The Heir Hunter (47 page)

“I’ve looked over the FBI memorandum,” replied Pritchard. “The authenticity of the documents has been verified.” He leaned forward, clearing his throat roughly. “The temptation to fabricate a document in dealing with a case this size might be an option for some. Don’t think that I’m saying that you’re involved in a fraudulent presentation of the facts, but I’m certain you’re keenly aware that involvement in any such activity would constitute perjury.”

“I am aware of that, your honor,” replied Alex, finding this warning a bit odd.

Pritchard turned to Brumfield, the public administrator. “Does the county have anything to add to this, Mr. Brumfield?”

Brumfield tapped his papers together on the tabletop in front of him. “Your honor, the county sees no reason to contest this claim. As far as we can see, there’s little to dispute. We do have some additional good news for the petitioners, however. The county has managed to locate some bank accounts which were not included in the original estate appraisement.” He waved a paper to the bailiff. “This addendum to the file includes them. The decedent apparently had another six hundred thousand dollars in various local banks, jointly held with his sister, Monica Von Rohr. . ..”

Alex looked down at the varnished table. Six hundred thousand. Over half a million dollars more and she felt nothing.

“Miss Moreno?”

She had missed the judge’s question. “Yes? I’m sorry . . .”

“Have you anything else to add?”

She was seeing his lips move, but barely hearing the question. She felt light-headed and wanted to get outside and breathe fresh air. She looked up at the judge and slowly shook her head.

“Give me a moment, then,” said Pritchard, rising to his feet.

He gave a nod to the two FBI agents, and the three of them disappeared into his chambers. The public administrator smiled at Alex awkwardly, but she was oblivious. She sat back in her chair. She thought of Nick’s words from the previous night:
It won’t be so bad. Things will cool off, and then we’ll rebuild.
She looked up at the ceiling and closed her eyes. Nick was wrong. He wouldn’t be rebuilding anything from inside a prison cell.

Feeling nauseous, she thought back to Lloyd Koenig and wished she could turn back time, just take back that ten thousand dollars and reclaim their lives.

In the hall outside, the public waited patiently for the hearing to end. Regnier and Malloy moved about the crowd and waited with them.

Two agents came for him again and brought him to the same antiseptic interrogation room. He waited in silence, the only sound the slow clicking of a wall clock. It was four o’clock. He and Alex were supposed to be on a plane in two hours. He tried to comfort himself with images of her flying away to freedom, but it didn’t help. He was certain she would not go without him, and for once he wished she wasn’t so hardheaded. There was no reason for her to put herself at risk any further.

The deputy director joined him after several minutes. Something was different about him this time. His jacket was off, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up. Nick could see dark perspiration rings under his arms and a less arrogant look in his eyes.

Arminger pulled a chair forward and sat. “What was it?” he asked, his face scornful. “What was it that kept you on this? Did you want to be a hero? Did you need twenty-two million so fucking badly?”

Nick couldn’t help but look at him. The voice had changed, lost some of its previous bravado.

“What was it, Merchant?”

“I told you what it was a few days ago,” Nick replied. “My friend was killed, and I was almost murdered. It wasn’t about money after that.”

“What was it, then? Some sort of heroic pursuit of the truth? Do you expect anyone to believe you were motivated by anything but greed?”

Nick looked down, realizing the pointlessness of the debate. Arminger picked out one of the surveillance photos Nick had found in Gerald Jacobs’s bedroom.

“We found these pictures in your car. What exactly are they?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. There’s a pretty complete explanation in the packet I mailed to you, along with a few more of those shots. It should be arriving here any time.”

Arminger stood and paced around the table, studying the photographs.

“These are . . . interesting, I’ll admit.”

“You noticed who’s in them, then,” said Nick. “In the back.”

“I see him,” snapped Arminger, straining for a measure of control in his voice. “Does it mean anything?”

“Not at this point, I suppose. It will once you read the report.”

“What’s this damn report? Don’t keep me in suspense, Merchant. Out with it.”

