A Rush to Violence (4 page)

“And what do they want to do?”

“As I said, they want to reach out to Camille. They want to reason with her.”

“And if she’s not to be reasoned with?”

Carr held up his hands. “Well, naturally, they want her dead. It’s the only sensible thing to do. They never liked her that much, anyway. And in the will is that lovely provision, the one each of them can taste as if it was caviar on the tip of a spoon. If Camille dies, everything goes to her daughter, Emma. And if Emma dies, next in line are Camille’s six siblings. They would finally get to partake in their father’s fortune, which is only fair. Don’t you agree?”

“I think if you can manage to become a billionaire, you know exactly what you’re doing when you write your will. When it was contested, the judge came to the same conclusion. I think his wishes should be respected.”

Carr dismissed this with a roll of his eyes. “Oh, please,” he said. “That’s ridiculous. With the exception of Camille—who spent so many years in Paris, I never got to know her—I know Miller’s children. With what little money they have left, they pooled it together and came to me for help. It made me want to cry when they came to me, but that’s what I’m here for. To help. So, they hired me to see that they get what they deserve—their share of the money. Or all of the money. And you know what, Mr. Spellman? I think it’s going to be the latter. I think they’re going to get all of the money because nobody likes a greedy little cunt like Camille Miller, do they? Nobody likes anyone who refuses to share the wealth.”

“Do you have any idea where Camille might be?” Marty asked. “Is she here in the States or back in Paris?”

“No idea. She came for her father’s funeral and for the reading of the will. She returned when the will was contested.”

“When was that?”

“Last week.”

“Do you have a photograph of her?”

“Actually, I do, and several other goodies you can put to good use.” He pulled out a large manila envelope tucked beside him and handed it to Marty, who opened it. Inside, the envelope was stuffed with all sorts of information Marty might find useful later, but eventually he came upon the black-and-white glossy photograph and removed it. His eyes flicked up to meet Carr’s. “This is a surveillance photo.”

“That’s right.”

“I can barely make out her face.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Can you get me another photo?”

“I can certainly try.”

“It’s critical that I know what she looks like. Obviously.”

“I’ll ask one of the siblings to e-mail me something and I’ll forward it to you if they have it. I don’t expect they will, but I’ll try.”

Marty looked down at the photo. It was grainy. A woman with dark hair was crossing a cobblestoned street. She was slim and elegantly dressed, but given the quality of the photo, he couldn’t get a true sense of her. The surroundings, on the other hand, were clear. She was in Paris. “When was this taken?”

“A few months ago. Spring, I think.”

“Why would you put surveillance on Camille at that point?”

“We didn’t. Camille lives in the Marais. She shops there. There are bank surveillance cameras where she shops. We knew you’d need a fairly recent photo of her and my contact at one of those banks found one for me.”

“I need to know exactly what you want from me.”

“It’s simple,” Carr said. “You’ve got seventy-two hours to find Camille Miller and bring her to us alive. If you fail, we will kill one of your children—Katie or Beth, your choice—then the clock starts again. If you fail a second time, we’ll kill whichever daughter is left. Rinse and repeat until we get to your ex-wife, your current wife and then finally to you. You will never know where we are. If you go to the police, we’ll know and somebody will die. There is so much money at stake, Mr. Spellman, that we’ve been able to employ an army to keep watch on you. It was expensive, but what’s a million or two to the Miller siblings when they’re about to inherit so much?”

“This army,” Marty said, not fully believing one existed. “Why don’t you just have
them
track down Camille?”

“Because none of them is Marty Spellman and we need this finished quickly before Camille does something with the money.”

“What would she do with the money?”

“There’s the chance that Camille is legit. Maybe she really did love her father and doesn’t want anything to do with his money. Maybe she just loved him for him.” He leaned forward. “Brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it? So, knowing that’s a possibility, there’s a very real possibility that Camille will just give the damned money away. For years, she’s been working hard to wash away the sins of her past. In her mind, this could be one way to do it. She might give it to a shelter, for God’s sake. Or worse, to help cure some obscure disease.”

