The Heir Hunter (44 page)

The guard squinted his gray eyes at the photograph. “I might. I’ve worked here for thirty-two years, y’know.” He studied the face in the picture. “Yes, sir . . .”

“Yes sir what? Do you know him?”

The old-timer frowned at Nick, then snatched the picture away with surprising speed. “What’re you—a reporter? What’s this all about?”

Alex quickly gave two quick honks on the horn. Nick waved his arm back at her without looking. A police car was moving down Swan Street toward them.

“Does this man work here?” Nick asked. “That’s all I want to know.”

“Yes, he does,” the guard replied testily. “You’re gonna have to get that car out of here now. No one is supposed to be stopping there.” He gave a little wave in the direction of the slowly moving police car.

“I’ll move it, I’ll move it. I’d appreciate it if you’d just give me this man’s name.”

“I’m getting the cops over here.”

Nick grabbed the picture back from him and hustled back to the car. Alex’s face was like a ghost as he fell back into the passenger seat. The cop had stopped thirty yards down from them and was harassing a double-parked delivery van.

“He’s here!” he said. He was euphoric. “He knew him!”

He started the car and reversed into the street. The ancient security guard was trudging back to his post in the front of the building.

“What did he say?” asked Alex.

“He knew the face. He said he works here.”

He made a right on State Street and then another right on Swan. They were behind the capitol building now. Nick was slapping his palm on the steering wheel.

“Why don’t I—”

“Bad idea,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking and it’s nuts. If you’re actually thinking of sneaking around inside that building and flashing those pictures—”

“I can’t run off now.”

“Nick, you’re
wanted.
Let
me
go in and ask around.”

He stopped in a red zone and threw the gear into park. “There’s another guard,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “Lemme just give him a try.”

Alex grabbed his arm. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes were pleading.

“One more shot,” he said softly. “Then we’re gone. I promise.”

He stepped to the curb and walked quickly to the guard. This man was black and about fifty years old.

“How are you?” Nick asked casually, drawing a nod and a suspicious frown. “Hoping you can help me.” He brought the picture up. “This gentleman here works here at the capitol. You recognize him?”

The guard studied Nick harder than he did the photograph. “Maybe so.”

“You know his name?”

He reached a large hand up and took the picture. Nick held his breath.

“Kinda looks like Mr. Cimko.”

“What was that?” asked Nick.

A shrill whistle tore through the air. Nick looked up quickly. The elderly security guard from the front was hurrying toward them from the back of the building now, blowing a whistle. “What was that name you just said?” asked Nick.

The guard was looking back at his rapidly approaching coworker. “What the heck’s goin’ on here?”

Nick wheeled and walked quickly back to the car as the whistle continued to sound. Alex had taken the wheel. She pulled into traffic, and Nick directed her to make a left down Elk Street.

“I got him,” he said, checking the rearview. “I
got
him.”

“Who?”

“That guard recognized him too. He said his name is Semka or Semko—something real close to that.” He pointed her down Dove Street. “Once we get back to the motel, I’ll get the wheels turning.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“He said he recognizes him,” Nick repeated. “He said his name was Semko, or something like that.”

“And he works there?”

“That’s what he said.”

Alex frowned. “Those old guys were a hundred years old. They probably wear reading glasses an inch and a half thick.”

“No way. The second one said it very emphatically. How would he recognize him if he didn’t work there? I could tell he knew.”

“What can we do back at the apartment?”

“Bust it open, baby. We’ll send a courier to hit up a library and look up all the Semkas or Semkos in a government employees directory. Once we verify the name, I’ll call the Department of Motor Vehicles and try to finagle a driver’s license photo out of them. Once we get that, we just compare it to the Jacobs pictures.”

“What if we
can’t
verify the name?”

He took a breath. “Then I guess I go back to that building.”

“No, you don’t, Nick. A couple thousand people must work in there. We’re already including the photos in the mailer. Let some hotshot reporter figure it out.”

