A Rush to Violence (30 page)

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?”

He told her.

“Is Pamela Decker really driving this?” Jennifer asked. “Because if she is, I don’t get it. With the exception of how she handles her money, Baker repeatedly said she was bright. He said she once was a practicing lawyer. She would know all fingers would be pointed at her if she planned to take out every Miller. It’s ludicrous. What am I missing here?”

“Baker’s other argument.”

“That she might walk because if the case went to trial, jurors would see how absurd it is?”

“Exactly.”

“But Eliot said that when they first got to him, Carr had an emergency and had to be taken home. When they arrived and he got out of the car, Baker heard the woman on the street saying that she was on Ninety-Third. Are Decker and Carr in this together? Are they involved with each other? Do they
live
with each other?”

“If they do, it would answer a few questions, wouldn’t it?” He looked ahead of him. Now, they were traveling up Park. Within twenty minutes, they’d be at what presumably was Pamela Decker’s house.

“What’s your plan, Marty? What are we doing when we get there?”

He thought about that for a moment. Saw the risks. Considered them. Thought it over again. Then he told her.

“Of course, all that could change,” he said. “Depends on the situation.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Above her, the basement door swung open, but not before Beth Spellman ran past it, her arms stretched out in front of her as she rushed toward the dim light coming from the basement window at the far right of the room. The basement floor was so bumpy, she felt for sure she might fall.

Don’t trip. Don’t trip. Don’t trip.

She didn’t.

As quietly as she could, she ducked beneath the light bulb she had shattered earlier, moved past the dead man she killed earlier and squatted low beneath the window she thought hard about earlier.

Right now, the focus was on the left side of the basement, where they shot Brian Moore, who either was dead or alive. She didn’t know. But she loved him as if he was family and she felt sick that by breaking that bulb, she might have cost him his life. If he died, she didn’t know what she would do or how she would handle it. She didn’t know what she would say to his wife, who she had called Aunt Barbara since she was a child, because there were no words.

She was responsible. She’s the one who decided to act. She thought she could help when in fact, she made everything worse. Who did she think she was taking on these men? Why hadn’t she just waited for her father to intervene? For the police? For someone other than herself? She let everyone down, including herself, and she wasn’t sure how she’d ever repair the damage she’d done.

She sat still and tried to keep her breathing low and in control. She was in this so deep right now, the end was unraveling right in front of her. There was no turning back. She had a plan and she felt fairly confident she could pull it off if she was lucky. But what if she wasn’t? What if her plan was just another set-up for disaster? In her heart, she felt it wasn’t.

You’re a fool.

What she needed was right outside the window.

You’ve screwed everything up.

She ignored the voices in her head. She couldn’t let them in. She decided to go forward with it.

Because the window wasn’t the right height—it was too high—getting to what she needed would be difficult, but with a bit of luck, she felt she could.

She looked up and saw no one peering inside. She looked over at the staircase and could sense someone standing there. Listening. Judging. Deciding. Should they come down? Should they take out another one of them, storm the basement, rid them of their guns?

Too risky
, she thought.
But why is he just standing there?
She knew the answer.
Because he knows we have guns. He doesn’t dare to come down.

Outside, there was movement. A car stopped, a door opened and heels sounded on the sidewalk. Then came a woman’s voice: “Where is he?”

“Inside.”

“What are all of you doing out here? People will notice. Get inside.”

Whoever answered her spoke so lowly, she couldn’t hear them. Instead, whoever was on the basement staircase sighed, moved up the stairs and then the slammed the door shut behind him.

She listened.

Another door opening. The front door.

“What’s going on?” she heard the woman say.

“Not here. Inside.” It was the voice of the older man, the one who sounded different than the others. More sophisticated. Cultured.

“I want to know what’s going on.”

“We have a situation,” he said. “Now, please, Pamela, don’t get upset. Inside. We’ll discuss it there. The rest of you come inside with us. There are too many of you out here. We’ll deal with them inside.”

Beth Spellman looked up at the ceiling as footsteps crossed the floor. They didn’t come near the basement door. Instead, they seemed to stop in the center of the room. She could hear voices, but she couldn’t discern what they were saying. And then she heard something else—the distinct whistling of Brian Moore trying to breathe. She felt a rush at the sound of it. He was alive. She thought for sure he would be dead by now. She might be able to save him.

Now
, she thought.
Act now. Just do it and don’t think about it.

She had two choices. First, there was the dead man behind her. Earlier, when they dragged him to the chair, Brian Moore found a gun in a calf strap attached to the man’s leg. Otherwise, they never patted him down. Did he carry a cell phone? She was betting on it. He was in his thirties. Who among them didn’t carry a cell?

She went over and stood beside him. The window didn’t offer much light from the lampposts outside, but it was something. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark. She could see that his smashed head was yawning back and that the only eye left intact was his right eye. It was open and staring at the last thing he saw—darkness. His left eye rested on his cheek.

Already, there were flies buzzing around him. In this basement, he was a feast for the trapped and the hungry. Given the sheer amount of spiders tucked in the nooks and crannies surrounding her, she knew that if he was left down here long enough, eventually he’d be cocooned and sucked dry.

Now, she waved away the flies and felt them swarm up against her chest and strike her face. The man was wearing a T-shirt. If he had a cell, it would be in one of his pants pockets. Steeling herself, she started to pat him down, which was like touching cool, sticky honey given the sheer amount of blood congealing on his clothing.

Nothing in his left pocket. Something in his right.

She reached in, felt it, knew and pulled it out. An iPhone. Instinctively, she put her hand to her mouth and recoiled when she did. Now his blood was on her lips. She wiped it off with her sleeve and listened to the people above her. No longer were they just talking. Now, their voices were raised. They were arguing. She could hear the woman’s voice rising high above the others. She sounded pissed off. She could hear the older man trying to settle her down: “Pamela,” he said. “Pamela, listen. We had no other choice. Now, stop.”