“What sins are you talking about?”

“You’re not going to like this at all.”

“I already don’t like this.”

“Well, it’s about to get worse. When Camille was in her twenties, she had an unusual job.”

“And what was that?”

“Camille was an international assassin. She got mixed up with the wrong people when she left the States for Paris. But when she got pregnant with Emma, she decided that was it. She’d made her millions. She was set for life. The people she worked with let her out and she never went back. Then the regret set in. Then she completely turned her life around so she could care for her daughter.”

He lifted a finger. “For you, the trouble is this—old habits die hard, Mr. Spellman, and Camille was nothing if not a gifted assassin. It’s likely she still has those instincts and if she becomes aware of you should you find her, I have no reason to believe that she won’t go to any lengths to protect herself and especially her daughter.”

CHAPTER THREE

Marty looked out a window and watched the traffic crowd around the limousine as they moved along the Upper West Side. They’d been in the car for twenty-five minutes and what he felt in his gut was an ugly truth.

He was dealing with professionals. He knew in his bones they were serious. He had to protect his family because he knew what they would do to them if he didn’t agree to help them.

So he thought. Fast.

He felt he had the tools to find out where Camille Miller was now, but many of those tools were connections he had made all over the city throughout his years as a private investigator. He needed access to them. Period.

He looked at Carr. “I’ve worked a certain way my whole life. I’m successful because of the people I know. You say you have an army watching me, but what I need to hear from you is whether you’re going to allow me to be successful and find Camille, or whether you’re going to allow me to fail because you don’t understand the ramifications of what you’re doing.”

“Of course, we want you to be successful. What’s the point otherwise? And what do you mean I don’t understand the ramifications of what I’m doing?”

“I need to be able to use my connections. That’s how I’m going to find Camille. Some of my connections are cops. Some of them are drug lords, detectives, everyday people—even my wife, who is one of the best investigative reporters in the city. These are the people I work with on a routine basis. If you think I have the reputation for ‘being one of the best,’ they’re part of the reason why that’s the case. If you don’t allow me access to them and trust me enough to pull this off for you, then you might as well kill me now because I won’t have the tools to get the job done otherwise.”

“You’re asking us to allow you to tell people that we plan to murder Camille Miller?”

“Is that what you plan to do? Kill her? What happened to talking to her first?”

“We’ll talk. She won’t listen. Bang, bang.”

He knew this was a set-up for murder. He just wanted to put Carr on the spot and hear him say it. “Whatever your plans are for Camille Miller, they aren’t my business. You’re asking me to find her for you. I can find her with my contacts, but I’ll never find her without them. It’s that simple.”

Carr studied him. “We’ll be tracking you. You won’t be able to get away from us.”

“I don’t intend to. But if Camille is as sophisticated as you say she is, she will become acutely aware of me if your goons are tailing me. Do you see the big picture now? I need to be stealth. If I have your army up my ass, she’ll know it, particularly if she’s as good as you say she is, and there’s no telling what she’ll do if she feels that she’s in danger. She’ll likely run.”

When Carr lifted his eyes, Marty sensed him weighing his options.

“You’ve only given me seventy-two hours,” Marty said. “If you want me to deliver Camille, you’re going to have to back off and let me work the way I’ve always worked. It’s what I know.”

“Fine,” Carr said. “I’m not comfortable with it, but I see your point. Use your contacts if you think they will help bring in Camille Miller. No one will follow you. Telling them you’re looking for a missing person should alarm no one, particularly since no one knows what Camille did in her past. You talk about stealth? I’m here to tell you that Camille Miller defines stealth. She murdered dozens of people when she was young and no one knows who she is or what she’s done other than her family, who kept quiet due to Kenneth Miller’s threats of cutting them off.”

“There’s one other thing,” Marty said. “Tonight, I’m expected to have dinner with my ex-wife, her new husband, my wife and daughters.”