“Are you kidding? After everything these people have put us through? After Rose and Matt? No, no, no—I want them to know that we were the ones who brought this out. I’m seeing this all the way to the end.” He shook his head. “Jesus Christ, can you believe that guard and his whistle? Somebody please give that old guy a promotion.”

She was not amused by this. She rubbed her forehead and pulled the car to the side of the road.

“Look,” he said. “Hopefully I’ll be able to do this through DMV. I don’t think I’ll have to go back there.”

“If anybody goes, it’s me,” she said. “There’s no argument on that, Nick.”

Her expression was angry, combative. Nick smiled at the realization of how much he had missed that look.

“I would never argue with you, Alex. Look, you said yourself we’ve taken enough chances. Let’s get some runner to get to a library and look this up for us. It’s the safest way.”

Alex held the photograph and frowned.

“It’s the best plan,” he said.

“It’s
your
plan, Nick. I can get to the library and find out exactly who this guy is in about two seconds. You think some fifteen-dollar-an-hour runner is really going to care about this?”

“No, they’re not, but I don’t want to expose either of us any further.”

“I can handle it. No one’s going to find me in a
library
, for Godsakes.”

Nick nodded, not comfortable with it. “Just be careful.”

Alex turned back to the photos, focusing on Taylor and the cold black eyes behind the metal-framed glasses. She was going to enjoy this. It was time to turn the tables on Mr. Taylor, drop the curtain right on his head, and she was going to savor every last moment of that.

Back at the motel, Nick called for a taxi.

“I don’t care if you’re not wanted,” he said. “You need to watch yourself.”

Alex was sitting on a kitchen chair. “Relax,” she said. “I’ll be fine. When are we supposed to hear from Doug?”

“Any time,” replied Nick, glancing at his watch. “His flight’s landing just about now.”

A car horn sounded outside. Nick pulled aside a window blind and spotted the cab.

“There’s your ride. You’re coming straight back here after, understand?”

“Yes, boss.”

Alex gathered up what she needed and opened the door. She turned back to Nick and winked. Nick watched her enter the cab. He continued to watch until the car was out of sight.

“Please be careful,” he said aloud.

He made a final addition to the Holtzmann dossier.

He read it and frowned. Not conclusive, but enough. If Alex couldn’t come through, the newspapers would have the pictures and the address. If it took publishing the pictures to crack the story, they certainly wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

The entire letter was reread a final time. Then one by one he removed the adhesive strips from the envelopes and sealed them. The single videotape would be included as part of one of the two FBI mailers. He would make sure those arrived in their Manhattan and Albany offices that very day.

The shades were closed and the lights were on. He was sitting on the edge of the bed thinking about his father when his phone rang. His attorney, he guessed.

“Where are you?”

Doug’s voice was choppy and mingled with the sound of his car humming along the road. “Albany. Where else?”

“You brought everything?”

“Yeah, yeah. How many times you gonna ask me?”

“Probably four or five more. Lighten up, you’ll have about half a million dollars in your pocket in few hours.”

Normally a comment like that would get some sort of rise out of Doug. Nothing.

“You been watching your tail, Doug?”

“I’m clear.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure. Lay off, will you?”

Nick felt the blood rush to his face. “Hey, what the hell’s your problem? I’m not enjoying this any more than you are.”

He heard Doug exhale into the receiver.

“I’m sorry. I haven’t slept. Nick, I . . .” He paused. “I just want to get this over with.”

“You ain’t the only one, buddy. Listen, meet me at 200 Willett Street, okay? I’m driving a gray Ford Aerostar.”

“You’re driving a what? Wait a second—what’s your room number?”

“There is no room number. Just drive there and wait on the street.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just a little precaution. I’m going to let you sit there by yourself and have a smoke while I reconnoiter the area.”

“For Christ’s sake, nobody’s following me, Nick.”

“The only reason I’m alive to talk to you right now is because I’ve been careful, Doug. Quit fighting me, all right? What kind of car are you in?”

“Blue Taurus. How long will I be waiting?”

