A Rush to Violence (29 page)

“That’s fine,” Marty said. He watched Baker walk over to the mirrored bar that was across the room. Earlier, in his expensive suit and expensive shoes, he was ready to spar with them. His eyes were bright, his answers clipped. But now, with the truth out, he looked exhausted. Beaten down. He grabbed a highball and poured Scotch into it. He swallowed it, poured himself another shot and downed that as well.

“I will tell you this,” he said as his hand pushed the bottle of Scotch back into its place and tucked behind one of two shakers. “If Pamela Decker is involved with Carr, she knows where your family is. I gave you her address on Park and her cell. Use them if you need to, but do so with caution. I told you I think Carr lives somewhere on East Ninety-Third. I’ve given you all that I can. And I’m tired. Two months of this bullshit is enough. There’s no way out of this for me. And I’m not going to let them kill me when I’d rather do that myself.”

Marty saw it too late.

Baker turned and in his hand was a gun. He didn’t point it at them. Instead, he lifted it to his head while holding out the palm of his other hand in an effort to suggest he intended them no harm.

Jennifer gasped.

Marty stood.

“Don’t,” he said.

But Baker had made up his mind. The decision was there on his face, which now had morphed into a mixture of despair and resolve. “You don’t need to see this,” he said. “It won’t be pretty. Why stay around to watch? I have every right to get out of this on my own terms. Just leave.”

“There are other ways to get out of it, Eliot,” Marty said. “We can beat this.”

“No, we can’t, Mr. Spellman. I’m sorry I offered them your name. And I’m sorry they have your family and friends now. It’s all because of me. I just hope they’re still alive when you find them. Use the information I gave you. Talk to Decker. And when you find Carr, which I believe you will, do me a favor and shoot him in the face for me.”

Before Jennifer could turn away, he pulled the trigger and she saw it all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Before she received the phone call from her sister Grace telling her that their brother was dead and that she needed to come to his house immediately, Laura Miller was a star, which she thought was exactly as it should be in spite of the attention Leana Redman was receiving.

Along with her brother Tyler, who was looking smart at the bar with his cigar between his fingers and the warm light taking years off his already handsome face, she was on Anastassios Fondaras’s yacht, which was moored at the North Cove Marina on the Hudson. It was 180 feet long and when they arrived earlier, it glowed bright white in the waves of swirling lights shining upon it.

She thought the light show was garish as hell, not unlike something Trump would attempt to pull off, but there was no denying the yacht’s streamlined beauty. Fondaras did well for himself there. It looked like some of the yachts she’d seen in Dubai or Monte Carlo. She thought it was lovely.

But inside, everywhere else she looked was a horror show. Nothing was subtle. Too many towering flower arrangements on too many gilt tables. Ridiculously expensive champagne and caviar was being offered by the liveried servers. Playing on the deck was an orchestra flown in from St. Petersburg. The lot of it was pure, misguided overkill.

Still, she was happy to be here, if only because she was seeing friends she hadn’t seen in months, such as Countess Castellani and Lady Ionesco, each of whom now had her ear.

“Horrible party,” Lady Ionesco said.

“Ruinous,” Countess Castellani said.

“The orchestra is actually playing Felicia Sander’s cabaret version of ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’” Laura said. “Which is fitting, I suppose, because if I had my choice, I’d rather be up there than down here. I mean really. Would you look at Epifania Zapopa? What a fool. She’s actually shimmying around poor Charles to this of all songs. I’d die from embarrassment if I were him.”

“Charles has had his share of embarrassment lately.”

“Maybe, but you know, I liked things the way they were. I’m sorry Binkie caught him and Epifania doing it doggy-style on the priceless Aubusson rug Binkie inherited from her great-grandfather, but she should have worked things out. Otherwise, they were a fine couple. They should have stayed together. People like us overlook those sorts of things. He should have just bought her something from Van Cleef and reeled her back in.”

“I don’t know,” Countess Castellani said. “Binkie got $250 million in the settlement. I hear she’s doing fine.”

They all shared a small laugh while Lady Ionesco stopped a waiter to switch out her empty glass of champagne for another. She sipped it and wrinkled her nose. “What is this?” she said. “I don’t recognize it.”

