The Heir Hunter (12 page)

Malloy laughed to himself incredulously. Despite the overgrowth of bushes blocking his view, he felt fairly certain now that the prowler was inside. Breaking and entering—this bastard had balls. But that didn’t mean they were going to let him get away with it. He nudged his companion awake with his elbow.

“Wake up. Something’s going on here.”

Regnier grunted and sat up straight. Malloy nodded in the direction of the house.

“Some guy just walked up and busted in. I heard him with the listener. He’s been inside for a while now.”

Regnier grabbed the binoculars and quickly brought them down.

“All I see is bushes.”

“He’s not sitting on the porch swing. Trust me, he’s in there.”

“So what do we do?”

Malloy considered it. Nobody was supposed to show up and pull a stunt like this.

“Instructions are to keep the place secure. Shit! I didn’t agree to this.” He reached to the back and found his gun. “I’ll have to go introduce myself.”

“Why not get him on the way out? We’ll take him out on the sidewalk and drag him off quick.”

Malloy shook his head as he shoved the clip in with a loud click.

“We can’t let him roam around in there all night. I’ll give him five minutes. If he ain’t out then, I’m going in.”

Holding his breath, Nick twisted the doorknob of the second floor’s final room and stepped inside. The smell was musty and stale, the air heavier than the inside of a crypt. The curtains were drawn, and the room was almost completely lightless. The penlight cut through the dark and traced the edges of furniture. Jacobs had a gigantic bed, almost regal with its elaborate upper frame and curtain attachments. Nick shuddered at the medieval appearance as he approached the large dresser directly across from it. Methodically he emptied each drawer, his anticipation and disappointment growing stronger by the moment. He turned to the closet. It held shirts, jackets, boots, books-even rifles—but Nick could find nothing pertinent to Jacobs’s personal life. Flustered, he stood in motionless confusion among the piles of clothes and bedding. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had been in the house for twenty-five minutes. He thought of the garage and moved toward the door but then remembered to check under the bed. No stone unturned.

Nick dropped to his stomach and scanned under the bed. He saw a dark, square-shaped object and reached for it. An empty tissue box. He cast it aside and turned back to the door, catching his foot in a small throw rug and nearly tripping. He kicked it aside gently and then paused.
He had caught a glimpse of something odd as the light ran over the floor, an irregularity in the floorboards. He shone the light and confirmed it. Stooping, he ran his fingers over the floor. He could see a barely visible ridge. Some kind of small door was carefully cut into the floor where the throw rug had been. He tried to pry it open with his fingers but couldn’t get a decent hold. He hurried back down to the kitchen and found a sturdy knife.
If what I’m looking for isn’t in there
, he thought as he jogged back up the stairs,
it won’t be anywhere.

He jammed the knife into the crevice and propped it open enough to allow his fingers to reach down and get a hold. He pulled the hatch open. His light beam immediately caught the dull glimmer of steel. He reached to it and felt cold metal, and his mouth went dry.

Placing the container on the bed, Nick saw under the light that it was a metal security box. His pulse was moving fast now. He tried to open it but saw that it was locked. He tried to pry the knife into the edges but found that it was too thick. Walking briskly back downstairs with the box under his arm, he entered the kitchen. He found a thinner blade and took it and the metal container into the living room. Placing it on a coffee table, he jammed the blade into the hinges with all his might. After prying and twisting for several moments, the mechanism suddenly gave.

Inside the box was a jumble of letter-size envelopes, one larger manila envelope, and three aged black-and-white photographs. He examined the three small photos first.

One was a photo of a young boy, perhaps nine years old, holding an infant in his arms. On the back of the photo, in faint pencil, was written
1922.
The other two photos were of two young women. The women’s expressions were somber and reminded Nick of passport photos. On the back of one was written
Monica 1935.
The other was blank.

“Hello, Monica,” he whispered as he took the envelopes.

He spread the papers on Jacobs’s living room floor and found that he had about a dozen brief handwritten letters, two blank New York City postcards, and a greeting card. The greeting card was a Hallmark, a cartoon cover with colorful ribbons and streamers. The printed message inside was generically simple—
Many Thanks!
The sender had scripted his own note beneath the generic one. The writing was labored and crooked, the handwriting of an elderly person.

