The Heir Hunter (16 page)

Nick nodded. He was close—so very close. He reached into his jacket and produced the picture of the girl he had found in Jacobs’s room.

“Who was Monica, Claudia? Who was she?”

Claudia stared at the picture for five long seconds and then smiled widely. She pointed her crooked finger at the photo. “That is Ludwig’s sister, Monica.”

Nick looked at the picture, his heart pounding his rib cage.

“So many questions,” Claudia said. “Tell me when Willie will come visit.”

“I’m not sure,” replied Nick, feeling his patience begin to slip. “How are Monica’s babies, Claudia? How are her children?”

“Ah yes—Monica’s little boys. And one little girl too. Monica shouldn’t have disgraced them.”

“What do you mean—”

“She fled the country. Went to America.”

“And she had three children?”

“At least the little ones didn’t suffer through the war.”

“What were her children’s names, Claudia?” he asked, almost pleading now. He touched her hand gently. “Do you remember their names?”

“I don’t know,” replied the old woman absently.

“Think, Claudia. You can remember—I know you can. Where did Monica live? What city in America?”

“Monica just wrote to you, didn’t she, Claudia?” asked Magda.

“Yes. I told her to come to Germany, but she never comes.”

“Where is Monica now?” asked Nick.

Claudia pointed. “Magda, give me my jewelry box.”

Magda nodded, lifting herself slowly from the wheelchair. She slowly shuffled over to her dresser, opened a drawer, and removed a small wooden case.

Nick scrutinized the box approvingly as she returned. Good things often came in small packages. Magda handed it to Claudia and she pried it open with her withered, skeletal fingers. She removed what appeared to be a small stack of envelopes. Nick leaned forward and wet his lower lip. Claudia held the letters to her heart and smiled sadly.

“These letters are precious. My dear family—someday we will be reunited.”

“Claudia, may I see them please?” Nick asked.

He reached for them and, meeting no resistance, slid them gently from her grasp. To his relief, Magda began chattering away to Claudia, and their focus shifted away from him.

He thumbed through the stack of envelopes. Some were in English; most were in German. He scanned several that were written in German, looking for names or addresses that might be useful, and found nothing.

One letter caught his eye. It was in English and dated just over six years ago. From what Nick read, it contained the kind of everyday trivialities that elderly people normally love to hear. It had been sent from Des Moines, Iowa. The letter began “Dear Claudia.” The envelope, which Claudia had so meticulously saved, gave a return address of 11 Pinecreek Road, Des Moines, Iowa, 50312. The letter had been sent from a Monica Von Rohr.

Before he could decipher the significance of the find, he noticed a letter unlike the others. The typewritten ink was faded and a bit smeared, but it was in English and completely readable:

Affixed to the letter was a yellowed, poor-quality photocopy. Nick glanced at the women and then back down to read. The paper was faded, the words almost illegible. The seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was stamped at the top.

Nick let a breath out slowly. The picture had come into focus a bit more. The FBI had placed Gerald Jacobs, who was actually Ludwig Holtzmann, in Hudson, New York, back in 1997. But evidently the current FBI administration had been asleep at the wheel when he died. They hadn’t expected heir finders to descend on the body quicker than flies. A careless mistake.

The women were too absorbed in their conversation to notice Nick slip the Von Rohr and Holtzmann letters into his inner coat pocket. He took the Bureau document as well. He then placed the slightly thinner stack on Claudia’s nightstand. They would never notice the difference, and he would definitely return them just as soon as the investigation was over. He rose to his feet.

“Claudia, Magda, it’s been nice talking with the two of you. I really must be leaving, though. Thanks so much.”

Claudia’s eyes momentarily twinkled. “Won’t you stay for dinner?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.” He gently took her hand. “It was nice seeing you.”

He turned from them, feeling a bit guilty. He had deceived them, but if anything he had brightened their day by paying them a visit.

Frau Brausch waited for him outside the door, her arms folded across her chest.

“Find what you were looking for?”

“I just may have,” he replied, hurrying by her. “I appreciate your help.”

Nick hastily descended the staircase to the main floor, his mind reeling the entire walk. The names reverberated in his head. FBI Director. Ludwig Holtzmann. And the trail was now pointing to Iowa. Somehow he sensed that Des Moines wouldn’t be the last stop on this wild ride.

He exited out into the sunlight of the front court and entered the rental car, beginning a slow cruise back down the road they had come on. He spotted his translator sitting along the way and five minutes later returned him to Bischofswiesen.

Before returning to the autobahn, he pulled the car into the lot of a small inn by the side of the road. He began punching in Alex’s home phone number, then paused. The FBI was on to them. He hung up and tried her cell phone instead. It would be a harder line for them to trace

“It’s me.”

“What happened?” Alex’s voice was drowsy with sleep.

“Something big, I think. I got this woman to pull out some old letters. Jacobs
was
Holtzmann, Alex. I think we have the old man’s sister in Iowa.”

“Oh my God—Nick! What—”

“Write down this name. Monica—that’s M-o-n-i-c-a—Von—V-o-n—Rohr—R-o-h-r. Last name is two words. Address: 11 Pinecreek Road, that’s P-i-n-e-c-r-e-e-k Road, Des Moines, Iowa, 50312. Read it back.” She did. “Okay. Get on the computer and do an occupant check. Call the operator out there and confirm that she’s still at that address. Get up and get on it right now.”

“I’m up.”

“After you confirm the address, do a complete background check. I’m en route back to the Salzburg airport right now. Hopefully when I get there you’ll have a confirmation on the address and I’ll be hopping on a plane to Iowa. What time is it there now?”

“Little after four in the morning.”

