The Heir Hunter (43 page)

They gave them the rest of it then: the photographs taken by Jacobs’s PI’s (two more of the dead); the status of the Swiss bank accounts; the identities of the secondary holders that Alex had found; the result of the efforts to obtain the death certificate of Ludwig Holtzmann; and of course the complete details of the intensive efforts made to murder both the partners and the heirs to the estate. No detail here was insignificant, no facet ignored. It would land in the newsmen’s laps partly assembled; from that point it would be up to them to use the resources at their disposal to make the picture whole and clear.

The final segment of the deposition was Nick’s personal statement addressing the criminal charges pending against him. He unequivocally denied the attempted-murder charge levied against him, pointing instead to the at-large murderers-for-hire who conspired in the deaths of Rose Penn, Matthew Von Rohr, Lawrence Castleton, and the others named in the statement above. He would not be turning himself in to the authorities, because it was his desire and intention to clear himself by his own means and methods of any charges related to the shooting of a City of Hudson police officer.

Nick splashed cold water on his face. It was nearly 5
A.M.
They had printed eight copies of the document and were satisfied with the video. Any touch-ups or additions could be made after three or four hours of sleep. He stood in the bathroom doorway and wiped his face with a towel. Alex was examining the first printing. She looked up and shrugged at Nick.

“It’s all in there.”

“All of it,” agreed Nick. “You think everything’s clear? Phrased right?”

Alex thought for a moment. “Maybe we say a little
too
much in this paragraph. I don’t think we should admit to anything illegal. Whoever reads this and sees your name at the bottom will be skeptical right off the bat. The fact you’re wanted is bad enough—we don’t need to say anything more to discredit ourselves. Let the report speak for itself.”

Nick nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. For a minute you sounded like a lawyer there, you know.”

“Yuck,” she said, making a face. “Speaking of lawyers, where’s your little blond friend?”

“At a motel. She’s hitting the road.”

“Not giving her a ride, Nickie?” she asked, with a smirk. “The loyal chauffeur?”

“You never stop, do you?”

She chuckled to herself. “Remember that argument we had a couple of days ago? When I told you I wasn’t jealous?”

“Yeah?”

“Well . . .” She broke into an embarrassed smile. “Maybe that was just a teensy lie. I might have been a little bit jealous.”

“A-ha
,” said Nick.

“It’s just that . . .” She paused, looked down at her hands. “What we have means a lot to me, Nick. You do too. We’ve been through a lot the last four years. The last
fifteen
years. It’s pretty much been the happiest time of my life.”

“Mine too,” said Nick, smiling warmly.

“I guess I . . . just didn’t want you to forget that
I’m
your partner. I don’t want that to change.”

“Like it ever would, you dummy.”

They smiled at each other and enjoyed the silence for a good five seconds.

“Have you spoken with any of Rose’s relatives?” she asked.

Nick instantly sobered. The thought had crossed his mind—numerous times. “I don’t know what I could possibly say. Everything I can think of sounds horribly inadequate. Do you think I should call them?”

“I don’t know. Under normal conditions, yes. But now I really don’t know.”

Nick looked down at the carpet. “I still can’t believe it about Rose, Alex. Of all people to be caught in the middle . . .”

“My stomach hurts whenever I think about it,” she said. She turned to the bedroom. “I’m going to bed. I don’t want to think about any of this for a while.”

Nick didn’t either. He entered the bathroom, taking a change of clothes with him. He took a long, hot shower and put on a pair of shorts and a flannel shirt.

The apartment was dark when he stepped out. He walked into the living room and groped in the dark for his suitcase, laying some clothes out. He found his jacket and paused as he lifted it. There was something in the inside pocket. He reached in and pulled out the framed little watercolor he had bought in Geneva. The thin plate of glass over the painting hadn’t survived the day’s excitement. A spidery fissure ran the length of it. He looked it over and walked over to the bedroom doorway.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” replied Alex.

