The Heir Hunter (35 page)

“The Beau Rivage, please.”

The taxi moved through light traffic. They passed by the alley and had a perfect view as Bourdier and the security guard burst from the bank and sprinted to the corner of the boulevard. The second policeman joined in behind them, and the three of them fanned out in opposite directions down the street.

Nick frowned, his suspicions confirmed. He had heard a warning bell in the back of his mind as he had listened to the inspector, a signal telling him to get out. The Swiss police weren’t the ones they needed to speak with. By tomorrow morning he hoped to acquaint himself personally with one Otto Kranzhoffer.

Alex sat in the small studio apartment, shades drawn and lights dim. The situation was worsening. Bad news seemed to be snowballing, dragging her and Nick along with it.

The perky news anchor was annoying her. The woman was delivering the morning news so glibly she seemed to be speaking directly to her, almost mocking her. Alex knew that was crazy, but she couldn’t shake the impression. To make matters worse, the woman’s shiny blond hair and perfect teeth were reminding her of Jessica Von Rohr.

The pretty blonde was droning on mercilessly, describing the current status of the ongoing search for fugitive Nicholas Merchant. The suspect was described as armed and extremely dangerous. A phone number to a police hot line was shown at the end of the story.

Alex angrily grabbed the remote and silenced the television. For several minutes she just sat and rubbed her eyes. Had it really been only
seven days
ago since they had found out about Gerald Jacobs? It seemed like a month-one terrible, disastrous month.

She reached for the morning edition of the
Albany
Times Union.
The small headline still delivered a nasty jolt as she read it again.

She was genuinely frightened now, and more than a little paranoid. She couldn’t possibly be out driving around, not if she wanted to feel safe. She was afraid to pick up lunch, for God’s sake. She questioned whether she would be able to keep food down anyway.

Doug had called after she had left the Bronx and told her what had happened in Los Angeles. She had found the story on the second page of the
Times.
The brazenness of it was shocking. Apparently the killers had strolled right into the main office and done it. She had considered Lawrence Castleton nothing more than an unscrupulous bully these last four years, but there was no way that he or any other heir finder deserved to go out like that.

She walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain slightly. It was seven in the morning—one in the afternoon in Switzerland. Nick was safe and sound in Geneva—she hoped. He said he would try to sign Jessica Von Rohr at some point. This was looming larger in her mind every passing minute. They would be back sometime within the next day or two. If Jessica wasn’t a client by then, it would be time to say goodbye, adios, sayonara. She rubbed her forehead. Four years of heir finding and look where she was now.

The phone made her jump. She stared at it like it was a bomb. This wouldn’t be Nick. Or Doug. They knew to call the cellular.

The fax connected and clicked to life. She slowly approached it. She was expecting two documents, one of which would be another key addition to the Holtzmann file.

With any luck, the German courier’s work would bolster
their case. The old man at the Institute for Historical Review had said that Rudolf Hess had died in 1987 in Spandau prison. That being the case, Hess’s death certificate would be on file with the department of health in the city of Spandau unless it had been removed for reasons of notoriety—a distinct possibility. But if Hess’s was there, Holtzmann’s should be too.

She considered the Jacobs/Holtzmann cover-up as she waited for the fax. If certain individuals were powerful enough to construct a fraud of this enormity, surely they would have had the common sense to cover their tracks and fabricate a false death certificate. If they had done so, the existence of the certificate wouldn’t support any cover-up theories. But what if they hadn’t been so thorough? The mere absence of a death certificate wouldn’t prove anything, but as one of a handful of a growing number of other coincidental facts, the impact of the total would surely be strengthened.

The paper was curling through the fax. The courier had done his job quickly. The first sheet—a cover page with a hastily scribbled message. The second sheet—the death certificate of Rudolf Hess. She read the handwritten note.

She was right, then—they had been sloppy. It was unbelievable how careless they had been in covering their tracks. It would have been relatively easy for them to get away with it. If they had only swept up after the old man’s death, they would have been home free. The crumbs they had left were being detected now, scooped up and analyzed by people who were trained to take crumbs and blow them up under microscopes. She would make sure those mistakes exploded in their faces.

She sat back at the small kitchen table with a pad of paper. It was time to construct a chronology, a timetable of everything they had uncovered about Jacobs/Holtzmann. She suspected several hundred newspapers would be interested in hearing the story.

Alex spent an hour writing up the report. It was neither orderly nor neat, but for now she didn’t care. All she wanted was to get it all down on paper; the final organizing of the information could take place later, when Nick was back. He would undoubtedly have more to add.

When she was done, she read everything, adding details here and there. It was an astounding story, but there were still too many gaps, so much unexplained. It was intimidating trying to put it together and much more complex than she was prepared to deal with.

She cast the papers aside. Without the entire story, the report lacked impact. The words were flat. Not real enough. It needed something more, something that would jar the recipients from their seats. Yes—whoever got the story needed to meet the partners of Merchant and Associates face-to-face. And she knew just exactly how that would happen.

She found her car keys and said a quick prayer. Back roads—she would take the back roads. She would drive safely and pray every mile of the way that the cops wouldn’t see her. She wasn’t wanted, but there was little doubt they knew exactly who she was. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was set foot outside the safe confines of the apartment, but it couldn’t be avoided. Nick was depending on her.

She walked to the closet. The pistol was loaded. She placed it under her belt and stepped outside into the sunlight.

Three minutes after Alex left, the phone rang. The fax came to life with a whirl.