“We know that.”

Of course, you do.
“I can’t break those plans. I have to be there or they’ll suspect something. This is a monthly date with us. I never miss it.”

“I don’t expect you to. We knew about this when we contacted you. We took action. My people will be there watching you. Since there’s no need for you to share anything about this with your ex-wife or daughters, I expect you to just enjoy your meal and keep your mouth shut.”

“My ex always asks what I’m working on.”

“Then tell her you’re looking for a missing person, but the job is confidential and you can’t discuss it. It’s really not that difficult, Mr. Spellman, so stop making it appear as if it is.”

He asked the driver to pull over. “Use your contacts. I get it. I understand they’re important. But if you believe that being followed could compromise the situation, we’ll have to follow you another way. Take off your shirt.”

“Why?”

“Would you like some help?”

Marty took off his shirt while the brute seated beside him pulled out a black briefcase from beneath the seat. He opened it. Inside was something that looked like a gun, only it wasn’t a gun. It was shiny and clinical-looking. Marty knew what it was the moment he saw it. They were going to implant him with a computer chip to keep tabs on him.

The man swiped some rubbing alcohol over his shoulder and pressed the cool instrument against his skin. He fired, Marty winced and suddenly he was tagged. A bandage with a smiley face imprinted on it was pressed over the wound and he was free to put his shirt back on.

Carr checked his watch. “We’re finished with you, Mr. Spellman. You’ll be hearing from us in seventy-two hours unless we hear from you first. And let’s hope that’s the case. Seeing a child in a casket is a terrible thing. And if it has to be a closed casket?” He clucked his tongue. “It’s awful. When the casket is closed, you always know something went wrong with the face. They can hide any number of wounds with the help of clothing, but they can do nothing about the face. Have you ever seen what someone looks like when they’ve been shot at close range in the face? Yes? Then you know it’s like hamburger, only with the bone left in. And the gristle.”

He pointed to the door. “I’d hate that to happen to one of your daughters, but that’s up to you to fix. Now, get out. And hurry. Your time starts now.”

CHAPTER FOUR

In the modest Brooklyn apartment she rented the day after her brothers and sisters contested her father’s will, Camille Miller sat in the living room and looked across the river at the tip of the New York skyline, which was becoming visible as the morning fog lifted.

She hadn’t missed any of it. She didn’t want to be here or anywhere near this city.

And she wasn’t alone in her feelings.

Her sixteen-year-old daughter, Emma, was in her room “fixing it up” and Camille could hear her frustration from where she sat. Chairs were being pushed with force across the hardwood floors. As a statement of protest, Emma was listening to the popular French music she favored and singing just loudly enough so her mother could hear her. At one point, there was a thumping noise that ended in a crash. Moments later, a door slammed shut.

“I got it, Emma,” Camille called out. “I hear you!”

The music got louder.

God help me
, Camille thought.

She leaned back against the beige sofa and tried to tune it out. She didn’t blame Emma. They had lived in Paris since Emma’s birth and the girl was not happy to be in the States now. She missed her friends and she missed exploring her favorite haunts on her summer holiday from school. She loved her grandfather just as dearly as her mother did and she always enjoyed coming here to visit him. But to actually stay here beyond a week? To rent an apartment and leave behind her friends for some unknown period of time? It was unfathomable to her.

What Emma didn’t know is that Camille didn’t plan on staying long.

In her hand was the letter her father wrote to her on the day he presumably tripped over his beloved Blue and fell down the staircase, which ended with him being impaled by the iron trident Neptune held on top of the newel post.

Her father’s will left explicit instructions for her to check his wall safe, a fact which was revealed privately to her by his lawyer, Eliot Baker. Baker gave her the combination. What she found there was a letter written personally to her in the event of his death. It was brief yet powerful. Essentially, it told her how much he loved her, that he forgave her for her past and that he wasn’t sure what he would have done without her in his life.