The Heir Hunter (2 page)

“The money is coming from your uncle, Andrew Thomas Galloway.” He paused, gauging her reaction.

“My goodness,” she stammered. “I . . . I don’t—”

“My research indicates that you probably never even met him.”

“You know, I never did, but my mother mentioned him a few times when she was alive. They had some sort of a feud goin’. Hadn’t spoken to each other since the sixties.”

Nick frowned sympathetically. Company research indicated that Andrew Galloway had not spoken to Emma McClure’s mother since 1958. His research had uncovered more than dates, though. Andrew Galloway was actually a borderline psychotic with an unnatural attraction to young boys. But there was no need to bring out the darker side of his findings.

“Your uncle had been living up north in Placerville. He died about six weeks ago.”

“And he remembered me in his will?”

“Actually he died without a will. When an individual dies without a will in California, the laws of inheritance are based on genealogy. Bloodlines. You’re his closest living relative, so you get the entire proceeds of his estate.”

“How much?” asked J.P., his entire body tensed.

“Brace yourselves, okay?” said Nick, breaking into a smile now. “There was slightly more than sixty-three thousand dollars in his bank accounts. That’s the entire value of the estate. Congratulations.”

Mother and son remained motionless, and Nick could read no reaction until J.P.’s yellow grin spread across his face like a hairline fracture in glass.

“Sweet Jesus,” said Emma, fanning herself with a magazine.

“It’s all yours now, folks.”

“Sixty-three thousand!” shouted J.P., rising to his feet.

Nick focused on Emma McClure. He was more concerned with the heir’s reaction.

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered, her head in her hands.

“I’m happy to say it’s true, ma’am. Let me tell you how it’ll work: my attorney will arrange a court hearing where we’ll ask the court to release your uncle’s money. Once they okay our petition, it’ll take about five or six weeks for my attorney to receive the checks from the county and send you your portion.”

“And then you’ll mail me the money?”

“I’ll deliver it to you personally. The county will mail my attorney two checks—one for your portion, the other for my company fee. As soon as my attorney gets the checks, I intend to drive back down here and hand you your portion myself.”

“I appreciate that.”

Nick reached into his coat pocket. “I want you to have my card, also my attorney’s card, and a copy of the contract
you’ve signed. Be sure to keep that in a safe place.” He closed and latched his briefcase. “If you have no more questions, I’ll need to be on my way, but please feel free to call me anytime at my office if you feel the need. My number’s right there on the card.”

She smiled at him, misty-eyed. “This is a godsend—a
godsend
, Mr. Merchant. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to patch the roof here? I . . . I just can’t . . .”

The words were lost. She stood and took a step toward him, her arms extended. Nick blushed a bit as she gave him a quick hug.

“I’m happy to bring you the news,” he said, smiling. “I’m sure you’ll put the money to good use.”

“Oh, we will, won’t we, J.P.?” she replied, dabbing at her eyes. J.P. beamed.

“Thank you again, ma’am. Remember—any questions, you call me.”

She nodded and Nick said goodbye.

The San Francisco office of attorney-at-law Douglas Spinetti reflected the prosperity of a well-established young practice. The interior decorator had placed the earmarks of success—the polished hardwood floor partially covered by an ornate royal-blue Persian rug; textured white walls adorned with fine paintings from the city’s hippest art galleries; and the oval-shaped-full-length swivel mirror with cherry and red oak borders, perfectly positioned for self-admiration. The law degree from Georgetown hung like a divine scripture on the wall behind the grand mahogany desk. With his newly purchased Jaguar and recent membership in the Olympic Country Club, Doug Spinetti now felt the equal of an older brother whose law practice had reaped similar trophies. At six foot four with artificially tanned movie star looks and a full head of wavy black hair, Doug was a formidable presence in probate court. With him at the helm, Merchant and
Associates had never lost a court battle, a fact Doug did not let Nick forget.