Here were key words, thought Nick. Important words.
My friend. Your new life.
The card was in its envelope. The return address was Rue de Malatrex 23, Geneva.

He turned to the handwritten letters. The print was similar in each one. His suspicions were correct, then; they were from the same person. Someone named Claudia. The letters came from an address in Germany.

Nick placed the photos and letters into his backpack. They could be examined more thoroughly later. He opened the manila envelope and found two dozen large color photographs. Odd—the pictures were of men in suits, men talking, men getting out of cars. He shoved them back into the envelope and into his backpack as well. Now wasn’t the time. The garage still needed attention. He walked quickly through the living room, the figures in the portraits staring at him as he hurried by.

He reached the door on the left side of the hall and found the garage. He crept inside. The penlight stabbed into the black, revealing a tidy garage and the glimmering reflection of a well-preserved Mercedes. Nick traced the
far wall with the light. Seven identical cardboard boxes were placed neatly against the wall. He slid one of the boxes from the top of the stack, placed it on the floor, and opened it.

Inside the box were hundreds of single sheet documents. Each document was emblazoned with what appeared to be the letterhead of some kind of a financial institution. Nick examined a dozen of the documents. Despite minor variations, they all shared a similar look. He flipped the lids off several of the other boxes. Similar documents filled each.

The crackle of the radio made him jump.

“Nick!”
Alex’s voice was a panicked whisper.
“Someone’s outside on the sidewalk! He’s right outside the house!”

Nick brought the radio to his mouth. “Cop?”

“No way. He’s . . . oh my God, Nick, he’s coming up the walkway! Nick!”

Nick didn’t have time to analyze things. He quickly crammed a thick stack of the documents into his backpack and shot to his feet.

“Get ready to step on it.”

“What—”

Alex’s transmission died abruptly as Nick turned the volume down. He dashed back into the living room as quickly and quietly as he could. Already he was too late. A shadow had fallen across the curtains and then the front door was slowly being forced open against the coffee table. Nick dove for the grand piano and scooted under it.

From his stomach, he watched the intruder ease into the house. He felt a chill. The man was holding a large handgun.

The newcomer darted from doorway to doorway, his arms extended and locked. Nick tried not to blink as the stranger swept the weapon through the room.

The gunman seemed to be satisfied with his examination of the first floor, and he quickly approached the stairway.
He began climbing the stairs, glancing back as he ascended every few steps. Nick tightened the straps of his backpack and readied himself to move. When the man was out of view, he slid out of his hiding place and quietly hurried to the front door. A flashing of lights froze him, reds and blues flickering in the darkness. The cops were on the scene.

Would’ve been happy to see you guys a few years ago
, he thought grimly.

Nick hurried to the rear door and eased out the back. He ran over the back deck, inadvertently kicking a patio chair and sending it skittering loudly over the deck. Bolting to the eastern fence, he catapulted himself to the top. He took a quick glance at the gauntlet awaiting him. There were three homes between himself and Alex, each with a fenced backyard. He would need to make like an Olympic hurdler to get to her.

He swung his legs over the first fence and toppled into the neighbor’s yard. Dashing fifteen yards through a garden, he pulled himself up the next fence as the wood near him suddenly splintered with the impact of bullets. He fell into the next yard and stumbled forward. He could see the streetlight on Michael Court where Alex was waiting. He tossed himself over a third fence as more bullets dotted the wood behind him, and he felt his ankle give as he rolled into the yard just adjacent to the street. Lights were flicking on in houses. Nick felt the full weight of his 190 pounds as he pulled himself over the final barrier. Alex was at the curb with the engine running. He plunged to the sidewalk, the crowbar flying from his jacket with a clatter as he stumbled up to the van. He threw himself in and held on as Alex spun out noisily and accelerated down the street.

Malloy leaned out the bedroom window and listened to the screech of spinning tires. He slammed his hand down on the windowsill and swore. He couldn’t believe he had
missed. Bad angle or not, he normally made shots like those in his sleep.