Nick shook his head and couldn’t help but smile. “You’d never believe me. It’s still hard for me to believe. I’ll tell you, though, it doesn’t show the FBI in a very nice light. And it all happened in your jurisdiction too. But I guess you’ll justify it by saying you were only doing what you were told to do. Hell of a defense. Following orders! That’s taking a page right out of Ludwig Holtzmann’s book, isn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?”

Nick was relentless now. “Maybe the ignorance defense will work better. Yeah—that’ll play well. Number two man in America’s top crime-fighting outfit claims he didn’t know what was going on. That’ll do wonders for your public image, not to mention your career prospects.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” demanded Arminger.

“I’m talking about Newland and his committee. I’m talking about an old man named Gerald Jacobs and all the garbage that was supposed to have been buried with him. Oh yes, Mr. Arminger—check the mail. It’s going to be worth reading.”

“And how did you put this so-called report together? With what you stole out of Jacobs’s home?”

Nick swiveled in his chair, glaring at him. “Does it matter how I put it together? Answer me something—did the FBI place me on their Most Wanted list for breaking and entering and an attempted murder? It never dawned on you that something slightly more serious than a burglary might be going on? Are common burglars now the FBI’s top priority?”

“No, they’re not,” replied Arminger, an angry smile forming on his lips. “But I’ll tell you who is, Merchant. The scum who try to murder cops. International fugitives. There’s a house in Hudson that was burglarized. And there’s a police officer who’s still in the hospital because of it.”

“I don’t know a damn thing about that cop.”

“But you surely must have seen who did it,” said Arminger, sarcastic now. “Your fingerprints were all over the inside of that house, Merchant. Did you ever consider gloves in your plan? Probably wouldn’t have been a bad idea.”

“I want an attorney.”

“He better be the best fucking attorney on the face of the earth.”

Nick stared at him, his lips thin and tight, holding back a torrent of anger.

“You’re finished,” Arminger said. He stepped out to the hallway and gestured. Three agents immediately entered the room. “Bring him back to the cell and get him ready for transportation to the city. I want handcuffs and leg manacles from here on out.”

Arminger watched them lead Nick out, then he took the three photographs and stepped out to the hallway.

Gordon was the only one waiting for the deputy director inside his temporary office.

“You should have heard him,” said Arminger, still agitated. “I don’t know what he was trying to do in there.”

Gordon was watching him closely. “What did he say?”

Arminger pulled up a chair and sat. “Said he mailed us something. Something to do with the senator, his committee, and Jacobs. Said it would . . . make us look bad.” He slid the photos in front of Gordon. “These are the photographs we found in his car.”

Gordon looked the pictures over very carefully. “What exactly did he say about the senator?”

“Nothing that made any sense,” replied Arminger, slowly gathering himself. “None of it’s relevant anyway. We’re dealing with a thief, a liar, and a goddamn attempted murderer. Where do we want to hold him?”

Gordon’s face was distant, his hands joined together in front of his chin. The pictures were flat on the tabletop, facing him.

“Arthur?”

“I wonder when this mail will get here.”

They were both silent. The deputy director suddenly rose to his feet.

“I’m having Merchant brought to the city. We’ll hold him there until we have time to—”

Gordon was shaking his head slowly back and forth.

“We’re not keeping him here, are we?” Arminger asked. He studied his chief. “What
are
we doing, Arthur?”

“The senator and I had a long discussion while you were in there with Merchant. We came to a decision. Neither of us is particularly happy about it, but we agreed it’s probably the wisest thing at this point.”

“What decision is
this?
”

Gordon leaned forward, his hands now pressed to his temples. He let out a long, tired breath.

“I think it’s best if you sit for this.”

T
HE SILENCE WAS
broken by the footsteps of two federal agents as they exited from the judge’s chambers and stepped over the dull marble floor of Columbia County’s courtroom number two. They retook their seats quietly as the judge emerged a few seconds later.

Alex rose and watched Judge Pritchard smooth his robe out from under him and retake his seat. He folded his hands in front of himself thoughtfully before he spoke to her.

