The Heir Hunter (24 page)

The director nodded, still off balance. The senator and his information were so unexpected he was having difficulty digesting what he was hearing. He had been out of the loop on Jacobs, and to be briefed in front of the President was both frustrating and embarrassing. He was angry he hadn’t known much sooner.

Newland continued. “Negotiations with a number of
Swiss banks are going to drag on for quite some time, Mr. Gordon. The groundwork we’ve laid the past few years will be seriously compromised if Mr. Jacobs’s true identity is revealed.”

“And I don’t want to see that,” said President Marshall, with emphasis. “Tom is doing remarkably well with a very difficult situation, and I don’t want his project to fail. His committee is doing the right thing to help correct a terrible wrong, and this is something that will also reflect very favorably on the Party next election. I’ll be damned if some greedy private investigators will undermine four years of honorable work. Speaking of which, have you established contact with these PI’s yet, Arthur?”

“I just spoke with the last of them this morning.”

“And has he given his word not to investigate?”

“Actually, no. He says that he can’t promise us anything in regard to that.”

“Now, which one is this?”

“Nicholas Merchant.”

“Right. The small outfit.”

“That’s correct.”

The President nodded and looked to Newland. The senator spoke.

“Mr. Gordon, as I understand it, the reason these investigators are so interested in Jacobs is because of his estate. Isn’t there some way we can get into the appropriate county and drain these accounts? I’d think this would remove any incentive for these PI’s to even continue with this.”

Director Gordon was having difficulty paying attention to the question. He was still processing what he had just heard of the Jacobs background.

“I’m sure there is a way, Senator. The problem is that we have no true jurisdiction in a state county probate proceeding. With some maneuvering, we could do it, but I think we’d only draw the attention of God knows how many state employees to the situation. The press surely
wouldn’t be far behind, and that’s exactly what we’re trying to avoid. If we allow this probate hearing to proceed but simply close it off to the public, we’ll alert fewer people of the estate’s existence. We’ve been immediately confiscating the court records as they’re being filed.”

“I think that’s wise,” commented the President. “Now then, what about this police officer who was shot the other night? I believe you told me he was a City of Hudson policeman?”

“That’s correct.”

“Who are your suspects in that?”

“Nicholas Merchant is the primary suspect.”

“Do you have your evidence?”

“Not at the moment.”

“It’s clear he had every reason to enter the home.”

“The motivation is obvious, yes.”

“And this does involve the witness protection program. Quite obviously your jurisdiction.”

“That’s correct,” replied Gordon.

“Then run with that, Arthur. I’d like you to take over any investigation into this attempted murder as well as the burglary. Clearly the burglar and the shooter are one and the same, wouldn’t you say?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Quite
likely
, I would think. I’d like you to gather your evidence and file your charges against this Merchant person. Didn’t you tell me that he used to be a police officer?”

“In San Francisco, yes.”

“San Francisco? Is he a homosexual, by chance?”

“I have no idea,” answered Gordon.

“Well, find out. Have your agents check that house up and down. We need evidence, Arthur. It’s very important that we nail this man if he’s insisting on pressing this investigation forward. We do not need undue attention brought to this Jacobs fellow, not after all the fine work the senator’s committee has done.”

“Mr. President, the house has been cleared out and handed over to the New York Department of Justice. Those were your instructions.”

“Yes, and that was a favor to Senator Newland. Knowing his involvement, I’m giving him a certain leeway on this situation.” He crossed his arms on his chest. “Arthur, I’m not looking for anything complicated here. Just get in there, find the evidence—a few fingerprints perhaps—and file the charges. This needs to happen quickly. I wouldn’t be so insistent if it weren’t very important to Senator Newland and his committee.”

“Is Merchant’s firm very large, Mr. Gordon?” asked the senator.

Gordon kept his eyes on the President when he spoke. He didn’t like being questioned by Newland, nor did he feel comfortable with the senator’s involvement in this part of the discussion.

“A two-man show, basically.”

