The Heir Hunter (5 page)

“Oh God, please—”

Malloy’s gun fired first, followed by Regnier’s. Jimmy Demello fell backward, dead before his head hit the carpet.

The two visitors went to work, ignoring the body. Their work didn’t take long—the office was small, a few desk drawers and two dented file cabinets holding nothing of
interest. The killers checked Jimmy Demello’s car before entering their own and driving away.

Edmund Arminger leaned back in his black leather executive’s chair and pored over the Jacobs file yet again. For reasons even he wasn’t entirely certain of, he felt drawn to it. He sensed a deeper story within its pages, a secret he was expected to safeguard but not to share in. He felt a mild resentment toward Director Gordon for trying to stifle his curiosity. He was Senior Deputy Director of the country’s most powerful crime-fighting organization; he would not be dissuaded so easily.

He placed the file aside. For the third time, he could see nothing. The report was routine but brief, revealing scant detail. Jacobs was, oddly enough, a foreigner, a Swiss whose real name was Martin Schmidt. There were dates, placement arrangements, a thin personal background report, and little else. Reason for placement was given in the vaguest possible terms:
protection of key witness.

Arminger glanced at his watch. It was 1
A.M.
, Wednesday morning, a time of day when most other deputy directors were home with their wives. Since his rather acrimonious separation two years before, he saw little reason to spend time in an empty house. After all, it was dedication and hard work that brought men to the top of their professions, and he would be living proof of that very shortly, just as soon as Arthur Gordon hobbled off into the sunset. In his opinion, it was high time his chief did just that.

Deputy Director Arminger was forty-nine years old, five foot ten with unstylish flat hair, pale skin, and an unremarkably thin voice. Physically unimpressive, he was a man who might easily be overlooked were he to enter a room of unsuspecting agents. Those who knew Edmund Arminger recognized him for what he truly was: a shrewd and, some would say, cold leader, brilliant enough to be
considered the imminent successor to the director himself. Every agent in the Eastern Region knew this and deferred to him because of it.

Arminger raised his head to the sound of voices in the hallway. His guests had finally arrived.

Director Gordon came with his usual escorts but left them in front of Arminger’s office, closing the door behind him. His eyes were red and heavy. The glare of the neon lights above made them look absolutely tortured. Arminger studied him and was startled at how old his chief looked that morning. Not much longer until the old man called it quits.

“I know this is unexpected, Edmund,” said Gordon. “It’s important. I just found out that Jacobs will require a bit more than we thought.”

Arminger wasn’t disappointed to hear this. He leaned forward on his desk and brought a hand to his chin as Gordon took a seat in front of him.

“We have new duties,” said Gordon. “First thing we need to do is assign an agent to go down to the county courthouse and remove the Jacobs probate file. The plan eventually is to pull the death certificate, the property deed, and any other documents with his name. We’re erasing Jacobs from the public record.”

“Lot of attention to give a dead old man,” commented Arminger thoughtfully. “I still don’t understand why Dalton didn’t brief us about this person if this was so important.”

Gordon crossed his legs and frowned. His predecessor hadn’t had time to do much. Director James Dalton had lasted barely three months after his diagnosis of stomach cancer.

“We can’t possibly be versed on every last person in witness relocation,” Gordon said. “Let’s just get this over with, Edmund. This Jacobs business is becoming a nuisance.” He removed a handkerchief and honked into it.

“What’s to be done after we take the file?”

“We get a warrant to clear out the house. I’ll need you to get a moving truck there within the next day or two and haul out everything that isn’t nailed down. I want every table, chair, and napkin out of there.”

“And once we’re done with that?”

“Same as always. The file goes to archives and gets buried.”

Arminger nodded and reached for a folder in front of him. “I want to show you something,” he said, extending a piece of paper to Gordon. “Take a look at ‘Cause of Death.’”

Gordon scanned down the death certificate. “‘Drowning.’ What about it?”

“Look at ‘Other Significant Conditions.’”

Gordon read it aloud. “‘Lower chest bruises.’” He looked at him, unimpressed. “What’s so interesting?”

