The Heir Hunter (38 page)

A sudden noise from behind gave Nick a start. An overweight Swiss woman smiled at him nervously from behind a cash register. He returned an awkward smile and looked around the cramped little store. Delicate little collectibles filled wooden tables and shelves. Displays were filled with porcelain bells and figurines, tiny clocks and little wood-framed watercolors. He picked up a small music box and opened it as he kept his eyes on the trio across the street. He listened to the tinny sound and automatically thought of Rose. His jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. He had never returned from a foreign excursion without bringing his secretary some sort of little trinket. This would be the first time.

He closed the cover of the box and glared at his three pursuers in the distance. He couldn’t tolerate standing there any longer, cowering in the shadows. Hurriedly he
scanned the interior of the small shop. He found what he was looking for beneath a display of clocks. It was a four-piece fireplace set, but one part in particular grabbed his attention. He reached for the pointed black poker. It was an ideal length and weight—the perfect billy club. He wanted nothing more than to make immediate use of it, but not to stir coals.

Outside, a cab had pulled to the curb next to his pursuers. Ponytail threw out a few more brusque words to his two lackeys before hopping into the taxi and speeding off. The two remaining men said a final word to each other and separated, walking in opposite directions down Place Bel-Air.

Nick stood, torn by conflicting impulses. Part of him wanted to chase one of them down, beat the living hell out of him. But his logical side told him to stay back, not to do something foolhardy. For once he wished the logical part of his brain wasn’t so damn persuasive.

He placed the poker aside. As he was heading for the door, something made him pause. He walked back to the display table and took one of the little watercolors, bringing it to the counter. He paid cash, slipping it into his pocket before cautiously stepping out to the street and ducking into a taxi.

At midnight Doug grabbed his coat, switched off the lights, and locked up the office. He was exhausted and irritable, but his work was done. Every couple of weeks, he would put in one of the necessary late nights and play catch-up. This night had been for the benefit of a demanding but rather wealthy client living in Pacific Heights who tended to shout when neglected. Six extra hours of work on his pending divorce hearing would hopefully lessen the chances of catching heat from him in the morning.

Doug entered the Jag and sped out of the lot into the street. Powell Street was bathed in the orangy-white glare
of streetlights. The tops of skyscrapers were lost in a flowing haze of fog. On the streets, the bums had hunkered down for the evening on their carefully primped little nooks of concrete.

He drove up Geary and made a left on Polk to take the freeway home. The tarnished white palace of City Hall lay ahead, bathing in the searing white heat of its own searchlights. In front of it, Civic Center Plaza with its scattered encampments of the less fortunate.

Doug braked at a yellow light and thought of Nick for the hundredth time that day. He wasn’t quite sure where his friend was at that moment. His phone had been frighteningly quiet. He just hoped and prayed Nick was still alive.

Doug was too lost in his thoughts to notice the police car that had been tailing him for several blocks. The red and blues were flashing suddenly, and a quick bleep of the siren made the cops’ intentions clear. A floodlight bathed the back of Doug’s neck in a blinding glare. He swore and made a right on Grove Street, pulling to the curb. With all the junkies and drunks near Civic Center, they had to bug an honest citizen like him.

He found his license and registration as he heard the cop’s heavy boots stepping toward his door. A flashlight beam skimmed over the front and backseat before the officer spoke.

“License and registration, please.”

Doug handed them over. “What’s the problem?”

The cop didn’t even look at him. He glanced at the license and then turned back to his car. “It’ll just be a minute,” he said, disappearing back into the glare.

Doug slouched back and listened to the police car’s radio crackle. God, he was drained. All he wanted to do was collapse next to Kimberly and pass out. He had received three calls from SFPD that day and returned none of them. Did this harassment have something to do with that? He had nothing to say to them!
No, I don’t know
where Nick Merchant is. No, I haven’t spoken to him. No, I won’t come down and speak with the detectives.
Jesus Christ already! This Jacobs thing had been an absolute nightmare.

The cop walked slowly back to the side of the car after about five minutes. “I’ll need you to step out of the car, sir,” he said.

Doug thought he might have heard him wrong. “Excuse me?”