“So you take care of Merchant and his operation pretty much shuts down.”

“That’s probably true.”

“Sounds like a clear solution,” Marshall said, a bit too quickly for Gordon’s liking. In the silence that followed, the director saw his opening.

“What will be required of the FBI if Merchant by chance brings any of this out?”

“I’m counting on you to make sure he doesn’t,” Marshall said, clearly irritated now. “Goddamnit, the longer we sit here and chat, the more likely it is we’ll see problems. I want you two to work together here. If you have any more questions, pick up the phone and call each other. Frankly, I feel I’ve spent more than enough time on this, and I’d like to get on with running the country. Did you have any more questions for Tom, Arthur?”

Gordon slowly shook his head. He wanted to pick at it more, but he resisted the urge.

“Good,” said Marshall. “Now that Senator Newland
has been good enough to brief you, you can move on with this. It sounds as if it’s no big deal if it’s just taken care of in a firm manner.” He turned to Newland. “Tom, I trust I won’t need to intervene any further.”

“I agree, Mr. President.”

The three of them rose to their feet and exchanged handshakes. The President ushered them to the door and said goodbye.

Gordon followed the senator into the lobby just outside the Oval Office. Newland turned to him and said, “It was good to clear the air today, Arthur. I appreciate your help on this. I want you to feel free to contact me if you have any more concerns.”

Gordon nodded and said nothing. He felt certain he would have further questions, but he doubted if he would be approaching Newland for answers. He let the senator walk off, then he took several steps through the lobby before stopping and looking back. The President’s door was shut.

He finally turned away, a vague uneasiness nagging at him. This would not be the end of it. There were complete answers somewhere, and he planned to find them. Soon.

The fishermen were returning to their berths at the Marina Greens. They were largely older men, grizzled, hardened types with foreign accents who rose before daybreak to ensure they found favorable spots on the water for their small, barnacle-encrusted boats. For ten years now, they had waged a losing war, for the bay was in slow decline. Health officials spoke of toxicity levels and mercury content, of fish too poisonous to eat, but still the fishermen set out in the misty mornings with their ten-foot poles and assortment of multicolored lures. They had nowhere else to go.

Nick lowered his window completely and felt little relief. The morning fog had lifted, removing the city’s only
defense from the sun. Indian summer was in the air-two weeks or so of intolerable heat that native San Franciscans endured rather than enjoyed. The smell of sea salt and bird guano blended sickeningly in the faint, almost nonexistent breeze. Nick fanned himself slowly with a newspaper. Ever since college, he had hated heat, hated those dusty hundred-degree afternoons in East Texas where the nearest relief was some godforsaken water hole miles down a simmering hot concrete turnpike. Indian summer was coming at a bad time this year.

It was one in the afternoon. He had hours to kill before his flight would leave, and until then all he could do was sit. A newly purchased garment bag lay on the backseat, and two large shopping bags sat on opposite sides of it. He had purchased new pants, shoes, shirts, and underwear. It had been charged to the tune $970 on a credit card issued to a Michael Dean Collier, a fake ID he had kept for years but until now never used. The billing address on the card was a post office box—worthless to anyone looking to find the cardholder. He felt reasonably safe using it. He had a driver’s license and passport to match. From that moment until some undetermined point in the future, he would be Mr. Collier.

Nick slouched in his seat and watched the fishermen come and go. One horrible image would not dislodge itself from his mind: the thought of a fifty-five-year-old grandmother on a metal slab. He had rubbed his temples raw thinking about Rose.

His pager began to vibrate. A New York area code—thank God. He reached for his phone.

“Where are you?”

“Schenectady,” Alex replied. “I got a one-month lease on a studio. If I have to hide out, I at least want to be comfortable. Where are you?”

“Near Fisherman’s Wharf. Anybody follow you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t
think
so? Did you look?”

“Yes, I looked. I can handle myself, Nick.”

