Free A Rush to Violence by Christopher Smith Page B

and knives. I sent her a check for five dollars and told her to play the lottery. That should go over well. I expect I’ll hear from the others soon because with their lifestyles, their money will run out. They know you’re hands off, which is how I want it. At this point, I’d rather take the phone calls so they don’t burden you. It’s time they got off their asses and got jobs. Isn’t that what all those swanky educations were for? OK, that’s my weekly rant. I love you. Could you please spot me a twenty? That would be super! XO —C.”
    Marty continued to read the handful of other letters he set aside, all of which underscored an undeniable urgency from the other siblings that their financial situations were critical. In each letter, they either were reaching out for money or verbally crucifying Camille and her father when they refused to help them.
    “One of these days, we’ll be gone, Dad,” Camille wrote in a letter three weeks before his death. “And when that happens, what’s next for them if they don’t get on their feet now? Sometimes, I want to help them, just as you do (I think). But I have other responsibilities. I’ve made enemies that affect every important decision I make. At any point, someone could target me for something I did years ago and I’d be dead. It’s just one of the countless ways I’ve screwed up my life. If something does happen to me, what happens to Emma? She’s set for life financially, but she has two years to go before she’s an adult. I have to stay alive that much longer so there’s no question that money will remain hers. If not, you’ll take my place and she’ll be fine until she’s a legal adult. But if you’re not here, one of my sisters or brothers will take my will to court and try to contest it in an effort to raise her and to get to her money. Maybe we should just give them what they want. Maybe they’ll go away if we did. Sometimes, I think it would be easier. Sometimes, especially when they ratchet up the drama, I also think it would be safer. —C.”
    Marty folded the letter and put it down next to him. He went over to his laptop and checked for messages. None from Camille, but that didn’t surprise him. He’d be shocked if he hit that mark.
    He looked out the window and down Fifth, where the streets and sidewalks were alive and bustling with cars and people. Out there, in the sunlit melee of midafternoon, he had dozens of contacts, people he had relied on throughout the years to share information with him just as he shared information with them when they needed it.
    Those people tended to be detectives and journalists. But right now, the one person he wanted to see was neither a detective nor a journalist—depending, of course, on how you defined “detective.”
    She was one of his best friends and perhaps, with the exception of Gloria, the one person he had been closest to the longest. There was a time when he doubted her talents, but that no longer was the case, particularly the last time he went to her for help. She nailed events that were so spot on, his opinion of her and her gifts changed.
    He checked his watch and saw that it was just after two. She’d be wrapping up the lunch crowd now. He went to his desk, retrieved the satellite phone, grabbed the manila envelope Carr gave him and then stopped when the thought came to him.
    If he went to see anyone with this chip embedded in his shoulder, he could implicate them. He wasn’t certain how accurate the device was, but he wasn’t willing to take a chance that it was inaccurate, and so he knew there would be times when he’d need to temporarily disable it if he was going to protect his friends. But how to do so?
    Tape a magnet over it and scramble the signal.
    If Carr questioned why the blip that was Marty Spellman suddenly disappeared off their screens, he’d just show him his shoulder, prove the chip was there and say that he must have hit a dead zone. “Just like with cell phones,”