“Could you please step out of the car?”

“What the hell for?”

The cop’s hand settled on his holster. “Step out of the car now, sir.”

Doug unlatched his seatbelt and slowly stepped to the pavement. He glanced at the police car, then back at the cop. This had gone beyond simple harassment.

“What’s the problem?”

“Step to the sidewalk, please.”

Doug hesitated, then did as he was told. It was then he noticed that a gray sedan had pulled to the curb behind the cop car. Two shadowed figures in suits were stepping out. Detectives?

One of the men approached the police officer and nodded. The cop said something back and gestured over at Doug. The newcomer approached him, and as he did, Doug remembered the face.

“Agent Healy, FBI. Met you yesterday.”

“I didn’t realize it would be a daily occurrence. What is this?”

“Agent Zepeda and I would like your permission to search your car.”

Doug blinked.
“What?”

“I’m asking for permission to search your car.”

“Get out of my face.”

“We’ve received a tip from a reliable informant that your car may be involved in the transport of narcotics—”

“Narcotics—”

“—so with or without your permission, we
will
be searching your car. Give me the keys.”

“What informant?” Doug took a step back. “You’re not getting my keys.”

The two cops, as well as the other FBI agent from his office that morning, were by Agent Healy’s side now.

“I’ll ask you one last time. Keys.”

Doug weighed the situation momentarily before muttering a curse and fishing into his pocket. A hollow, sick feeling was suddenly aching in his stomach.

The two agents ducked into the Jag. They looked under the seats, pulled loose the paneling, emptied the glove box. Doug looked helplessly over at the cops, who were standing nearby pretending not to pay attention. Several midnight pedestrians had stopped to gawk.

The agents moved on to the trunk. It took four or five seconds before Healy removed the bag, looked at it, then stared over at the attorney. Doug’s eyes shot wide. He ran up to them.

“What’s that!” he demanded, his fists clenched. “What the fuck is that!”

He could see what it was, or at least what it appeared to be. It was a large, clear cellophane bag. It was filled with a fine white substance he assumed wasn’t powdered sugar.

The Agent named Zepeda tore the bag and dipped his finger in, touching it to his tongue. He nodded.

“Put your hands on the hood,” said Healy.

“You gotta be kidding me,” said Doug, backing away. “You piece of shit . . .”

“Put your hands on the hood!” shouted Zepeda.

“Kiss my ass!”

The cops were immediately back in the fray. The four of them shoved Doug face-first against the hood of the car. They pulled his arms back and applied the cuffs tightly. After patting him down, they half dragged, half carried him back to the unmarked sedan and tossed him in the back, slamming the door on his shouting.

Doug cursed and yelled for several minutes before tiring. His head was spinning. He could never have prepared himself for this. He thought of Kimberly and the girls. Try explaining this to them. See you in the Big House, Daddy—visiting hours every Sunday.

He leaned forward and tried to watch through the fogged windshield and the swirl of flashing lights. The four of them were congregating on the sidewalk. The agent held several white bags now. Another two black-and-whites slowly cruised by and left. More gawkers were gathering on the sidewalk, stealing glances at him like leering apes.

He hunched forward and wiggled his fingers. They were numbing up on him quick. His wrists were rubbed raw from the handcuffs. He waited and felt very frightened.

The cops who had pulled him over finally got in their car after about fifteen minutes and pulled off into traffic. The two federal agents slammed the trunk of the Jaguar, gathered up the bags in their arms, and slowly strolled back to the car. They reentered and swiveled to look at him.

“You can’t possibly be this low,” said Doug, forcing some restraint into his voice. He scanned both their faces. “You can’t be. Listen, whatever Nick Merchant’s done, I don’t deserve this.”

Agent Zepeda seemed unfazed by the argument. “Heard the news about Lawrence Castleton, Spinetti?”

“Yes, I have. I think it’s terrible.”

“I bet you do,” he replied. “We aren’t the only ones after Merchant, are we? For his sake, you should hope we find him first.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Doug leaned forward and tried to look as contrite as possible. “What do you guys want from me? I’m not speaking with the guy, I don’t even know where he is. Why bother with me? I’m nothing, I’m nobody.”