“Living room floor’s a little hard.” He approached her and lay down on the futon next to her. “Scoot over—I got something for you.”

He placed the watercolor in her hand.

“What is it?” she asked, clicking on a flashlight next to her.

“A memento of the worst trip of my life.”

Her face registered shock, then broke into a wide smile. “I can’t believe you,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “I love it.”

She propped it up on its stand next to the mattress. They both looked at it for a few seconds before she clicked the light off.

“I hear Geneva’s beautiful,” she said. “I wish I could have seen it.”

“Next time you will,” said Nick. “Who knows—we’ll probably need to find an heir there someday.”

“Maybe we could go even if we don’t have to find an heir, Nick.”

The evening was warm, and the window was cracked open a bit. A light breeze rustled the shades against the glass. Outside, nothing stirred except leaves blowing slowly down the black streets.

For the first time in nearly a week, the partners slept well.

B
Y DAYBREAK IT
was raining. The skies over Albany were gray and angry. A sporadic wind threw gust after gust of raindrops against the window like handfuls of pebbles against the glass.

Nick woke before eight but didn’t rise for another ten minutes. He lay next to Alex, telling himself that it was nearly over, and the thought gave him strength. Just a few hours more, and they could put the fear behind them for good. He looked over at her. She was on her side, her eyes closed. He heard her question again.
What’s going to be left for us?
He wasn’t entirely sure, but maybe they were strong enough to build something new, something with a hopeful future. Maybe it could even turn out to be something pretty damn good.

He stayed there for a few minutes, watching her sleep, before stepping out to the kitchen.

He was at the laptop when she emerged from the shower. The final additions to the Jacobs mailer had been made. The packet would be thorough, eloquent, and make for very compelling reading. He had prepared a mental list of the recipients.
The Washington Post
and
The New York Times
would start the ball rolling, and he would follow those up with the Washington, DC, and Albany offices of
the FBI, the Senate majority leader, and the attorney general. He was even considering mailing one off to the White House. The
Post
and
Times
would probably suffice to get the story out, but why take any chances? He would let everybody have a taste of it.

From the motel, they drove to North Pearl Street in Albany. Nick dropped Alex off around the corner of a copy store and waited in the car as she went in and ran off the attachments. He watched the morning pedestrians through the tinted glass and felt safe. The only way the cops would notice him was if he stood out, and he was going to be as inconspicuous as a fire hydrant. For once in a storied career of speeding tickets and late yellow lights, Nick Merchant was going to be the model driver. He would show courtesy unheard of on the Albany roadways.

She returned to the car in ten minutes. She had made copies and purchased envelopes and postage. Nick started the car and headed back in the direction of the motel.

John Malloy eyed the stately gray Columbia County courthouse and nodded to himself. They had decided rather arbitrarily that he would watch the back entrance while Regnier watched the front. It made no difference to him. He now saw that the task would prove equally difficult from either angle.

His reconnaissance had begun at 6
A.M.
that morning. The courthouse was on the corner of Court and East Allen, probably the busiest intersection in Hudson. Normally the existence of a crowd was only beneficial to his assignment, but in this case he saw no advantage gained. His chief difficulty lay in the surrounding landscape. From the rear of the building, he saw no elevated
vantage point. Directly behind the courthouse was a small park offering scant cover. He had photographs of Moreno, the Von Rohr woman, and Spinetti, but picking them out of the crowd in a four-or five-second window of opportunity would be nearly impossible. They weren’t going to be wearing name tags.

He walked along the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets. He stopped at a hot dog stand directly in front of the courthouse and bought a foot-long with mustard. He devoured it in half a dozen bites and returned to the car. His mind was made up. Making the hit inside would eliminate the use of gun or knife, but that was fine. Anyone as intimately familiar with the crucial arteries as he was could do a job with a pencil, a comb, anything handy, really. He made his decision. He would do it inside.

