The Heir Hunter (41 page)

Arminger shook his head adamantly. “Remember, he may be traveling with the girl. He’s a cool one, Arthur. Very crafty and very calculating. He may have convinced her to sign, and if so, he’ll have to be nearby.”

Gordon waved his hand. “It doesn’t change what we need to do. We seize all court records as they’re filed and erase the court docket. This hearing never happened.”

They sat silently and watched the woodlands tear by on the interstate.

“Have the police found anything on those murders in Los Angeles?”

“Not yet,” replied Arminger. “They’ve got a composite description of the gunman. They’ve called FBI headquarters in L.A.”

Gordon looked at him. “Why would they do that?”

“There’ve been leaks. The media’s all over this. Some loudmouth attorneys with General Inquiry are throwing fits. The L.A. police chief is making a lot of noise about this, Arthur.” He reached for a folder between the seats. “Something else. I have copies of the petition Merchant’s attorney filed. I think you may want to look at it.”

“I was hoping to ease my headache, actually. Give me a summary.”

Arminger kept his arm extended. “You’ll want to read
this yourself. It may be wrong, but it’s interesting reading.”

Gordon took it and flipped it open. “Does it have anything to say about Jacobs’s family?”

“More than you may want to know.”

Nick relaxed only when the plane lifted from Swiss soil. He was ready to make good use of the hours looming ahead. Their time in the air would be used to plan, to play out scenarios. In the case of Gerald Raymond Jacobs, it was an opportunity to begin to make sense of it all.

Nick’s last week was laid out before him on a scattering of torn white and yellow pages. Was it really only a week ago that Alex had found out about the case? He could barely believe his life could have seen so much devastation in just five days. It had been nothing more than a routine investigation, just another lonely old man dying at home, leaving the earth with the remnants of his life behind him like a slug’s trail. But then they had made the decision to enter the house. From there things had spiraled hopelessly out of control.

He leafed through his notes. The fragmented bits of information were no longer swirling about independently of each other; they were now coming together and taking shape. Ludwig Holtzmann’s death in 1997 had been staged, an elaborate hoax conducted for the sole purpose of pillaging a staggering Swiss treasure trove. This was clear enough now. But what wasn’t clear was the
reach
of the theft. Nick suspected any number of individuals had their hands in the till. Swiss bankers. Holtzmann, of course. FBI officials? American government officials? It was maddening. The facts he now knew were only raising further questions.

Nick glanced over at Jessica. She had slipped into an uneasy doze. He looked beyond her to the window and thought of Alex.

Why hadn’t they just backed off?

He knew what most people would assume—it was all about the money. The figures found in the Jacobs file were blinding. But there was another truth, a truth that went beyond the money. It was an incredible thrill to find heirs, and he
needed
that thrill. That need was inside of him, a quirky and powerful gene handed down to him by his father. For better or worse, that’s what made him who he was, and there could be no other way.

He looked back at Jessica. She was intent on claiming her portion of the inheritance, and she would do so with or without Merchant and Associates. He reached for the phone encased in the seat in front of him and pulled it loose. Not representing her would be a concession to the enemy at this point. He would deal with the rights and wrongs of it later, but for now he intended to see it through to the end. But only if his friends were in agreement.

“It’s me, Doug. Sorry to wake you.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“En route to New York.”

“You all right? Are you with the heir? What’s going on?”

“We’re fine. Listen, Jessica Von Rohr has agreed to become our client. We’ll need you after all, man. You feel safe enough to be in court?”

Nick heard him take a long, slow breath.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“It’s okay to think about it, Doug. It could be very dangerous, showing at this hearing. You know I don’t expect you to go. I have no problem if you choose not to—I mean that. It’s up to you.”

Five long seconds passed.

“I have to do it.”

Nick squinted and held the phone. Something wasn’t right here. “You okay, pal?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You sound out of it.”

“I haven’t slept. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

“You’re sure then that you want to make this appearance?”

“I just said so, didn’t I? I’m positive, Nick.”

“Very important then—book a flight into Albany and
pay cash.
That’s crucial. No credit cards. Got that?”