He hurried from the bedroom and approached the flight of stairs. He was one step down when the sound of the police radio halted him in his tracks. Cop lights were shining through the curtains. He heard a car door slam.

He drew back into the shadows as the front door opened. A single cop entered, his service revolver ready. Malloy cursed. He hadn’t planned on this. But he wouldn’t be the one left holding the bag. He raised his weapon, fixed the sight on the officer’s chest, and squeezed the trigger.

In fifteen minutes’ time, they pulled safely into Alex’s garage. From all appearances, the getaway had been clean. Nick collapsed onto the living room couch. He shook his head, still unable to calm himself completely. Alex was too nervous to sit.

“What happened, Nick?”

She wanted a comforting response, something to slow her throbbing pulse. Nick could only shake his head.

“I’m not sure. Whoever that guy was, you can be damn sure he was no cop. He was opening up on me when I was hopping fences.”

“He was
shooting
at you?” asked Alex, the horror thick in her throat. “But I didn’t hear any—”

“Silencer,” replied Nick. “A good one too. All I heard was the fence popping all around me.” He looked at her. “They were watching that house, Alex.”

“Who
was?”

“Somebody.”

Alex looked overwhelmed as she paced the carpet. “Everyone on that street must have seen us tearing out of there, Nick.”

“No plates, remember? Stop sweating it. This was about as clean as it gets.”

“Who would stake out that house, Nick?”

“Wish I knew. Why do it at all?”

“My God,” said Alex. “If that guy wasn’t a cop, what happened when the real cops found him in there?”

“Hopefully they nailed
him
for the break-in. We’re scot-free, Alex. Forget about it.”

“Sure, Nick. You nearly get killed, we nearly get arrested. Forgotten—just like that.” She stopped pacing and leaned up against the wall, raising her face to the ceiling. She took a moment to gather herself. “Did you find anything in there?”

He stood and grabbed the backpack. “Christmas came early this year.” He removed a mess of papers from the backpack, waving them emphatically. “I think we may have hit the jackpot.”

“What have you got?”

“For starters, we got letters from someone named Claudia in Germany. Looks like our man Jacobs was German. I don’t suppose you know any
Deutsch
, do you?”

“Any what?”

“Never mind. I’ve got some photographs and some other documents out of his garage. I don’t know what they are or if they can help us, but they’re interesting. C’mon, get away from the curtains and get over here.”

He pulled the manila envelope from his backpack and put it aside. Alex joined him, and the two of them focused on the letters.

“Looks like we’ve got two solid contacts,” Nick said. “Otto and Claudia. Claudia intrigues me the most. She addresses Jacobs as
Mein Liebling. Mein
I know is ‘my’—what’s
Liebling?
”

“No idea. What kind of dates do we have here?”

They both shuffled through their small piles. Nick waved one triumphantly.

“This one’s June 5th of last year. Fifteen months ago! We’ve got a return address in Germany. Schönes Luft, Bernauerstrasse 445, D-8340 Berchtesgaden.” He looked at her. “Who do we have for a translator around here?”

“I’ve got somebody downtown,” said Alex.

“We’ll call them at dawn.” Nick began to pace about the room and continued to speak, as much to himself as to his partner. “We fax these letters to the translator at daybreak. We have them completely translated and dissected. If it looks good, I’m on a plane to Germany to meet Claudia.”

“Not a cheap flight,” commented Alex. “How are we doing on money?”

“We’re set. I just had Rose transfer twenty thousand from the line of credit to our business account. We’ve got another thirty grand on top of that if we need it.” He cast his eyes about the room. “Where’s your atlas?”

“Up in my office. I’ll get it.”

Alex bounded up the stairs and came back down again almost immediately, carrying the large book. Nick took it from her and thumbed through the pages to the map of Germany. He ran his finger down it.

“Berchtesgaden is in the state of Bavaria in southern Germany. Salzburg, Austria, looks like the nearest airport.” He reached for the phone. “Yes, I’d like to know if you have any flights available to Salzburg, Austria. The sooner the better. I’ll hold. . ..”