Doug was chattering away on the phone when Nick entered the office. The private investigator flashed his attorney the thumbs-up sign and approached the mirror, straightening his tie. He was exhausted again, and it showed. Deep bags had found homes under his eyes, and the eyes themselves were streaked with seemingly permanent little threads of red. He took two steps back and looked himself over. He was six foot one with a youthful face and thick black hair sprinkled with slight beginnings of a gray that hardly complemented his thirty-five years. His jaw was long and thick, his mouth often tired but always ready to smile. He was a loner but didn’t mind it because he enjoyed his life, and his work was the biggest reason why. Heirs always needed finding, and to him nothing was more exciting than that simple fact.

Doug hastened his conversation along and finally hung up.

“Goddamn, I’m glad you’re here. I need some good news.” He spread his arms. “Talk to me—done deal?”

“What do you think?”

“I think we bagged ourselves another one,” said Doug, flashing the victory grin that seemed to reveal every polished tooth in his mouth. “Percent?”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty?
That’s it?”

“That’s it. Yeah, yeah, I know. You didn’t see their house, Doug. These people were about an inch from the poverty line.”

Doug’s face had assumed an expression more suitable for the thought of lost income.

“I swear to God, Nick, you missed your true calling in life. You should be over in India passing out loaves of bread or something. Nick Merchant, missionary.”

Nick smiled and took the expected lumps. “You need
to come along with me one of these times. You might learn something.”

“No,
you
might learn something—how to run a business and not a damn charity. Your pops knew how. I don’t know about his bleeding-heart son.”

Nick was chuckling now. “Answer me honestly, Doug. Would seventy-five percent be enough of a cut?”

“Eighty sounds better.” He shook his head. “So did these lovely poor folks give you any problems?”

“None. Couldn’t have been in there more than half an hour. Real nice lady. She was in tears after I told her.”

Doug attacked his desk calculator with his hand. Nick watched in amusement as the fingers pecked like a hungry bird. Doug leaned back with his hands behind his head. “Twelve point six—not too shabby. Could’ve been sweeter, though.”

“Not too bad for three days’ work,” said Nick, rubbing his eyes. He had gotten only ten hours sleep out of the last seventy-two and exhaustion was hitting him like a freight train.

“Any other companies contact her?”

“Nope.”

Doug leaned forward, studying him closely. “You seem a little mopey for someone who just made twelve grand. Talk to me, pal. What’s up with the frown?”

Nick shrugged. He gazed absentmindedly at the certificates and diplomas affixed to the wall directly behind Doug’s desk—a wall of medals proven in the battlefields of court. “I’m fine. Little bit distracted—I keep thinking about New York. It’s almost show time over there.”

“Yeah, what’s the deal with Alex?”

“You know what the deal is. Two o’clock, Columbia County. She’ll have five grand in her pocket, ready to go. The deputy attorney’s pretty jumpy about the whole thing, but it’s all set up.”

“How many files you think this guy will have for us?”

“I don’t know. I’m guessing we’ll get six or eight cases
to work. With the early jump, I’ll solve ’em all. The worthwhile ones anyway.”

Doug drummed his fingers on his chin, his smile wide. “I could barely sleep last night thinking about this, Nick. Thank God we’re finally wising up. We’ve been getting our ass kicked more than we should.”

Nick nodded. Despite the occasional Emma McClure, Doug’s assessment was correct. The victories were nice, but they were really nothing more than table scraps from the big heir-finding firms like General Inquiry and Hogue and McClain. Hopefully the New York State money would be a step toward reversing that imbalance. Nick hoped so. He and Alex had spent several long nights on the phone discussing whether or not they wished to enter the shady realm of bribery. Although neither of them was comfortable with it, they were in agreement that Merchant and Associates would not survive without lining an occasional pocket.

“I want you to call me the second you hear from Alex,” said Doug. “I’m not gonna be home tonight till about nine, but I want to know how it went.”

“Will do. Where’re you off to tonight?”

Doug leaned forward on his elbows, his frown inconsolable. “Oh God—another ballet recital for Carey. Kimberly wants to enroll Nicole in ballet class next month when she turns six.” He shook his head. “If it ain’t ballet, it’s piano; if it ain’t piano, it’s gymnastics. Man, what I’d do for a G.I. Joe doll and a baseball mitt. Next one’s got to be a boy, Nick.”

“Then you’d just be bitching about Little League and Boy Scouts.”