“I got it.”

“Good. That’s about it then. Don’t forget all our documentation.”

“I’ll call you when I get in. Make sure your damn phone’s on.”

Nick replaced the phone. Doug sounded like a zombie, an irritable one at that. Nerves most likely, and that was fully understandable after the week they had all had. He wondered if there was something else on his friend’s mind.

“You didn’t have to twist his arm too hard.”

Jessica was looking at him with heavy, red eyes.

“I’m sure the fee he’ll earn had something to do with his courage,” replied Nick.

“You’ve changed your mind then. I thought it was dirty money.”

“I don’t intend to do anything but return it once I get my feet back on the ground.”

“Return it, huh? Those bankers will certainly be grateful.”

“Not to them. To the heirs. That’s what I do, remember?”

She straightened up in her seat. “I want you to think about something. Is it possible that maybe you
deserve
some of this money after what you’ve been through? You plan on bringing all of this out, right? That has to be worth something.”

Nick shrugged and turned to the window. “Something about that argument doesn’t work.”

“I think it does. Think about it. You’re helping
straighten out something that should have been straightened out fifty years ago. This money’s been sitting there since the forties.”

“Yeah, I’m a real hero. A real noble guy.” He shook his head in frustration. “All I want is my life back.”

“Won’t this money help you get it back?”

Nick leaned back and closed his eyes. Her words weren’t swaying him. He felt that the grim truth was finally starting to sink in: the life he had was gone. He wasn’t sure any amount of money would ever bring it back.

Kragen stalked around the fifteen-foot dining room table and muttered to himself. Bad news—he was sick and tired of bad news. San Francisco, Des Moines, and now Geneva—these were three inexcusable foul-ups. It was embarrassing and, even worse, very costly.

Malloy sat fiddling with a pen between his fingers. He was feeling smug. If nothing else, he was the one person who couldn’t be accused of incompetence. His only stumble had occurred in Hudson, and no one else knew about that but him and Nick Merchant.

“So this PI didn’t cough up anything then?” asked Kragen, still stalking around.

Malloy shook his head. “Just a few teeth.”

“And you went through the office?”

“Wasn’t much to go through. The place was already half cleared out. Nothing there.”

Kragen plopped down into a chair. “Our client’s very concerned about this,” he said.

“What’s in these pictures? Space aliens?”

Kragen didn’t answer, although he could only guess that it was something damn incriminating. As far as he was concerned, these mythical photos were now a lost cause. He would not dwell on them any further.

“Merchant and the girl must be en route back to the
States by now. Our associates in Europe aren’t as efficient as I thought.”

“Crazy,” commented Malloy, feeling increasingly superior. “Even Regnier’s blowing it.”

“Regnier can’t do everything, Malloy. It’s not like he was the only one over there.”

Malloy frowned smugly. “So now what?”

“We wait. We know Merchant was using the name of Michael Collier, but he’s abandoned that by now. I’m waiting to get confirmation on a report of a sighting of Moreno just a few hours ago in Albany. We may soon have her alias.” He clenched his fists. “This has all got to happen tomorrow, Malloy. The reason I called you here is to let you know that there’s some kind of a court hearing scheduled at three-thirty
P.M.
at the Columbia County courthouse. I’ve been told that we can expect Merchant and Associates to be represented.”

“By who?”

“By someone. I’m not risking mistakes this time, Malloy. This one’s reserved for you and Regnier. You two will need to keep an eye on both the front entrance and the back. I want you to find positions and be set by nine
A.M.
tomorrow morning. It’s up to you who watches the front plaza and who watches the rear.”

“Gotcha.”

“I’ve been told that the two most likely targets are the Von Rohr girl and the attorney. For some reason, the girl may be obligated to attend. Or so I’ve been told.”

“So we need to move on ’em
before
the hearing?” asked Malloy.

“Preferably,” replied Kragen. “But if not, nobody walks. Before or after, you two have to take care of them.”

“No problem. What about Merchant, though? We written him off?”