“I talked to the medical examiner who performed the autopsy and asked him his opinion. He thinks the locations of the bruises were a little bit odd. He said a paranoid person might make a case that Jacobs had his head held under water. That would explain the wide chest bruise. The side of the tub was pressing against him as he was held down.”

“Old people bruise getting out of bed—I speak from experience. Does this coroner think he’s a detective or something?”

“It’s just odd,” replied Arminger. “Lower chest bruises? Sounds as if someone had a score to settle with the old man.”

“That goes without saying, doesn’t it? He was placed in the program for a reason.”

“And that reason was
protection
, Arthur. I don’t like the idea of a placement being murdered in my jurisdiction. It’s a reflection of my post. I need to know what’s happening in my own backyard.”

Gordon let out a breath as they stared at each other. Every week now it seemed his New York deputy was finding
something new to get snappy about, pushing when he should be showing restraint. It was troubling to him, and increasingly irritating.

“Don’t get worked up over this. A few chest bruises on an eighty-seven-year-old is not convincing evidence of murder. If that’s what you’re basing your case on, I’m not impressed.” He turned away from Arminger. “Let’s just get this under wraps. If there’s anything rotten, we’ll deal with it at the appropriate time, but for now let’s treat it like any other witness protection closedown. As I told you, the local police are not to touch this. I don’t want a cop near that house.”

“No need to worry about that,” replied Arminger. “I told the medical examiner that we would handle any investigations. He’ll keep his mouth shut if he likes his job.”

Gordon took a seat.

“I wouldn’t expect to find much to investigate. Nothing surfaced while Jacobs was alive, so why should he all of a sudden become an issue now?”

Arminger nodded slowly. He had ideas but thought better of sharing them.

“Standard procedure, then,” said Gordon. “Investigations, homicide or otherwise, are only going to keep the old man around. I want an agent by the Columbia County courthouse first thing in the morning to pick up that file.”

“He’ll be there.”

“See that he is.”

N
ICK REACHED ALBANY
at ten minutes before two in the morning. He stepped from the cab and double-checked the Morris Street address. This was it. The porch light was on, the only one on the block still shining. He glanced down the street in both directions. It was a quiet, pleasant neighborhood from what he could tell, and Alex’s two-story, brown Victorian was like any other on the block. He stood for a moment and admired her newly purchased home. He was proud of her—damn proud. It had been a long, painful road from the roach-infested Spanish Harlem neighborhood of her childhood. She had fought and scratched every inch of the way out of there. He knew his childhood had been a cakewalk in comparison to that.

His finger was inches from the doorbell when the door swung open. Alex wore a huge smile as she stood and stared at him, her finger on her chin.

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “I think I recognize this face.”

“I just couldn’t take being away from you,” replied Nick, smiling back.

“How sweet. And I suppose a twenty-two-million-dollar case has nothing to do with it, huh?”

They embraced tightly. Nick caught a trace of a perfume he remembered from years ago, and the memories of their days (and nights) together at Texas U. washed
over him. He had forgotten the name of the fragrance, but whatever it was, it still smelled incredible. He took a step back and looked her over. With her perfect olive-toned skin and wide brown eyes, Alex could still easily pass for a newly enrolled coed. The product of Spanish and Cherokee parentage, she was every bit the head-turner she had been fifteen years before. The beautiful, big-boned frame always seemed to carry those extra five or ten pounds so perfectly.

Nick slung his bag over his shoulder and looked about the interior of her home. “The place looks great. I want the full tour before we get to work.”

“Well, follow your tour guide.”

The house was roomy but comfortable. Three bedrooms, two baths, and a spacious den. Alex was glowing as she showed him around. He could see it in her eyes; she was proud of herself, and she had every right to be. She had beaten some pretty nasty odds from day one, and Nick was happier than anyone for her. She was the only one in her family who had earned a college degree, who had made anything of herself. She had happily abandoned her career as a lawyer when Nick had introduced her to heir finding.

The coffee was ready in the kitchen. Alex filled two mugs and offered one to her partner.

