A Rush to Violence (5 page)

Then came the meat of it.

He told her that things were unraveling around him and that the atmosphere was growing tense. With his wife Katherine, dead, his six other children were demanding that he give them the same allowances their mother gave them for years. But he wouldn’t, they knew it and as the weeks turned into months and their financial situations became dire, Miller began to sense a change in the air that might lead to his own end.

With the exception of Camille, he knew his other children didn’t love him. But they certainly loved his money. Would they kill him for it? Sure, they would. He wouldn’t put it past any of them and so he changed his will the day he wrote the note.  He left everything to her.

“I’m being followed,” he wrote.  “I can sense it when Blue and I are out for our walks. A week ago, I saw your brother Scott drive by us. He pretended he didn’t see me, but I know he did. I saw his eyes looking at me in the rearview mirror. Then, a few weeks ago, there were Grace and Laura. I was at Bloomingdale’s shopping for a tie. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them behind a stand of shirts, but when I moved to speak, they slipped away. I know they don’t give a damn about me and I don’t think I’m being paranoid. Something isn’t right. I tried calling you earlier but you were out. I wish I could come for a visit. It’s been months since I’ve seen you and Emma in person. I miss you both terribly. If anything happens to me, always remember how much each of you mean to me and that I love you.”

She folded the letter in half and closed her eyes. There was an ache within her that wouldn’t cease; instead, it thrummed. Her father had long been her best friend. They spoke frequently on the phone. Often, they Skyped. With each passing day, it became more clear to her just how large of a hole his death had created in her life.

She needed to put the letter in a safe place. She looked around the room and stopped at the bookcase across from her. Perfect. She chose one of her favorite books, Dominick Dunne’s
An Inconvenient Woman
, and slipped the letter inside.
The irony
, she thought. But her father would appreciate this and she knew it. She’d been an inconvenient woman for the better part of her life.

She thought about what she needed to do now and her mind began to work in ways it hadn’t in years. Her father was no fool. In his own way, he was reaching out to her in that letter. He may not have fingered anyone specifically, but between the lines, he was asking her to check into it, should anything happen to him.

So, who killed him? It had nothing to do with Blue. That dog was magnificently trained. He wouldn’t have got in her father’s way. And her father died on a Sunday, when the staff had the day off. Coincidence? Camille didn’t believe in such a thing. Her siblings knew his staff had Sundays off. They knew he’d be alone.

She was thinking of each of them when Emma cranked up the music louder, which made another statement about how unhappy she was. In her own way, she was calling out for Camille—and Camille needed to take time out her.

She went over to her daughter’s closed bedroom door and knocked hard enough to be heard above the music. When there was no answer, she edged the door open and saw Emma sitting across the room on her bed. She had the same delicate features as her mother. The same brown eyes as her father. Her hair was as dark as chestnuts and as thick as Camille’s, only shorter. It came just to her shoulders, whereas Camille’s dipped slightly lower. Emma looked as if she’d been crying and defiantly wiped away her tears.

“Que voulez-vous?”

“I thought we’d talk.”

“Je n’ai pas envie de parler.”

“How about if we try communicating in English?”

“Je ne suis pas anglaise. Je suis française.”

“I know you’re upset, Emma. I’m upset. I miss my father. This is difficult for each of us. I need you now more than I’ve ever needed you.” She winced at the music. “But I also need to hear you.” She looked at the boom box on the table beside Emma. “Would you mind turning it down? Just for a minute?”

“Quel que soit.”
She turned off the music.

Camille went over and sat next to her on the bed. “We won’t be here forever. I promise.”

“How long, then?”

Progress
, Camille thought
.
“I’m not sure. I need to check on some things and clean up your grandfather’s estate before we leave. Maybe a month?”

“But that’s the rest of the summer!”

“I promise I’ll make it up to you. Anything you want.”

“You can’t make up what I want. It’s summer. I want to be home with my friends.”

“I don’t want to be here either. I don’t like it here. But sometimes as adults we need to do things that we don’t want to do. We have responsibilities that we can’t ignore. That’s the situation I’m in now. One day you’ll be there and I hope you make the right decision no matter how difficult it is. I need to make sure everything is right before we leave, if only for your grandfather. We owe him that, don’t we? We owe him one month of our lives to make sure he’s taken care of.”

