a paper trail. By why six thousand dollars? Why so much?

Her daughter didn’t have elaborate tastes. She wouldn’t choose a high-end hotel. Did she think her mother would cut off her cards and leave her with no means if she somehow ran out of money and got into trouble? Maybe that’s what she thought because she was angry, but Camille never would leave her daughter so vulnerable.

Thinking about her on the street made her sick with worry. Emma was sophisticated beyond her years, but in Camille’s eyes, she’d always be her little girl. What was she thinking being out there on her own? Why wouldn’t she at least answer her cell and talk to her?

Frustrated, she got up from the sofa and went into Emma’s bedroom. Clothes were missing. Her duffel bag was gone. So was her laptop. How long did she plan on being away?

She rubbed her face with her hands and looked around the room for a clue, anything that would tip her off. Once, she had been so skilled at absorbing and processing information in a sweeping glance, it often led her straight to her target. Then, she was grateful for the gift. But now? Now it alarmed her how swiftly she reverted to her old ways of thinking. How easily she could become that person she once was and look at things as a criminal would. Sixteen years had passed since she left that life, but as much as she’d like to believe that it no longer was part of her, she knew better. She’d never completely absolve herself of her past.

Not that it mattered now.

The truth is that they hadn’t been here long enough for Emma to leave a lasting mark. Her desk was clean save for her boom box, which they purchased down the street at an electronics store when they rented the place. Her iPod was still attached to it, but then it had to be, didn’t it? That’s how she had gotten out without her mother knowing. She’d cranked the music, gathered her things and bolted. On her nightstand was her Kindle, on which she read thrillers and mysteries; an empty glass was beside it. A few dirty clothes were on the floor, but otherwise, the room was as it had been, only without her daughter.

Camille sat on the edge of Emma’s bed and felt exhausted. Earlier in the day, when she came clean about her past, it terrified her not knowing if her daughter would shut the door on their relationship. But she hadn’t—at least not then. Instead, she mostly listened, her face a blank slate until the end, when Emma bluntly asked if her aunts and uncles were behind her grandfather’s death. That’s when things became heated between them.

And that’s what I’m not paying attention to now.

She thought back to the last part of their conversation.

“If they killed Papa—”

“We don’t know if they did. I’ve told you that.”

“When will you know?”

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Because if they killed my grandfather, they shouldn’t be allowed to live another day. I want them dead. I don’t care about any of them. You know that. They’ve always treated me like a piece of shit and now I know why. It’s because of how you lived your life.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“I think you’re brave. I always have, but now it’s different. It’s deeper. You tried to change people’s lives. I get it. I need to know what your timeframe is on moving forward with this?”

“A few days.”

“They could leave the city by then.”

“They all live in the city, Emma. They’re not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know that.”

“If they do, they always can be traced and tracked down. I’ve done it before.”

“How will you know if they did it? If they killed him?”

 “That’s the easy part. The eyes always tell the truth. Never forget that. It’s always revealed in the eyes. If you’re about to lie, your eyes will flash to the right. Or up and to the right. Those are cues I learned early in life. Eyes never lie. And when I look into theirs when I confront them, that’s the moment I’ll know for sure whether they killed your grandfather.”

Camille closed her eyes. It was all right there, wasn’t it? All she had to do was check.

She went to her bedroom, looked under the bed and saw the duffel bag. She pulled it out and opened it. Four rifles. Two Glock cases. A knife and several boxes of ammunition. When Sam dropped it off earlier, she hadn’t had time to look inside. She hurried the bag into her room and shoved it under her bed, thinking she’d check the contents when Emma was asleep. But now? Now, she didn’t know if anything was missing. She’d have to call him to find out.

She grabbed her cell from the living room, found his number and dialed it while she walked back into her bedroom. Emma’s father, Sam Ireland, answered on the third ring.

“It’s Camille,” she said. “Can you talk?”

“Are you on your cell? I can’t hear you.”

He was asking if she was on a secure line.

“Sorry. My cell has rotten reception. Is that better?”

“That worked. What’s up?”

She tried to still her nerves, but couldn’t. “Those long poles you brought earlier. How many were in the bag? I only have four.”

“That’s right.”

“And the boxes? Not the small ones, but the big black ones. I have two.”

Silence.

“You should have three.”

Her heart started to pound. She looked into the bag and started to count. “And the little boxes?”

“There were twenty.”

“Not fifteen?”

Another silence, this one longer.

“How is Emma?”

She didn’t answer.

“How about if I come over and help you find the rest of your stuff?”

She needed to get out of there.

“Are you alone?”

She didn’t want to involve him, but what choice did she have with time so tight? If Emma was going to do what she thought she was going to do, Camille needed help now. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m alone.”