“Those cuffs tight enough?” asked Healy. “What do
you think of when they dig into your wrists like that? Do they make you think of your little girls? Or maybe you think of some good-looking young stud hopping on your wife because she didn’t feel like waiting fifteen to twenty for your release?”

“Do you know how close you are to seeing it all go down the crapper, counselor?” asked Zepeda loudly.

Doug bowed his head. “I get the picture.”

“Are we finally making ourselves clear about how important this Jacobs business is?”

Doug was nodding, his eyes down. He was through arguing. “Yes,” he said. “You’ve made yourself clear.”

Agent Healy let the silence torture him a bit longer before speaking.

“There’s a court hearing scheduled two days from now in New York State. As it turns out, you have a schedule conflict. A prior engagement. Check your day planner, Spinetti. Find something else to do that day. Go to that fancy club you belong to and practice your putting.”

“It’s a pretty good deal, Spinetti,” said Zepeda. “Skip this hearing and you get your life back. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out this one.”

Doug considered it in silence. Not much to consider really. “Okay, okay—I understand. I agree to everything. No hearing, no nothing. Can you take these cuffs off now?”

“Sure, we’ll take them off,” replied Healy. “But you go back on your word and it may not be flour we’re finding in your car next time. If you do try to attend this hearing, you’ll be stopped. We’re very serious about this, counselor. Next time it’ll be the real thing.”

They walked him out to the sidewalk, removed the cuffs. The thought of decking the two of them flashed through Doug’s mind, but sleeping next to Kimberly that night was now priority number one.

“Think about what Agent Zepeda said,” said Healy, handing back the keys and driver’s license. “Better we
find him than the other guys. You read what they did to Castleton. How long do you think he can run from them? One mistake—that’s all it’s gonna take. One mistake and he’s gone.”

“It’s gonna happen, Spinetti,” chimed in Zepeda. “Count on it. At least if we’ve got him, he’ll have a fighting chance. I want you to think about that. You can still save your friend’s life.”

“Talk to you soon,” said Healy. He and Zepeda turned and walked back to their car.

Doug could think of several choice responses, but he thought better of sharing them. He returned to the Jag and slumped into the driver’s seat. The FBI agents pulled from the curb, Zepeda giving a wave from the passenger window. Doug slowly raised his key but couldn’t find the ignition. He lowered his head to the steering wheel and closed his eyes.

F
OR DECADES THE
sprawling estates on the southern edge of Lake Geneva have been inhabited by the wealthiest of Genevese. Steep and winding private streets lead to the homes, immense mansions shielded by high concrete walls and retractable steel gates. Each street corner is equipped with a security camera directly linked to the network of police stations along the southern bank. Crime in the area is virtually nonexistent.

The Chagnon manor was located on Rue du Lac, an immaculate cul-de-sac with spotless concrete sidewalks and bronze streetlights. Rue du Lac was only accessible after clearance through a security station that blocked the mouth of the street. Two security guards manned the station at all times.

Nick sat in the back of the taxi and stared out at the gate. The driver watched him with concealed amusement in his rearview mirror.

“Oh man,” Nick muttered to himself as he pondered the imposing steel barrier. “Good luck.”

The driver turned to him. “Your stop,” he said, the statement sounding more like a question.

Nick frowned. The driver wasn’t the only one who was wondering what the hell they were doing there. What seemed like such a logical plan in the States now seemed doubtful at best, outright ludicrous at worst.

“I need you to wait here,” Nick said to the driver. “It won’t be any more than a few minutes.”

The cab driver shrugged and found a cigarette as Nick stepped out to the road.

He was alone. Jessica had again refused to accompany him. He had tried to convince her of the necessity of her coming along, but she had been adamant. It was his problem to fix, his mystery to solve, and she wasn’t going to be the one who lost her life over it. He had been angry, but at the same time he had understood. What real right did he have to get upset with her? He had been the one to bring the Jacobs estate into her life, and she had lost a brother and been chased across the globe because of it. Maybe Jessica Von Rohr had done all that could be reasonably expected of a normal person. Either way, he had hung up the phone and left her in the room.