Emma’s face softened. When it came to her grandfather, Camille knew that she’d do anything for him. “What’s to take care of?”

Camille leaned over and kissed her daughter on the forehead.
I’m about to find out.
“Just some odds and ends. You know how your grandfather felt about your aunts and uncles. He asked me specifically to make sure that certain things were done in the event of his death. We need to honor his wishes. He loved us so much, I think he deserves that more than anyone.”

“Ughhh!” Emma said, lowering her head. “You’re right. What am I thinking? I loved Papa.” She looked at her mother. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch. We’ll get to Paris when we get to Paris.”

“You’re not a bitch, Emma. And don’t say that word.”

“Oh, please. Did you just see that performance I gave? It was epic. It even had a French soundtrack. I was
so
just a bitch.”

“Blame it on me,” Camille said, holding her daughter close. “You’re my daughter. Believe me, if sometimes you’re difficult—”

“You mean, a bitch.”

“I mean difficult. And if you are, it’s because it runs deep in the genes.”

* * *

She went into her bedroom, closed the door and stepped into the attached bath. She looked at herself in the mirror and already saw the transformation taking place in her eyes, which were harder than they’d been in years. She didn’t like that look. It had taken her years to remove herself from the life that created it.

Focus.

She looked at her body. At thirty-nine, she might not be in the best shape of her life, but she wasn’t far from her prime. She still worked hard to stay in shape and it showed. She was lean, chiseled, athletic. And she always had been fast.

Think.

If her father was being followed, there was no reason to believe that she also wouldn’t be followed and possibly targeted for death. The will specifically stated that should she die, the estate would go to Emma. And if Emma died? Everything would be evenly dispersed between Kenneth Miller’s remaining six children. So, Emma also was at risk.

Why?

If he wanted her brothers and sisters to have nothing, why had her father put that provision in the will? She suspected it had something to do with her mother, who doted on them. He might have done so out of respect for her memory, not thinking they would come after Camille because of what they knew about her.

In the Miller family, it was no secret to anyone how she lived her life when she was young. Would they dare to come after her knowing that? She wasn’t sure. What she did know is that she hadn’t forgotten anything from her past life. It was all instinct. She could slip back into that life if she had to, even if she didn’t want to.

She turned in front of the mirror and picked up a handful of her hair. She pulled it sharply away from her face and hid it behind her head. It wasn’t enough. Even if she cut it all off, they’d spot her in a second. She’d need to dye it another color. She’d need to wear makeup, something she rarely wore. She’d need new clothes.  New shoes.

She’d need to change herself completely.

None of her siblings knew where she lived now and, with the exception of her father’s attorney, they had no way of contacting her. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t find out. And what then?

She went to the bathroom window and looked down the street. She could see a pharmacy, a grocery and what looked to be a trendy second-hand clothing store. She could use items from each, but what she really needed was something more extreme.

She reached into her pocket for her cell phone. She scrolled down the list and found his number, which she hoped was still active. It had been years since they talked. When they last spoke, she convinced him that she was out of it for good, which she was. When he moved to the States, he gave her his number to make sure that if she ever needed him, she’d have a way to reach him. “It’s my cell, so expect it to change frequently. I’ll let you know when it does.” And he had, though the last time was a good six months ago.

She tapped the number and listened to it ring. A woman answered. “Yes?”

“May I speak to Sam, please?”

“Who is calling?”

“Camille Miller.”

The slightest hesitation. “I’ll see if he’s available.”

She wondered who the woman was. His wife? A girlfriend? He came on the line almost immediately. “Tell me one thing only you and I would know.”

“We had a good time in that alley back in the day.”

He laughed. “So, this is you. It’s been a long time, Camille.”

“Too long.”

“Are you working?”

“Yes.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“I might be.”

“I heard what happened to your father. I’m sorry. I know what he meant to you. In spite of the circumstances, he always was kind to me.”

“That’s because he was a good man. I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

She heard her own voice grow thick when she said that. She closed her eyes to compose herself. A silence passed. She cleared her throat.

“I thought you were finished,” he said.

