The Heir Hunter (7 page)

N
ICK HAD NEVER
been through Hudson before. He consulted his map and took Mill Street on the northern edge of town to Harry Howard Avenue, and after two errant passes found the street sign he was seeking.

Michael Drive was off Michael Court in the northeastern corner of Hudson, about as far from the river as one could be without leaving the city limits. Nick wasn’t surprised about the locale. One of the more isolated parts of town, Jacobs’s neighborhood was far from the commercial strip of downtown, a dead-end street rarely frequented by anyone but residents. Knowing what he did of Jacobs, it seemed appropriate.

Making a sharp right onto Michael Court, Nick realized just how excited he was. But nervous. Neighbors could be a pivotal source of information—or a huge waste of time. Getting them to talk usually didn’t pose a problem. The trick lay in finding someone who actually had information worth hearing.

He drove to the end of the street, reaching the ninety-degree turn to Michael Drive. He parked on the corner of Michael Court and dragged a sleeve across his brow. It was 8:30
A.M.
and a muggy seventy-five degrees. He was glad to be getting his visit over with before the mercury could climb any higher.

He stepped from the car and walked casually around
the corner to Michael Drive. Overall the neighborhood was more impressive than he had expected. The homes were actually a curious mix of shabby Victorians and larger, more elegant Greek Revivals. The lawns were neat and spacious, the streets wide and tree-lined. It appeared to be a quiet neighborhood devoid of much traffic, a place where a barking dog might pose the most serious threat to the pleasant stillness of the air. Pleasant enough, thought Nick, but still odd. A perfect neighborhood perhaps for someone who didn’t want anyone to
know
he was a millionaire.

He headed north on Michael Drive, scanning each home. It was hard to feel inconspicuous walking on a dead-end street, but he was doing his best. He stuck his hands in his pockets. Outside of a couple of joggers running the opposite way, the sidewalks were barren. Just another Friday morning.

Gerald Jacobs’s house was the fourth from the corner, a two-story white and gray colonial with large windows and a prominent brick chimney. It was one of the nicest on the block, albeit a bit neglected looking. The paint was cracked and peeling in large sections, and the front yard was unkempt, weeds encroaching over a stone walkway that led to the front porch. The shrubs and bushes adjoining the front stairs were overgrown and untrimmed. Gardening didn’t appear to have been the old man’s favorite pastime.

He walked slowly along the sidewalk, his eyes on the house. What he saw wasn’t a home—it was nothing more than a giant, double-floored treasure chest, not full of gold or precious stones, but secrets—the glimmering, private gems of a wealthy recluse’s life. He frowned. Everything he needed was probably in that house.

He approached the building to the right of Jacobs’s house. All neighborhoods shared one characteristic—residents normally loved to talk about each other, especially the strange ones. From all indications, Jacobs may
have been the oddball on the block. He needed to play off any possible animosities.

Nick sidestepped a small boy playing on the front steps and pressed the front doorbell. A woman of about forty quickly opened the door.

“I hope you’re not selling anything,” she said, pointing a stubby finger at a brass N
O
S
OLICITORS
sign affixed to the door frame.

“No, I’m not, ma’am. My name’s Nick, I’m a skip-tracer with the credit bureau of New York. I’ve been trying unsuccessfully to contact your next-door neighbor, Mr. Jacobs. I was hoping you might have some idea where he is.”

“I’ve got an idea all right. They pulled him out of there about a week ago.”

“Pulled him out? Is he . . .?”

She nodded. “As a doornail. What’s this all about?”

“Mr. Jacobs owes a number of creditors a little bit of money.”

“You don’t say,” she said, suddenly interested. “Well, what is it you need to know?”

Nick smiled slightly. A busybody—the investigator’s best friend. “How long did you know Mr. Jacobs and what did you know about him?”

“Well, I tell you, George and I have been here for nineteen years now, and Mr. Jacobs moved in about three years ago. I don’t know that we even exchanged three
words
with the old grouch. He was a strange one. Liked to keep to himself, real unsociable. The kind of grumpy old man who wouldn’t wave back if you waved at him. You know, the type who’d turn off all his lights on Halloween just so the kids would leave him alone. He just wanted nothing to do with his neighbors.”