“It’s whatever is the most expensive and heavily advertised champagne on the market right now,” Laura said. “It’s what the rappers are drinking, which means it must be good, so just enjoy it, darling. You can purge later. Right now, just know that you’re getting Madison Avenue’s best.”

“Did you see the crackers on which they’re serving the caviar?” Countess Castellani said. When they didn’t reply, she lowered her voice to a hush and said, “They’re wrapped in gold leaf.”

“No,” Laura said.

“It’s true.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not that clever.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” Lady Ionesco said.

“Imagine how many Mexicans he employed to get that job done,” Laura said. “Dozens. And probably minors.”

“Illegals!”

“If he did hire Mexicans, I’m surprised there’s any gold left,” Countess Castellani said. She pressed her finger against her bottom lip in such a way that let the women know how naughty and racist they were being, which they all paused to consider before they laughed, genuinely this time.

“Why is Leana Redman wearing jeans and all those fake diamonds?”

“Because she doesn’t know any better.”

“Are they fake?”

“No,” Laura said, who considered herself an authority on diamonds. “Actually, they’re real. They probably belong to her imprisoned mother, Elizabeth, whom I hear is scrubbing toilets now, eating dog food and dodging lesbians at every turn. She certainly doesn’t need her diamonds now.”

“Leana’s husband is something,” Lady Ionesco said.

“I hear he’s Mafia.”

“Mafia?”

“That’s right,” Laura said.  “Mario de Cicco of the de Cicco crime family. I think they’ve shot everyone who is everyone. But I do agree—he is easy on the eyes. Look at him standing there. Smoldering.”

“Did you see the press go wild outside when Leana arrived? You’d think she was a pop star, for God’s sake.”

“I’ve never understood the Redmans,” Laura said. “I’m sorry what happened to Celina, of course. Such a strange way to go. And she seemed to be the only one of them who had promise. She seemed to
get
the rules. But to what end? They’ll never be one of us. Try as they may, they won’t.”

“By the way, I love your dress, Laura,” Lady Ionesco said. “Who are you wearing?”

“Vintage Dior. 1958 couture collection.”

“I thought so.”

“You have a body for couture. Always have.”

“It was my mother’s, though I had to bring it in a bit. It would have hung on me otherwise.”

“She had such style.”

“You must still miss her so.”

“I do.”

“And then your father. Impaled on a trident! It’s all so soon. We’re so sorry, dear.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m surprised he wrote you out of the will,” Countess Castellani said. “I read about it in the
Times
, when you and your siblings were contesting it only to lose so quickly. It doesn’t seem in character for him to be so cruel.”

Laura flushed with embarrassment. Money never was discussed in her world. She was surprised that Castellani would even go there. “We weren’t exactly written out of it,” she said. “It’s just that he gave everything to Camille and Emma first, not that it matters much. Before mother died, she made certain the rest of us had nothing to worry about. Private accounts. Real estate in the best cities. Her vast jewelry collection. Paintings. That sort of thing. She was wonderful to us.” It was a lie, but she was damned if anyone was going to suggest that she wasn’t on solid footing when it came to her place in New York society. With the exception of Camille, she was as desperate as the rest of her siblings, but the trick was to not let it show. “What a boring party,” she said. “Going out used to be so much fun.
Now, because of people like the Redmans, they’ve ruined it
.”

She was looking around for a waiter to get a fresh glass of champagne when her cell phone beeped in her bag. “Excuse me,” she said to Lady Ionesco and Countess Castellani. “I’m expecting a call.” That also was a lie, but whoever was calling allowed her to move on with the night and see other people. She answered the phone, listened to Grace deliver the news that their brother, Scott, was dead, and felt a chill stiffen her spine.

“How?” she asked.

“I don’t know. We were on the phone and I heard him collapse. I think he had a heart attack.”

“It’s those goddamn Sobranie Cocktail cigarettes he smoked,” Laura said. “That’s what did it. That and he got fat.”

“Laura, please.”

“Tyler is with me,” she said. “We’ll be there soon. Call the police.”

“I can’t call the police.”