“One other thing—see what you can find out about this Ludwig Holtzmann person. After you’re done researching Monica, go to a library or something and see what you can find. Find out whatever information you can on those bank letters too. We need to know exactly what those are.”

“There might be another few million there,” said Alex.

“You got it, baby. If so, we’ll tack ’em on to the estate and claim those too. Listen, we’ve both got our hands full. I’ve got to run now—”

“Wait a second, Nick. Have you spoken with Rose? The FBI—”

“The FBI’s looking for me—I know all about it. I’m not doing anything about that until I check out Iowa. I’ll hear them out once we find our heirs. I found some document over here that links them to Jacobs. Look, I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. Just check out Monica for me and I’ll get back to you in a while.”

Nick replaced the phone and pulled off onto the road.

Friday morning in Albany had been spent on the links. Philip Cimko had been in a fairly decent mood—that is, until he spotted the cart. It rolled into view down the side of the fairway as he was set to tee off on the eleventh hole, and the sight of it told him his peaceful day was done.

The cart eased to a stop and off tottered O’Connor, chief aide and unofficial bearer of bad news. Cimko grabbed a small hand towel from his cart. He didn’t bother looking at his sudden visitor. Looking would only irritate him further.

“I’ve got the full story on that situation upstate, Philip.”

Cimko dabbed the sweat from his forehead and smiled humorlessly.

“I’m sure it’s a wonderful story at that.” He sighed in resignation. “What do we have?”

“Two private investigation firms—one’s in Los Angeles,
the other’s in San Francisco. What they’re trying to do is find heirs to Jacobs so they can sign them to some sort of inheritance contracts. These are legal agreements which entitle—”

“I prefer the shorter version.”

O’Connor blinked nervously as he tried to think of a shorter version. Cimko traded the towel for his rapidly warming mineral water as his subordinate cleared his throat and walked around to him.

“In order to find these heirs, both of these companies are digging up everything they can on Jacobs’s past—”

“Heirs—what are these mythical heirs you keep mentioning? The old man shouldn’t have any family.”

O’Connor swallowed and tried not to blink too much.
“Shouldn’t
have any family, no. But these PI’s were probably behind the break-in. Supposedly the place had been ransacked.”

“We already know there’s nothing in there, O’Connor. Our people checked the place out already, remember?”

“So why did one of these PI’s fly to Germany last night?”

Cimko looked at him sharply. “How do we know this?”

“Credit report. Same person just made another reservation to Des Moines.”

“Des Moines?”

“Iowa.”

Cimko’s shoulders seemed to sag. He pushed his sunglasses to his forehead and wiped his eyes. The unseasonable heat wasn’t helping matters.

“So what, O’Connor. What exactly can he fucking do?”

“Big damage maybe. From what I understand, these PI’s need to show the court the old man’s family tree to prove the heirs are related. They’re going to need to dig up everything from his past to find out exactly who he really was. It’s the only way to link the heirs to him. All the findings would come out in open court and be filed at the courthouse. Public record, Philip.”

“How? How could they dig all this up? What the hell’s there to find? I’m telling you, the old man
had
no family.”

“Probably true, but do we want them even looking? They already know something’s going on, what with the FBI’s involvement. Do we take the chance of underestimating these people? Philip, for a piece of twenty-two million they’re not just going to go away.”

Cimko studied him, then cursed and climbed back into the cart. He was a youthful thirty-eight years old and very slender. “We’ll need to take action then,” he said. “Thomas expects us to handle our end of this. I want you on the phone with our Brooklyn contact.”

“Brooklyn? Jesus Christ, that business in the Bronx was supposed to be the last of it.”

Cimko tossed the bottle aside and glared at him.

“Yes, it was, O’Connor. The Bronx was going to be the last of it, and before that Hudson was to be the last of it, and before that it was Switzerland. Unfortunately it seems the Band-Aids are no longer working. It seems we now have massive fucking hemorrhaging, and the only thing that will stop it now is a tourniquet. Tightened, O’Connor—tight enough to stop the bleeding.” He took a breath and refound his composure. “We were all caught off guard by this. Even Thomas didn’t anticipate it. Christ, who had ever even
heard
of heir hunters?”

“What is Thomas going to do?”

“Everything he possibly can. He arrives in Washington today.”

“My God. What’s his plan?”

“He has to fill in Gordon. There’s no avoiding it now.”

“Fill him in? Just how is he going to do that, Philip?”

“By being very careful,” replied Cimko, leaning over the wheel of the cart. “He knows the President has been very supportive of the committee. Marshall will back him up, if for no other reason than to make himself look good. I don’t think we’ll have a problem there.” Cimko grabbed a folded section of newspaper and began fanning himself.

O’Connor stared at him grimly. “I hope you’re right, Philip.”

“I usually am.”

“Thomas better know what he’s doing,” said O’Connor.

Cimko laughed scornfully. “I really wish you would think, O’Connor. For once in your life, think before you open your mouth. Of course Thomas knows what he’s doing. He isn’t a fool. Do you think he would have ever gotten involved with Jacobs in the first place without having a safety net in place?”

O’Connor was shaking his head. His face looked pained. “This could get completely out of hand.”

“Have faith, O’Connor. The plan will work. Once Gordon is taken care of, we’ll be in the clear.”

“And what if the plan doesn’t work?”

“It
must
work. Thomas will see that it does.” Cimko climbed back into his cart and removed his sunglasses, wiping them with the towel. He felt calmer now. His rare Sunday away from his desk had been ruined, but he was over it. “Thomas expects me to quell this any way I can,” he said. “I want you on the phone. How soon can Kragen have people in L.A. and San Francisco?”