Small wonder
, thought Nick. “So you really didn’t know much about him . . .”

“I didn’t know a damn thing about him,” she said. “And that was just fine with me. I don’t know what his problem
was. Never waved, never said hello. Just crazy if you ask me. Makes you wonder who showed at his funeral.”

“Did you ever see anyone visit him? Any friends or next of kin?”

“Oh, who’d want to? I never ever saw anyone visit that man. As far as I could see, he was all alone. That’s the way he wanted it, I guess. Stranger than strange.”

Nick was convinced she knew nothing. He turned to leave. “Thanks for your time.”

“So Jacobs owed some money, huh?” she asked after him. “How much?”

“Nothing to get excited about,” he replied, not looking back.

Five remarkably similar interviews later, Nick opened his car door and collapsed onto the seat. He hadn’t expected it to be easy, but he was getting nowhere fast. No one had any clues, any leads. The man was a complete question mark, as mysterious an individual as he had ever investigated. He leaned his head back against the headrest and thought of Alex. Her meeting with Bonnie was suddenly looking absolutely pivotal.

He stared over the steering wheel and frowned. All the answers were in that house. Short of breaking and entering, he didn’t see much hope in getting a peek.

He stepped from the car and walked back around to Jacobs’s home. He paused, then strode up the cracked stone walkway leading to the deserted house. Miss Busybody was probably watching from behind her curtains, but that couldn’t be helped. He stepped up to the porch. Wiping what he assumed to be the living room window with his hand, he narrowed his eyes and peered inside. A thin white curtain obscured his view, and he couldn’t see anything but vague, dark shapes. The furnishings seemed to be in place. He approached the front door and tried the knob, gave it a little shake. Flimsy,
weak wood. Not even a dead bolt. God, this was tempting.

He stepped over the side rail of the porch and walked down a cobblestone pathway to the back fence. He stopped at a side door and placed his face up against the glass. Another curtain blocked his view from what probably was the kitchen. He walked to the sturdy-looking six-foot fence, placed his hands on the top, and hoisted himself up for a look. The yard was rectangular with several concrete paths traveling the length of a poorly maintained garden. Overgrowths of plants and shrubs bordered the yard, and cheap plastic furniture dotted a wooden patio by the back door. Nick lowered himself to the ground and noticed the curtains in the house next door rustle. Probably a good cue to take off.

He was walking back down the pathway toward the street when something caught his eye directly to the right. Jacobs’s mailbox was stuffed to capacity with mail. Envelopes and colorful junk mail jutted out of the garage mailbox slot like a growth of weeds. He walked over and grabbed the bulging stack. Miss Busybody would probably have a conniption when she saw that, but she would get over it. He returned to the car and placed the pile of mail under the passenger seat. At least he had something to show for the morning’s work. He slid the key into the ignition.

“Neighbors don’t know much, do they?”

The voice startled him. The man noticed and seemed to enjoy the fact. He wore a suit and tie and an arrogant grin on his face.

“Sorry,” said the stranger. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Nick Merchant, right?”

Nick nodded and said nothing. He knew immediately who the man was, or at least who he worked for. It was only a matter of time before he or Alex crossed paths with one of them.

“Tough case, eh?” commented the man. His eyes
flicked to the mail by Nick’s side. “Danny Risso—General Inquiry.” He extended his hand with a smile. Nick looked at him and the hand momentarily before offering his own.

“Any luck so far?”

Nick smiled weakly. As if he would tell him. “We’re doing okay.”

Risso laughed a bit, a chuckle that grated on Nick. “Hell of a case, huh? I mean, who would’ve thought something like this would ever come out of Columbia County. Or anywhere, for that matter . . .”

“Who would’ve thought it.”

Risso stuck his hands in his pockets and glanced around the street. “Kinda strange the old coot lived here, huh?”

Nick shrugged, noncommital. He had heard enough of the idle chatter. He had already broken his own rule of not speaking with the competition. He wasn’t about to sit there and have public enemy number one pick his brain for clues. He started the ignition. Risso backed away. The oafish smile was back.