“Things change.”

“Is this about your father?”

“It is.”

“Do you think—”

“You already know what I’m thinking,” she said cryptically. “Yes, I think they’re involved. It’s why I’m calling you. I need help, Sam. Are you still in business?”

“Business is strong. What do you need?”

“One for each hand and maybe an extra. I’m out of the loop, but you know what I like. Get me the best and a few boxes of trinkets for each. I’ll also need something sharp. Maybe six inches.”

“Done. When do you need them?”

“Is now too soon?”

“Not for you.”

“I’m not able to leave. Can you bring them by?”

“Of course. I’d love to see you.”

“Emma is sixteen now. She still knows nothing about us. She’s here with me. Can you wear sunglasses of some sort? A cap? We’ll need to be brief.”

“Understood.”

“How soon?”

“Give me an hour.”

She gave him the address.

CHAPTER FIVE

In his apartment, Marty went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and then went into his office, where he removed the contents of the manila envelope Carr gave him and put them on his desk.

For the most part, inside was a mix of handwritten correspondence between Camille and her father that spanned several years. None of the letters were in chronological order, so if Marty was going to get a sense of Camille Miller’s life, he needed them to be. There were so many letters, it was a daunting task. An hour passed before he was able to sit down and start reading from the beginning.

All of Camille’s correspondence came from Paris, while her father’s came from various parts of the world. Most were brief—often a paragraph at most—but all came weekly, thus suggesting their love for each other and the need to stay in touch.

Initially, the letters themselves were benign. He read through them.

“Emma and I are going to Provence for a week,” Camille wrote on August 27, 2008. “I’ve rented us a house, which I let her choose because we all know she needs to retain some sense of control. So, I gave it to her. It’ll be good for her to get out of the city and into the country, though she’d rather stay put. She doesn’t understand why she has to go to ‘someplace so boring’ because she’s never spent time out of the city. I swear to God, Dad, if it kills me, I’m going to have her hands in some dirt by midweek and we’ll plant a little flower garden in the fresh air. We’re going to go to markets and we’re going to cook together. My daughter is going to learn things that my grandmother taught me. My cooking is questionable, so pray that I don’t burn everything. Otherwise, she’ll lose all respect for me and press me to go home sooner.”

Another letter, this one from Kenneth to Camille, dated October 2, 2009. “I have a new dog,” Miller wrote.  “He’s a Great Dane and he lives up to his breed. I’ve called him Blue because his coat is a unique, silvery blue. He’s spectacular. Good demeanor. He’s taken to his obedience training well. He’s growing by leaps and bounds, and he has me out walking again, which is good, I suppose, because my doctor won’t get off my back about how important it is that I exercise. I’ll send along a photo of Blue next week. Tell Emma that she’d love him and that if you both moved back to the States, I’d buy her one. I’d even go for two if that would seal the deal. Love you, Dad.”

Marty kept reading and learned how close they were. Then he picked up a letter Camille wrote to Kenneth in June 2010.

“God help me, but I think Emma has a boyfriend. Or she hopes she has one. I’m not sure if she’s landed him yet. Either way, I’m freaking out about it. Isn’t fourteen too young for this? Don’t answer. I think I had my first boyfriend when I was twelve. His name was Nick and he was fantastic. We lasted six months before we decided our passion was too much to sustain. Or something like that. I actually think Nick joined the basketball team behind my back and wanted to put his energy there. Boys and their balls. I never told you about him because you would have killed me. But enough of Nick. You and I both know that I don’t have the skills to handle the wave of hormones that are headed my way. Emma’s walking around the apartment practically bumping into walls. She’s scribbling his name—Luc, Luc, Luc—everywhere. And I mean everywhere. I’ve seen it on napkins, on her schoolwork, on the wings of a paper airplane she keeps in her room, on newspapers and even on a roll of toilet paper. I’ll admit that last one made me laugh—does she not understand the implications of where his name will eventually end up? Obviously not. I’ve never seen her so thick. If she carves his name in the dining room table, we’ll have to have a serious talk. If you can provide any insight, I’d appreciate it. Or prayer. Light candles. Send books. Talk to you next week, hopefully not from a psychiatric ward. Love.”