“Just watching out for you. Listen, something I didn’t tell you earlier—another person was killed in that blast last night. The cops found a man’s body
inside
my apartment. I got his name from a cop friend of mine. I’m gonna have Doug run it and see what turns up.”

“Let me know as soon as you have something.”

“I will. What did you manage to bring out of your place?”

“The laptop. Some clothes. That’s about it. You yelled at me to get out of there quick, remember?”

“What about the Jacobs stuff? You didn’t forget that, did you?”

“I got it, I got it.”

He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Good. Have you found anything yet on Ludwig Holtzmann?”

“I haven’t gotten a chance yet, Nick. I’m not even sure what exactly you want me to do.”

“Whatever you can. Go to a library or research center or something and see what you can dig up. Find
anything
, Alex. This guy was German or Austrian, right? Take that and go with it.”

“Fine. What are you going to do?”

“I think Jessica Von Rohr knows some of Jacobs’s story. I have to get it out of her somehow. I’m catching a flight back to Des Moines later today.”

“And what makes you think she’s going to give you the time of day?”

“Because I’m gonna be very damn insistent. Listen, I need to get hold of a gun once I touch down there. Remember those heirs we found in that little town south of Des Moines about two years ago? Their name was like Reichart or Reinfeld or something like that. . ..”

“Reinbeck,” said Alex. “I remember them. The town was called Indiana or—”

“Indianola,” said Nick, snapping his fingers. “Two brothers, if I’m correct. Couple of hunting-and-fishing
country boys. I’ll have Doug dig up their addresses. If anybody out there can get me a gun, it would be those two characters.”

“What—you’re just going to show up at their door and ask for a gun?”

“If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”

“You don’t have to snap at me, Nick. We’re both in the same mess here.”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve got another lovely bit of news to share with you.”

“Oh God, what now?”

“Someone torched the office early this morning. Every contract we had there went up in smoke, including Matt Von Rohr’s. Doug brought it over from his office and it got destroyed too.”

He could hear her slowly let a breath out.

“Any other good news, Nick?”

“Now that you mention it, yes. Two men tried to kill me last night and I’m alive to tell you about it.”

Alex was silent. “You’re not joking, are you?”

“Not much of a joke, is it? You have to watch your back, and do
not
use any credit cards issued in your name. Use your fake ID at all times. How did you lease that apartment?”

“Cash. Debra Ramos.”

“Good job. We know what we have to do then: I go to Iowa, you do the Holtzmann research. One of us will have to get back to Matt Von Rohr and have him sign another contract. Just another thing to add to our list.”

“Who’d do all this to us, Nick? Do you think the other heir finders are behind it?”

“I don’t know. The only other people who know about Jacobs are the FBI, which reminds me: I spoke with one of their deputy directors this morning.”

“What did he say?” she asked, her voice hushed.

“Just what we thought—he demanded that we back off Jacobs. I told them I can’t guarantee them anything. But
he did tell me one thing, and you better brace yourself for this one . . .”

“What is it?”

“They told me the cop who showed up at Jacobs’s house the other night was almost murdered. That gunman must have shot him, Alex. They want to put that on me.”

“Jesus,” she said. “What proof do they have that we were even there?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe they’re getting their evidence together right now.”

Both of them held the phones and were silent. Nick spoke before she could think too much.

“Listen,” he said. “Sitting around worrying isn’t going to help us. I want you to get moving on the Holtzmann research. Let’s just keep in close contact and check in with each other before we do anything. Okay?”

“I’m scared, Nick.”

“So am I. Just please be careful.”

“You too.”

Nick exited the lot and headed back toward the avenues.

A
LEX DROVE THROUGH
the side streets of residential Albany with a nagging pain in her gut. She had realized her mistake twenty minutes after the conversation with her partner. She tried to lay blame on Nick, and he
was
partially at fault, the way he had frantically ordered her out of the house. She had been so busy grabbing clothes and underwear, she had overlooked the one thing they could not afford to be without. She had forgotten the Jacobs pictures.