“Gotta run, huh? Hey, good luck there, Nick. By the way, in case you haven’t figured it out already, you don’t have a prayer of solving it.”

Nick snapped his head to him. Their eyes locked. Risso’s grin had shrunk to a smirk. A variety of choicely worded responses filled Nick’s head, but instead he gave a smirk of his own and pulled the car into the street.

It took half an hour and two map references of the town of Cedar Hill for Alex to finally find Acacia Street. She slowed the car to a steady cruise as she strained her eyes for 978 Acacia. A dull brown ranch-style home provided the number. She made a quick U-turn and eased into a spot directly in front of the home. According to the address provided by her PI, this was the current residence of one Bonnie Schliegel.

Alex took a moment to calm herself. Nervousness was standard before meeting a key client, but this time the feeling was amplified. Bonnie was potentially the key piece to a puzzle worth twenty-two million dollars. All questions had to be asked with the utmost tact and delicacy. Alex tilted the rearview mirror and dabbed at her hair. Being well-groomed and presentable never hurt with the little old ladies.

With a determined frown, she stepped to the curb. An older-model Oldsmobile in mint condition was parked in the driveway of the home, and a well-kept bed of flowers along the front perimeter of the house shimmied in the breeze. Alex half expected to see a woman in a bonnet in the middle of it, snipping roses. She looked around. This was the kind of neighborhood she wanted for her mother—a quiet community with a police force that had trouble keeping busy.

She glanced at her watch. It was 8:30
A.M.
; she could see her mother on the subway en route to work—eight hours of drudgery to earn a check that would have put her on the street years ago were it not for her daughter’s support. She closed her eyes. Ten years ago, her mother had regularly sent a portion of her minuscule weekly paycheck to help pay her daughter’s college tuition. She had wanted that degree even more than her daughter did.

She stared at Bonnie’s house and gave a determined frown. They needed to find these heirs.

She approached the front door and gathered her thoughts momentarily before pressing the bell. Instantly she could hear a hysterical little dog yapping and scratching behind the door. Several seconds passed, but there were no other signs of life. She pressed the bell again, further inciting the dog. Suddenly there was a rattling of chains and dead bolts from inside. The door opened several inches, and an old woman—her thin white hair a scraggly mess—peered out. Alex could see several chain lengths still attached to the inside of the door. They stood staring at each other momentarily before the woman spoke.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you this morning, ma’am. Are you Bonnie Schliegel?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

The door was open barely five inches. Alex reached for her business card and extended it toward the gap.

“Miss Schliegel, my name is Alex Moreno. I’m a private investigator from Albany. I was hoping—”

“One moment,” the woman said, turning abruptly to the howling little beast at her feet. Alex heard her scolding the frenzied animal as she led it away. The woman had not taken her card, so Alex put it back in her pocket.

“Now, what were you saying?” the woman asked, her face framed in the five-inch gap once again.

“Yes, ma’am, I was saying that I’m a private investigator from Albany. I’m here researching Gerald Jacobs’s family. The reason I’m visiting you is because your name was mentioned in Mr. Jacobs’s obituary and I was hoping that you might know something about him.”

Bonnie squinted. “Are you with the IRS?”

“Uh . . . no, ma’am. I’m not with anyone. I work alone.”

The woman eyed her as Alex pondered the significance of her question. Something in the eyes told Alex that there were at least a few screws rattling around upstairs.

“What do you want to know about him?” Bonnie asked, a bit harshly.

“Did you know Mr. Jacobs?”

“As well as anyone did.”

“Would you mind sitting down with me for a few minutes to answer a few questions about him?”

Alex held her breath. Bonnie looked her over warily and abruptly closed the door. Alex’s heart sank momentarily until she heard the chains being unlatched. The door swung open.

“I suppose it’s okay, but if it turns out you’re with the IRS, I’ll have nothing to say to you.”

Alex thanked her and stepped inside. Bonnie led her
into a musty living room and motioned her to a chair. Several cats lounged about a worn couch, unimpressed with Alex’s appearance. Bonnie guided the annoying little dog away to another room and returned, sitting across from Alex on the sunken, hair-coated couch.