“Are you incapacitated? Do you want me to do it?”

“No. You don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand? He’s dead.”

“There’s porn everywhere,” Grace said. “Gay porn. Bondage porn. Spanking porn. We need to get it out before we call the police. It’ll cause a scandal if it’s found. You know it will. We can’t let that happen.”

She kept her voice light and low in case anyone was eavesdropping. “Understood. Call everyone. We’ll be there as soon as possible.”

She clicked off her phone, collected herself and walked over to her brother, who was deep in conversation with their closeted gay cousin, Addison Miller.

“Laura,” Addy said. He kissed her on the cheek. “You look beautiful.”

“It’s good to see you, Addy.”

“Is that Dior?”

“You’re the only man here who would know.”

“I doubt that. Have a look around. Frankie von Schreckenstein is here with that trick of his.”

“You’ve got a point. Do you mind if I borrow Tyler for a minute? Something’s come up and we need to leave.”

“I hope it isn’t urgent.”

“We’ll be seeing you soon, Addy. Give Tootie my best.”

She took her brother aside and told him the news. In the silence that stretched between them, his eyes hardened.

“Do you think it was a heart attack?” he asked.

“I don’t know. But we need to get there. Grace is in a state.”

“Is she calling the others?”

“She is.”

“Then, let’s go. We both know Grace. Before long, the artist in her probably will be inspired to paint the damned scene, if she hasn’t already.”

* * *

When they arrived at their brother’s house, it wasn’t Grace who opened the door. Instead, it was their niece, Emma. For a moment, they just stood on the steps, not understanding. Then Emma, whose cheeks were flushed and looked as if she’d been crying, stepped aside so they could enter.

“Emma?” Laura said. “What are you doing here? Is Camille here?”

“She’s in the other room with Grace and Sophia.”

“I had no idea you still were in the city.”

“Really?”

“Of course not. I thought you’d be back in Paris by now. Where are the others?”

“In the living room.”

“And Scott?”

“He’s there, too. On the floor. His head is against the wall.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Part of it is anyway.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ll see.”

They walked to the end of the hall and turned right. Laura saw Grace and Sophia standing across the room. They looked grim. Upset. She was about to ask where Camille was when she noticed the wide red streak leading across the parquet floor and into the next room. On the wall behind Grace and Sophia was an undeniable spatter of blood and other matter. The room was in disarray, as if from some kind of struggle.

Tyler stepped forward. He was tall and athletic, somewhere in his mid-forties, with dark hair just starting to go gray at the temples. He looked at the floor, the wall and then across at his two sisters.

“What the hell?” he said.

Laura turned to look at Emma, who had lingered behind them. She saw the gun pointed at her face, the red beam flash across the distance between them and connect with her left breast. She took a step back in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“Holding everyone accountable.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She thinks we killed our father,” Grace said. “She’s convinced we did it. She killed Scott. She almost killed me.”

“You killed your uncle?” Laura said. “You killed my brother?”

“That’s right,” Emma said. “And soon, when Michael gets here, which should be any minute now, I’m going to ask all of you what I’ve already asked Grace.”

“And what’s that?” Laura said.

“Which one of you killed my grandfather?”

* * *

On the sidewalk outside Laura Miller’s townhouse on Sixty-Second Street, Camille looked over her shoulder as the door clicked shut behind them and then turned to Sam, who was hoisting the duffel bag higher onto his shoulder and looking at her in disappointment. They’d struck out again.

“How can they all be out?” she said. “Is this really how they live? Parties every night? A new restaurant each evening?”

“I think you and I both know the answer to that, Camille. Your brothers and sisters live lives we’ve never lived.”

“Even with no money?”

“We don’t know how much money they have left. And besides, depending on who you know, your life still can be grand even if you’re penniless. It’s all in how you play the game, not that I’m telling you anything you don’t know. I would imagine having one of Kenneth Miller’s children show up at a dinner party or at an important event would still mean a great deal to a lot of people—especially after his death. Some would think, ‘Oh, look. That Miller is one of
those
Millers. And they’re
here
. With us.’ They’re socialites. There’s more weight to your name now than ever. You know that. They’ll use it for as long as they can.”