“Let’s take these upstairs, Nickie. I’ve got some good stuff to show you.”

They climbed the stairs to the second-floor office. Nick looked about his East Coast base of operations approvingly. Alex had made positive renovations. She had purchased the high-backed leather chair he had recommended and a large executive’s desk, and the fax, computer, and copier were smartly placed and unobstructed by the mess of papers he was accustomed to seeing. He also noticed the fire safe he had been nagging her to buy.

“Like what you see, Mr. Nitpicker?” asked Alex.

“Love it. Hey, and it only took you four years to get organized.”

“Be nice, Nick. You remember how tiny my apartment was.”

Nick removed his sport coat and settled down at the desk. “Let’s talk Jacobs. We got documents?”

“And more,” Alex said, pulling up a chair next to him. She reached for a small photograph and handed it to him. “Special bonus, courtesy of a friend in the coroner’s office. Say hello to Mr. Jacobs.”

The photo was a Polaroid, taken from the shoulders up. The head was nearly bald, the doughy face a sunken collection of wrinkles. The milky-white flesh of the corpse contrasted sharply with the cold gray of the medical examiner’s gurney.

“Handsome devil,” said Nick, placing it aside. “What else?”

“Lotsa documents but a whole lotta nothing,” said Alex, handing him a sheet. “Here’s the DC. We’ve got ourselves a real
unk
man.”

Nick scanned the death certificate for the most important section. Both “Father’s Name” and “Mother’s Maiden Name” gave the same classification:
unk
—unknown. He followed his finger down the document as Alex spoke.

“Eighty-seven years old, died at home. Cause of death says drowning. Must have slipped in the tub or something.”

Nick nodded. “‘Marital Status: single.’ Damn. Lifelong bachelor?”

“Looks that way. Our couriers checked the state marriage logs from the years 1925 to last year. He never got married in New York.”

Nick rubbed the sweat from his forehead. The house was warm and stuffy.

“‘Usual Occupation: glassworker.’ What’s that supposed to be?”

“No clue,” replied Alex. “I couldn’t find any unions or anything, so I think it’s pretty worthless.”

“Social Security number’s got an 087 prefix. Isn’t that . . .?”

Alex nodded. “Issued in the state of New York.”

“We’ve got a contact.” He read from the death certificate. “Informant’s name: Bonnie Schliegel, mailing address, including zip code: P.O. Box 16, Stony Point, New York.”

“I think this lady is key,” said Alex. “She’s in the obit too.”

She leafed through her collection of papers and found a photocopy. Nick took it and read. It had been copied from the previous day’s edition of the
Albany Times Union.

“Resident for three years,” Alex said. “The old guy’s a transplant.”

“So where was he residing his previous eighty-four years, my lady?”

“Twenty-two-million-dollar question.” She twisted a lock of hair thoughtfully. “I called Bonnie about eight o’clock last night.”

Nick looked at her quickly. “Tell me you didn’t. Alex, we need a face-to-face with this woman. Phone calls are too risky—”

“Relax, Nickie. I just called to see what her voice sounded like. She sounds like a sweet little old lady on her machine. Your specialty. I’ve got a PI doing a real address search on her. He promised it by seven
A.M.
”

Nick glanced at the wall clock. It was 2:45
A.M.
“It’s late. How you holding up?”

“Horribly. I need a couple more hours.”

“Me too. Let’s finish up by three.” He wiped his forehead again. “You got the heat on in here?”

“You wimp. The windows are open.”

“I’m cooking.”

“You’re whining.”

Nick smiled and looked back to the desk. “What else we got?”

“You’ll like this.” She opened her portfolio and found another sheet of paper. Nick took it and gave her an incredulous stare.

“How’d you get this so quick?”

“Rayford has a crush on me. He says he loves my voice.”

“He should see the rest of you.”

Having a contact within the Internal Revenue Service was expensive, but it paid huge dividends. A divorced fifty-year-old with four kids, Murray Rayford apparently didn’t mind committing a federal crime to make a few extra thousand a year.