A Rush to Violence (20 page)

“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.

“That’s the day he died.”

“Interesting.”

“Come on. Read it.”

“‘To my eternal disappointments, Camille and Emma being the clear exceptions. Although it’s already legally marked here in my will, I thought I’d take a moment to personally write all of you and let you know that today, you essentially were written out of it. Some will think it’s cruel what I’ve done, but I don’t care and I certainly don’t regret it. What I do regret is that you’ve taken advantage of your mother since you were children. She indulged you because that’s the kind of person she was. I allowed her to do it because my money was always her money. Her kindness is why I loved her. Ironically, her kindness is why you took advantage of her. So, for you, it’s unfortunate that I’m not her. None of you has done anything with your lives. Up until two years ago, you enjoyed total financial freedom. What irritates me to this day is that even though none of you has ever made an effort to find a job, you also never made an effort to donate time to a charity in an effort to help someone less fortunate than yourselves. It’s always been about you. I can only guess that over these past two years, all of you somehow have been holding out on finding a job because you think that with my death will come the millions you’ve been anticipating. But that won’t happen. With my death, it all ends. Camille and Emma will receive the fortune I inherited from my parents and which I turned into a larger fortune because I worked hard and put my education to use, unlike any of you. I wish all of you well not because I love you—I don’t—but because you’ll need it. I hope it’s not too late for you to join the workforce, because you’ll also need that. If you use your contacts wisely and if you’re creative, you shouldn’t have a problem finding a job. And if you can’t find one, we all know that you can just sell the houses your mother purchased for you and, if you’re smart, live off the interest while taking up residence at a reasonably priced apartment while eating frozen foods and buying cheaper booze. As difficult as that is for you to imagine, I’d encourage you to give it some thought. At this point, it’s the best advice I can give you. In fact, it’s all that I’m giving you.’”

Marty dropped the will in his lap.

“Holy shit,” Jennifer said.

“Right to the bone.”

“But it doesn’t make sense. Carr told you that Camille’s brothers and sisters will inherit what’s left of the estate should Camille or Emma die.”

“That’s right.”

“So, what is this?”

“A slap across the face. And a curiosity. Obviously, Miller knew his children would learn what was in his will. But before the beneficiaries were read, Eliot Baker was likely instructed to read that letter aloud first. Hearing those words must have stung like a son of a bitch, especially with the unscathed Camille and Emma there to listen. There’s nothing but hatred in that letter. It must have scared the hell out of them. But later, when the list of beneficiaries was read, imagine the relief they felt that on some level they had a chance at that fortune. The letter and the will contradict each other. Miller said exactly what he wanted to say in the letter, but for some reason he caved by including them in the will itself.”

“Was he just screwing with them?”

“On one level, of course he was. But I think he included the letter because he knew that if they contested the will, this letter would kill that effort, which it did. I also think he included the others after Camille and Emma because having them as beneficiaries is what his wife would have wanted. It could have been the olive branch he planned to extend to her in heaven, assuming Miller believed in the afterlife. It might be as simple as that. Or it could be more complicated.”

She nodded at the will. “Do we know the time it was revised?”

Marty looked on the front of the document. “Twenty-seven minutes after nine o’clock in the morning.”

“Which means he was there at the start of business hours. Not at noon that day. Not at three. But first thing in the morning. That suggests a mission. He wanted this done with. What’s odd is that it took his lawyer twenty-seven minutes to read over the changes and give them his blessing. Why so long?”

“Maybe you can find out. You are going to do a feature on him, after all.”

“Oh, he’ll be grilled by me when I leave the room. I especially want to know when that appointment was made. Kenneth Miller could demand anything from anyone who worked for him. He might have picked up his telephone that morning and told Baker that he planned to see him at nine that morning, regardless of the man’s schedule.” She looked at him. “I think it’s a coincidence Miller died that afternoon.”

“Why?”

“If anyone knew he was about to change the will, they would have killed him sooner. So, they didn’t know. Or maybe they did know, but were too late in getting to him. When the will was read, they contested it. When they failed, they hired Carr. What does the declaration say?”

Marty flicked through the pages, came upon the declaration and saw that it underscored that this document served as Miller’s last will and testament, thus revoking all previously made wills and codicils. He read down and got to the details of the beneficiaries. It was just as he expected.

And then it wasn’t.

“That’s strange,” he said.

“What’s strange?”

“The beneficiaries don’t end with Camille’s six siblings.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s another person?”

“Who?”

He looked up at her. “Somebody by the name of Pamela Decker. She’s next in line to receive the estate should the Millers die.”

“Who is Pamela Decker?”

Marty turned to his computer. “Let me send a note and the video footage to Roz. Then we’ll find out.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“You’ve never cleaned anything in your life, have you, Grace?”

“Excuse me?”

“I can tell. You’ve always had someone else do it for you. It’s obvious by the awkward way you’re pushing around that mop. I know you’re cleaning up your brother’s blood and everything, which is probably upsetting even if he is a murderer, but the way you’re doing it is just comical.”

“You really are your mother’s daughter, Emma. You truly are.”

“And you really have lived a privileged live, Grace. You truly have. Look at you. You’re just swishing everything around, thinking that’s how you clean when you’re really just making more of a mess. It’s like you’re doing a pantomime of how to mop a floor, which you probably learned by watching one of your maids, if you pay them any attention at all, which I doubt. But you’re failing, because if that’s your idea of clean, I’m here to tell you that you’re deluded. So, take the bucket, rinse it out, fill it up again with hot soapy water just like we did before and get the blood off this damned floor.”

Grace Miller sank the mop into the bucket of murky red water and wiped her sweaty blonde hair off her forehead. She looked tired, angry, humiliated, frightened and defeated. Her face was alive with those emotions. Her eyes were imprinted with them. She had soaked through her white silk blouse and now it clung to her slender frame. The hem of her brown silk pants were darkened with the bloody water, as were her high-heeled shoes.