“I don’t know. Probably no more than fifteen minutes. If you see anything behind you that looks even remotely suspicious—”

“I’ll call you. Where’s Alex?”

“Taking care of a little last-minute research.”

“What about Jessica Von Rohr?”

“What about her?”

“Is she coming with you?”

“She’s gone, man. I’ll see you in a while.”

Alex paid the cabbie and walked quickly through the campus of Albany State University. She had more than enough time for what she needed to do. She stopped and asked a student for directions and was directed to the east end of campus.

The library was a bustle of students getting back into the flow of another semester. She moved through the crowds and found the elevator bay. Government Publications was on the third floor, west side. She strode down the rows of books and felt like a law student all over again—not a great feeling. It took her only a minute to find her bearings.

She spotted the New York State Controller’s directory and paused. It was worth a shot. She found the current year’s volume and took a seat at a table. The biographical index was in back. She ran her finger down the
S
’s and checked for
Semko
and
Semka.
Then
Simko
and
Simka.
After that she moved on to
Senko
and
Senka, Symko
and
Symka.
Nothing. The
C
’s were checked in a similar fashion. Same result.

She found the New York Serial Set. An Ernest Semko was listed as working for the State Controller’s office but as a mail room clerk. The other variations of the name revealed nothing.

She returned the book and checked her watch. It was one forty-five—less than two hours before the hearing.

She scanned the labels of books and drummed her fingers on her chin. She tried to recall exactly what Nick had said. Had he just heard the guard wrong? Semko. Semka. Phonetically it could only be spelled so many ways.

She took the current year’s Congressional Listing and found the index. She checked the
S
’s and then moved on to the
C
’s.

When she saw the name, a fluttering ran through her stomach. This was the closest yet. Philip Anthony Cimko. She quickly turned the pages and sensed this would be something well worth reading.

Two hundred Willett was not actually a building, but a wooded playground on the edge of Washington Park frequented by young mothers and their small children. Between the neatly manicured trees and bushes was a small clearing with swings, slides, and a sandbox. Nick knew it better than any part of Albany, other than his partner’s house. He and Alex had used the park as their private sanctuary a number of times, their oasis when an investigation was stalled or the walls in Alex’s house seemed to be sliding inward. Lunch outside on one of the green wooden benches beneath the trees was often all it took to break down the mental walls blocking one of their searches.

Nick drove through Albany, only blocks from Alex’s home. If the police or his other pursuers were keeping a list of likely places in Albany to find him, he would guess that a children’s playground would have to be near the bottom. What business would Nicholas Merchant—the fugitive cop-killer—have in a place like that? He smiled. Well, maybe he just wanted to ride the swings.

Just then the phone rang, the sound muffled in his coat pocket.

“Nick, I got him! I got him!” Alex said.

“What?” He pulled the car over to the curb. “Where are you?”

“Never mind that. I got Cimko, Nick!”

“Are you at the apartment?”

“I will be shortly. Shut up for a second and listen to me.
I think I’ve figured out who this Cimko person is. It all makes sense now.”

“Who is it?”

“I’ve got it all photocopied,” she replied. He could hear her shuffling papers. “‘Philip Anthony Cimko—State Capitol Building, One Clinton Avenue, Albany. Regional Director for Republican senator Thomas Newland of New York . . .”’

Nick stared through the windshield. “Newland? What could he—”

“Wait—it gets better. Listen to some of the dear senator’s committees: Commission on Security and Cooperation in Europe, Committee on Appropriations, Committee on Veterans’ Affairs, and twelve others. But here’s the really interesting one: Senator Newland is the head of a special Banking Committee he formed four years ago which—I’m quoting here—‘has led an inquiry into the current status of assets and accounts of European Jews and others held by Swiss banks deposited in the 1930s and 1940s. The Banking Committee will seek to aid Swiss banks in an independent and impartial audit of all accounts under question through an unprecedented cooperative agreement with a number of Swiss banks, both private and cantonal. . ..’”