“Let me preface my ruling by telling you that never in my thirty-odd years of practicing have I ever seen a case as large as this one, or, I might add, as dangerous. I don’t know the intricacies here, Miss Moreno, or your connection to Nicholas Merchant, but I’m sure you’re aware that this situation will not only be examined by this court, but by federal law enforcement officials as well. I’m very certain that this estate will be studied and picked over for many years by the heir-finding industry. Estates this size are almost never without claimants, and there are heir-finding outfits which will seek to verify and validate the work done by Merchant and Associates. That said, my ruling . . .”

The federal agents were watching the judge intently. Even the public administrator seemed riveted.

“Your documents are in order and, I believe, legitimate.
I find no reason not to approve this petition. The estate is to be divided per the terms of the contract written up by Merchant and Associates and signed by Miss Von Rohr, the sole heir. The proceeds will be wire-transferred per the instructions in the petition.” He tapped his gavel. “This hearing is concluded. Bailiffs, I’ll have the public back in here now. . ..”

Alex gathered her papers together, feeling numb. She had assumed she would receive a favorable ruling, but she felt no joy in the decision. The more she thought about the money, the more repulsed she felt. No doubt Nick could use some of it to mount his defense, and perhaps he even deserved a portion after all the grief these criminals had put him through.

The public was filling the courtroom quickly now. She wanted to get out of there, into fresh air where she could think. She jockeyed her way through the crowd and emerged into the corridor outside.

Regnier saw her immediately. Finally he was certain. He took stock of the crowd. There were probably fifty people milling around the courtroom entrance. Women mostly, a few men in suits. The bailiffs were inside. He slipped his hand under his coat and grasped the handle of his weapon as he moved forward. He would position himself near her and wait for the optimal split second. If necessary he would casually follow her outside. In the ensuing confusion surrounding her death, he would slip through the crowd and be gone.

Alex took the stairway to the first floor and saw the phones near the bathroom. Very few people were around. She entered the booth and closed the folding door behind her. As pointless as it was, she needed to try Nick a final time. The line clicked and connected. She let it ring a
dozen times and got no answer. She hung up and tried again, punching in the numbers carefully. It rang another ten times before she gave up.

She stepped outside and rubbed her forehead. She felt foolish. Nick was gone, and sacrificing her life in a futile attempt to talk to him wouldn’t do either of them the least bit of good. She headed back toward the stairway and the safety of the crowd upstairs. Whether it was safer than being alone she didn’t know, but it felt that way. She would call a cab and get out of there, away from the city of Hudson forever.

Regnier had been watching her every step from just down the hallway. She was ten feet from him and seemingly oblivious to his presence. He made his move when she was two steps up the stairway, creeping up behind her and pulling the makeshift blade free.

Alex was caught completely unaware. A sharp crack tore the air, and by the time she had turned, Regnier was lunging forward into the front of her legs. The force of his weight pushed her down hard to the stairs. She tried to kick free, but his weight was on top of her. She saw his eyes, wide and blank, and she screamed. A thread of saliva ran down his chin as Regnier tried to say something, and then his head fell forward, landing facedown on her stomach. Something was skipping down the marble stairs, making a clicking sound. A man’s shout came from the top of the stairwell.

Guns and badges were suddenly surrounding them. A broad-backed man with a crew cut pushed aside the dead man’s body and freed her.

“FBI Agent Greenwell, Miss Moreno,” said a balding agent with swept-back blond hair. His badge was a foot from her face. “You’re okay.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“This man just came at you with some sort of homemade knife. You’re okay. Can we take you out of here?”

Alex stared up at him, confused. People had gathered around them and were gasping and shouting back and forth. She looked away from the crowd and down at the body at the foot of the stairs. She could see more blood now—a slowly spreading puddle on the floor—and a small sharpened object. The bailiffs were standing around looking confused. Alex looked down at herself and saw that her blouse was spotted with a large circle of the dead man’s blood.