He checked his watch. It was 9:30
A.M.
The hearing was at three-thirty that afternoon in courtroom number two. He could think of no surer spot to find them than the hallway directly outside.

It took them fifteen minutes to pack and label the envelopes. As a personal touch, Nick added the Israeli consulate general to his final mailing list, bringing the total to eight recipients.

He glanced at his watch. Doug’s flight was due to arrive at 1
P.M.
It was now 10
A.M.

“Not yet,” he said, as Alex stripped off the adhesive from one of the envelopes.

“Why not?”

“I want to run one last errand before we seal them up. Ready?”

“Don’t you think we’ve pushed our luck enough with all this driving around? How about I go do this errand by myself? The police aren’t looking for me.”

“Somebody a lot nastier is, though. We both go. We’ll
be fine as long as I drive okay.” He grabbed his keys and waited by the door. “Trust me—we’ll be fine.”

The rain let up on them when they were on the road. The blanket of gray in the sky was shredded with streaks of sunlight. Blue sky reflected off the puddles in the street like a million little mirror fragments. The trees along the sidewalks glistened wet-green under the sun’s glare.

Nick kept both hands on the wheel as his stomach did cartwheels. A sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead. He wanted rain, buckets and buckets of it. The sunlight seemed to be fading the tint of the windows. He felt as if he were on display to the world. He drove like a little old lady, avoiding congested streets and the main thoroughfares. If he had the bad luck to get into a fender bender, there would be no sticking around to exchange licenses.

Alex watched him closely as he gripped the wheel. A police car was coming toward them the opposite way on Sheridan Avenue.

“Cops.”

“Just be cool,” she said. “Nothing to worry about.”

The patrol car was moving at a crawl. Nick wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. He didn’t dare glance at them as they passed by.

“Didn’t even look,” Alex said, patting his leg. “Where are we going anyway?”

“We’re here,” he replied.

The sun had slipped back behind a mass of clouds. He made a right on Lark Street and then a left on Washington Avenue. They passed the State Education Building. Nick had never been to this part of Albany before, but there it was, between Washington and State Street, looming like a monolith in the center of Empire State Plaza. He was almost certain that he was looking at the state capitol building.

“What is this, Nick?” Alex asked. “What are we doing here?”

The sign by the sidewalk declared it in gold-faced letters: N
EW
Y
ORK
S
TATE
C
APITOL
B
UILDING
. Nick turned into a ten-minute loading zone on the street in front of the building.

“You said . . .” He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to remember. “You said that that PI you found in the Bronx told you that he took the Holtzmann pictures at State and Swan. No—at a park
near
State and Swan. Where are those pictures anyway?”

“Right here.” She reached to the floor and found them. “We only brought a few of them.”

She handed him the half dozen photographs.

“These are the best ones we have of this Taylor person,” he said, sorting through them slowly. “See how Jacobs labeled the backs? Victor Chagnon had his own photos too.”

She took one of the pictures and examined it. The man had glasses, thick black hair, and a long, thin face.

“So you think he might work around here,” she said.

Nick nodded. “Someone here might recognize him.”

“He could work
anywhere
, Nick. You can’t assume that he—” She stopped herself and looked beyond him. An elderly security guard was ambling up toward them. “Uh-oh. I think it’s time to get moving.”

Nick was staring at one of the pictures, oblivious.

“Nick, someone’s coming.”

He looked up at the approaching guard. “This guy might be able to help us,” he said, opening the door.

“What are you doing?
There’s too many people around here.”

He hesitated and scanned the crowd. There were
way
too many people, but he was too close to back away now.

He stepped out of the car and walked briskly to the sidewalk. The guard put his hands on his hips like a grouchy old grandfather as Nick hurried up to him.

“You’re gonna have to leave,” he said, waving a finger. “No parking there.”

“We’re leaving right now,” Nick replied. “I wanted to ask you something first.” He showed him one of the pictures. “Do you recognize this person?”