“I can handle that stuff. You don’t know how bad it can be, buddy—I’m surrounded by girly things every hour out of the office. Barbie dolls and ballet. Kimberly wants another next year, and I’m scared to death it’ll be another girl.”

Nick laughed. “It’s called justice. For all the hearts you
stepped on before you got married.” He glanced at his watch and shot to his feet. “I gotta get outta here. I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t forget. I got a really good feeling about this deal.”

Doug followed him to the door, giving him a playful punch in the shoulder as he left.

Alex Moreno rapped her nails impatiently on the surface of the Columbia County deputy attorney’s desk and waited. She had five thousand dollars cash in her pocket and another seven thousand in her purse. She was nervous, but it wasn’t just because of the illegality of the bribe. It was an excited kind of nervous, like a child on Christmas Eve who was not sure just how many gifts were going to be under the tree in the morning. She could barely sit still.

She dug her fingers under the collar of her blouse and gave it a slight yank. The thing felt like a noose and allowed about as much circulation. She had spoken with Nick the night before and agreed to dress “professionally.” What a joke. Alex—the professional briber! She frowned. Blue jeans and a T-shirt were about as formal as she liked to get on the job. The blouses and skirts she had worn as an attorney hadn’t left the closet in four years, and that was just fine with her.

“Mr. Koenig will be right with you,” said a clerk, poking her head into the office.

Alex nodded and glanced around the typically drab government office. She was in the Columbia County Clerk’s Building, in the office of Deputy Attorney Lloyd Koenig. The walls were bare, a dull off-white, the carpet a worn gray. Koenig’s desk was box shaped, an imitation-oak construction with a dull finish and chipped edges. One small window looked out to Union Street in downtown Hudson. She shuddered at the thought of working in such
confinement as she slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the envelope again. She had gone through it twice that morning to verify that it was indeed five thousand dollars. All that was needed now was Koenig and the probate files.

Nick was the one who had arranged this very special meeting. It was a desperate move, really—a move for survival. With heir-finding monster General Inquiry strengthening its bribery-fed stranglehold on the larger California counties, it was time to either fight fire with fire or sink out of sight. Neither she nor Nick had any intention of packing it in. With considerable reservations, they had finally decided to cross an ethical boundary.

Nick had negotiated the terms of the payment with Koenig one day over lunch. For five thousand dollars, Merchant and Associates was to be given an exclusive ten-day sneak preview of the county’s monthly probate files, a 240-hour head start on the official county release date, when the competition would get their first look. Ten days—an eternity for a capable heir finder to wrap up a case. In light of this fact, five thousand dollars was a small price to pay.

“Ms. Moreno?”

Alex stood and faced him. Lloyd Koenig was short with thinning gray hair, and he wore a charcoal pinstripe suit, suspenders, and what looked to be a Rolex on his wrist. A walking billboard of Italian-tailored success. He offered his hand as Alex caught his eyes roam down her healthy five-foot-seven-inch frame.

“Lloyd Koenig, deputy attorney, here. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He gestured to the chair and Alex sat down again. Koenig dropped to his swivel chair and smiled, his leer making Alex cringe inwardly. He was gawking at her as if he had just heard a nasty story in the men’s locker room.

“So how’re you doing today?” he asked, showing a row of smoke-stained teeth.

“Fine, thanks,” she answered, removing the envelope from her pocket and dropping it to the desk in front of him. “We may as well get down to business, Lloyd. Five thousand. Go ahead and count it if you’d like.”

Koenig looked blankly at the envelope and then back at Alex. He said nothing.

“Is something wrong?” Alex asked, suddenly confused.

Koenig maintained his stare unflinchingly. The air was very quiet. “We need to talk,” he said.

“About what? Is there a problem?”

“It’s about the arrangement.” He scratched his nose. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to . . . renegotiate the terms.”

“I thought everything had been squared away with Nick Merchant, Lloyd.”

“Well, it
was
, but that was before I knew what I had here.”

“I’m a little confused,” she said, feeling a warm flow of blood to her cheeks.

“I’ll be blunt. I want more money. This is just too damn big.”

Alex studied him. Too damn big? “So what are we looking at here?”

“After what I’ve seen in these files, I think ten thousand’s damn cheap.”