Kragen crossed his arms on his chest and smiled widely. “Don’t worry about him. We’ve got ourselves a nice little plan for him. I’ve just been informed that there’s
something in the works right now that should put a quick end to that merry little chase.”

“What plan?”

“It’ll be a few hours before I get the full details. As I understand it, though, come tomorrow our friend Nick Merchant will be served up to us on a platter.”

The large two-story home on Franklin Street was completely still. The three female occupants slept peacefully upstairs. The man of the house had been awake all night.

Doug sat motionless in his den, his head in his hands. His ears were ringing faintly, and his eyes hurt. He had never felt so tired in his entire life.

Dawn’s first rays were filtering into the study, faintly illuminating the surface of his desk. He looked up numbly and caught three pairs of eyes staring at him. He reached out and brought them to him. The three most important people in his life were captured there, in a small gold-framed photograph. It was his favorite—a professional studio shot with Kimberly in the foreground, Carey and Nicole on opposite sides behind her, hands placed on their mother’s shoulders. He grasped the picture and studied it for a long time.

He finally stood and stared out the back window. He was actually
seeing
the backyard for once. It was a large, beautiful yard, behind a large, beautiful house. They had been living there for three years now, and he was finally noticing how wonderful everything was. At thirty-six years of age, he was exactly where he hoped to be in his life, and strangely, he felt as if he were realizing that fact only now.

He stuck his hands deep in his pockets and looked back down at the desk. Behind the picture of his family, in a smaller, wooden frame, was a picture of three other people. It was an older snapshot, taken before his little girls were born. The three men in the picture were shoulder to shoulder in a dimly lit bar, their smiles wide. Doug was in
the middle, with Bill Merchant to his left, Nick to his right. He remembered neither the place nor the exact date, but he did remember the occasion. The three of them were celebrating his hiring as Merchant and Associates’ company counsel. Although he had never told them so, he had always been grateful for that. Bill Merchant wasn’t around to accept his thanks anymore, but his son was still alive.

He reached for the phone, his hand barely steady. He would have to live with his decision. He only hoped that if something went wrong, he might someday be forgiven.

The airline representative came on the line. Doug hesitated, then charged a one-way ticket to JFK International.

D
USK COULDN’T COME
quickly enough for Nick. The three-and-a-half-hour trip was nerve-wracking, and he looked forward to the reassuring darkness of night. He drove at a steady speed in the right lane, one eye on the road, one to the rearview mirror. The highway patrol was out there somewhere, lurking like a silent predator among the headlights behind him. A chance encounter with them needed to be avoided at all costs.

Nick pulled over in a town called Coopersville and found a small shopping mall. He parked in a shadowed area beneath some trees and waited in near darkness as Jessica went inside. He clicked the radio on and dropped his seat back. Forty-five minutes later she returned. She put the two full shopping bags of clothes in the backseat and then they were on the highway again.

They reached Albany just after 6
P.M.
Jessica approached the front desk of the Manor Inn. The woman behind the counter was too grouchy to do anything but scowl and slap down registration papers. Jessica signed in under the name of Kathy Beck, requested an extra key, and found room number ten.

Nick dropped their bags to the carpet and collapsed on the bed. He had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours straight now, and he felt it. But he had far too much to do before he could even think about sleep.

Jessica stepped from the bathroom, having changed into jeans and a sweater.

“You’re sure you want to do this, then,” he said to her.

“We’ve talked about it enough, I’d say.”

They sat on the bed. The contract was of the form he had used since the company’s inception, a simply worded legal agreement between client and owner assigning a percentage to Merchant and Associates for its time and effort in finding the assets of one Gerald Raymond Jacobs, a.k.a. Ludwig Wilhelm Holtzmann. Doug Spinetti had drafted the original contract in Bill Merchant’s living room twelve years ago, two days before the founder had signed his first client. Nick remembered that day well, the beginning of such exciting times. So alive, so promising. Father, son, and attorney had gone out and gotten roaring drunk that night in celebration of the new enterprise. It was a long time ago, taking place in a world that no longer existed for any of them.