“I think I understand. Look, I’m not far from you. Give me ten minutes. Stay where you are. I’ll be there before you know it.”

He kept his voice light, but when the line went dead, there was a finality to it. She hung up the phone and the screensaver flashed to a photo of Emma with her grandfather.

She had taken it during their visit last summer. They were having dinner at the Four Seasons. Emma was blowing out the candle in the massive ball of pink cotton candy they served to guests at the end of a meal. In the photo, her father had his camera trained on Emma, but then he usually did when they came to see him. If either of them complained about it, he’d say in that calm voice of his that if he couldn’t have them around all the time, then he didn’t want to hear a peep if he took too many photos when he had them close. And so they indulged him.

Camille looked at the photo for a long moment. She’d already lost her father. There was no way she was going to lose Emma, too.

* * *

Before he arrived, she hurried to get ready.

She went into the kitchen and opened the bag with the clothes he bought for her. A pair of black running pants and a black lycra running top that would cover her arms. A black nylon jacket with a hood that had plenty of deep pockets and which was long enough to conceal the gun he knew she’d tuck between her back and her pants. No shoes, probably because he didn’t know her size, though there was a time when he did. She went to her closet and grabbed her only pair of running shoes. They were white. Hardly perfect, but they’d have to do.

When she was dressed, she went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. The Camille Miller she knew was gone. The dark hair that took her so long to grow out was clipped close. She hated it now, but she knew herself well enough to realize that she’d probably like it in a week.

The blonde hair color he chose for her, on the other hand, was spot on. It was flattering, not striking, which was important. Nothing about her could leave a lasting memory when people saw her. He knew that was key and so he chose a color that was soft and looked natural against her complexion.

In the bedroom, she went for the knife and the Glocks. She put on the jacket, loaded the Glocks, tucked one behind her in her pants and put the other in an inside jacket pocket.

She was in the bathroom giving herself a final once over in the mirror when the doorbell rang. He was on time, just as he always was, and she was grateful for it. She needed to get to the city. Inaction made her feel powerless. She went to the door, knowing that when she opened it, there was no turning back. She was allowing him back into her life again. Whether she was ready for that didn’t matter.

It was their daughter who mattered.

* * *

When the door swung open, she caught the surprise that crossed his face and couldn’t deny the thrill that raced through her body. Did she really look so different to him now? She could hear music playing behind him in the hall and what sounded like footsteps on the hardwood floors.

“Emma?” he said.

She pulled off her hoodie and shook out her hair. She put on her best apologetic face and said, “Sorry, Uncle Scott. I know I should have called first, but I was in the city and I needed somebody to talk to. Mom’s acting weird. Your house was closest. Do you mind if I come in?”

He moved to speak, but stopped when she peered behind him. A shadow stretched across the floor, slanted up the wall to her left and then stopped. She watched the shadow’s head turn toward her. Somebody was standing there, listening. Now she had to deal with two people.

At least two people. There could be others, which she hadn’t prepared for.

Don’t get nervous now.

But she couldn’t help it.

“I’m not interrupting something, am I?” she said, taking a step down the granite stairs. “I’ll leave if I am.”

“Of course not,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in,” he said. “Come in and out of the heat. We’ll sit and we’ll talk. You know you can always come to me. Take that worried look off your face and come inside.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Forty minutes into their search, each had compiled enough information on Kenneth Millers’ children to inform their contacts as well as figure out their next steps.

On the Internet, they found photos of each and printed them off. Neither saw any photos of Miller’s children with Carr, which only heightened his mystery. Still, through the magic that was Google, they were able to learn plenty on who these people were and, better yet, where they lived.

“Scott Miller is the eldest,” Jennifer said. “And the ugliest. God, what a mug on that man.”

They were in the living room, sitting opposite each other in chic, black-leather chairs. In their hands and in their laps was everything they had printed off on each sibling. Jennifer skimmed through her notes on Scott Miller and glanced up at Marty, who looked distracted and pissed off and beneath it all, worried. She wasn’t sure if she could keep him in check for twenty-four hours, but she was going to try.

All of their contacts now had two photographs of Camille Miller. Hines called twenty minutes ago with computer-generated composites of what Miller would look like with blonde hair. In one, her hair was the same length as it was in the photograph with her and her daughter, Emma. In another, Hines offered an indication of how Miller might look if her hair were short. “Now, she just needs to show herself,” he said.

When Marty said she wouldn’t, Jennifer let it go. She needed to focus and keep him focused. Their contacts were among the best. She believed in them. Now, they needed to let their network do their thing while they worked on the next possible next step. If Camille Miller didn’t hit somebody’s radar in twenty-four hours, she’d have to acquiesce and go with Marty’s plan. And God help them if that was the case because of the sheer danger involved.