The credit transaction report for Michael Dean Collier was the seventh one she had received. Like the others, it was a standard printout, showing Mr. Collier’s latest purchases, including his most recent flight and travel accommodations. But there was a crucial piece of new information. The current printout showed that a report had been requested and faxed to an unlisted telephone number in Brooklyn Heights, New York.

T
HE PASSENGERS
in the rear of the taxi were silent as the driver found the bridge to the north end of the lake. Nick sat slouched, his eyes on the frigid waters. Jessica had been silent since they had left the bank. The driver hummed along to a happy tune on the radio, oblivious to the both of them. The sun was sinking quickly to the horizon.

Nick checked his watch. Ten after five.

“It’s too late to get anything else done today,” he said. “We need to get back to the hotel. Maybe we can order up something to eat.”

She rolled her head to him slowly, her face expressionless. “I don’t think I’m very hungry right now.”

He nodded and turned back to the lake. He wasn’t particularly famished either, but it would at least waste some time until eight the next morning. They had over twelve hours to kill.

“I need a drink,” she suddenly said. “Badly. You interested?”

“Read my mind.”

“One rule. We don’t talk about my mother or Ludwig Holtzmann until tomorrow. I’m sick and tired of thinking about this.”

“Gladly. It’s probably safest if we limit ourselves to the room, though.”

She shivered noticeably. “You couldn’t drag me out of there.”

The driver let them off behind the hotel. They entered from the rear, and quickly but cautiously made their way up to their room.

Nick took the phone. “Red or white?”

“Red, please,” Jessica replied, taking a seat on one of the double beds.

Nick ordered two bottles and hung up. He wasn’t terribly fond of wine, but it packed more of a kick than beer did.

He entered the bathroom and looked himself over in the mirror, wincing a bit as he did. He looked bad. Bags under the eyes, sleep-deprived pallor, scraggly beard growth—he wondered how he would look in a week. He hoped he would be around to find out.

He shaved and took a quick shower, dabbing a towel to his face as he emerged from the bathroom. Jessica was curled up on her side, resting comfortably. She looked up at him and attempted a tired smile. She was very good-looking, the kind of woman who drew hungry stares from men and envious looks from women. Despite their personality clashes, Nick couldn’t deny her allure.

“Could you pour me a glass?” she asked, gesturing to a table where two bottles of wine and glasses stood. Nick placed the towel aside and uncorked one of the bottles, filling both glasses. He handed her one and took a seat on the adjoining bed.

She took a long, slow sip, seeming to savor it. Nick gulped a mouthful and frowned. To him, it had a sweet, vinegary taste, but perhaps it would loosen him up a bit. He needed to limit himself to no more than two or three glasses. He had not forgotten what alcohol had almost done to him the other night.

They drank in silence for several minutes, listening to
the sounds of the street outside their window. Nick finished a second glass and felt calmer. He looked down at the foot of the bed and noticed his bath towel bunched up on the edge of the mattress. He smiled to himself. Alex would wring his neck if he pulled that stunt at her place, which reminded him—he would need to call her very soon. He got to his feet and hung the towel in the bathroom.

Jessica was dozing on her side when he came out. It was the best option for both of them at this point. He reclined on the other bed. He could only pray that tomorrow would yield better results than their trip to the bank had.

“I spoke with a friend of mine in Colorado,” she suddenly said. “As soon as we get back home, I’m flying to Denver. I’m staying with her for a while until all this cools off.”

Nick turned on his side to face her. “Smart move,” he replied. “I wouldn’t go near Des Moines for a while.”

“I was actually thinking of going to San Francisco. I have a friend there too. I’ve never been to California.”

“You’d probably like it.”

“I’m sure I would,” she said. “I’m used to the city. I practiced in Manhattan for a while.”

“Really,” said Nick, not altogether surprised. Her background check revealed that she had earned her law degree in the state of New York. “That must have been rough—moving from Des Moines to New York City.”

“It was at first. I made some good friends who helped me adjust, though.”

“What did you do there?”

She opened her eyes. “I had a job in a Wall Street firm doing corporate securities work and billing twenty-five hundred hours a year. Seventy-plus hours a week. But I made good money, and that’s what I’d always wanted.” She sat up and reached for her glass. “That’s what it’s about, right? Money?”

Nick shrugged. Up until he had found the Jacobs
case, he might have agreed. “My partner Alex was an attorney for a couple of years before she hooked up with me. She couldn’t hack it. Didn’t like her work, didn’t like being bossed around. Hated everything about it, actually.”

“Not everyone has what it takes to be a successful attorney.”

“Alex has exactly what it takes,” Nick said emphatically. “Her heart was never in it, that’s all. It just so happens she loves private investigation, and she’s very damn good at it too. She’s probably the most capable investigator I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a hell of a lot of PI’s.”

Jessica refilled her glass, then asked, “How did you ever get into this heir-finding thing anyway?”

Nick hesitated. This was a question he normally shied away from, but the wine was making him comfortable. He poured himself a modest refill. Last one, he warned himself.

“My father was a cop for years, but he always wanted to start up a PI firm, only he didn’t want to stake out apartments and click pictures of cheating spouses. One day he read an article about a one-man firm in Chicago that specialized in asset recovery, specifically through heir finding. He researched the industry, found a niche, and set up shop twelve years ago. I was in college at the time in Texas and didn’t really know what I wanted to do. I came back to San Francisco after I graduated and became a cop, working with him on the side.”