Praise for
THE HEIR HUNTER
“A FAST-PACED DEBUT.”
—San Francisco Examiner
“The Heir Hunter is a labyrinth: one way in, a hundred unexpected twists, and only one way out. A very cool and fast-paced novel. If you like your fiction a thrill-a-page, hunt no further than Chris Larsgaard.”
—David L. Robbins, author of War of the Rats
“A FINE, FAST-PACED THRILLER … full of interesting twists.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“[AN] INGENIOUS THRILLER …
this fine debut novel oozes authenticity and provides a fascinating glimpse into the quixotic and dangerous realm of high-stakes assets recovery.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A GRIPPING STORY.”
—Library Journal
“ENGROSSING …
The labyrinthine plot careens down a twisty path.”
—The Portland Oregonian
“In The Heir Hunter, Chris Larsgaard has created that most unusual thing—a truly original, utterly compelling thriller. Once you’ve plunged into the murky and mysterious world of Nick Merchant, first-class heir hunter, you won’t come up for air until you’ve reached the final pulse-pounding page. This is a book you do not want to miss.”
—William Bernhardt, author of Silent Justice
“Chris Larsgaard has combined a wonderfully original premise with his natural gift for characterization to create a truly memorable debut. I’m looking forward to his next one.”
—Kyle Mills, author of Rising Phoenix and Free Fall
“THRILLING.”
—The Abilene Reporter-News
To my father and mother,
Bill and Carla Larsgaard,
5for everything
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people are deserving of thanks for this book, but the following individuals were absolutely vital.
To my fantastic literary agent, Matt Bialer of the William Morris Agency, for his patience, wisdom, humor, and common sense. Thanks, buddy—only you know what we went through for this one. Also, thanks to Maya Perez for her great feedback and for being there from the start.
To my fabulous editor, Jackie Cantor, whose thoughtful guidance was crucial to literally everything. Thanks for making the work fun, Jackie.
To my brothers Bill and Matt for their essential critiques. To my cousin Tim for his support.
To my earliest readers, Ed Wells, Danielle Wells, Paul “Pat” Nacario, Dave Garcia, and Elisa.
Lastly, my sincerest gratitude to the most important person of all: the amazing heir-hunting private investigator who, not surprisingly, wants to remain …
in the shadows.
PROLOGUE
THEY HAD DECIDED that the old man was crazy. Whether it was the onset of neurological disease or simply the inevitable effect of advancing years mattered little. Gerald Raymond Jacobs was eighty-seven years old and losing touch with his sensibilities. He was starting to talk, and talk too much, and they were very alarmed by this. They had instructed him several years ago on his final obligation—he was to remain silent until death. It was the simplest of instructions, but the old man was now refusing to abide by the rules, and this made him extremely dangerous.
The visitor sat patiently on the plush living room couch and tried to show a facade of attentiveness. He was thirty-eight years old with pale skin and reddish-brown hair, and his name was Malloy. For ten minutes straight, he had endured the old man’s ranting, but his patience had now run its course. Jacobs was speaking from his recliner, barely taking time to breathe as he delivered his latest rambling diatribe. It was clear he was dissatisfied with everything. His carrying on only confirmed what Malloy had been told: his mind was gone. At this point it was just as well.
“I have serious grievances,” said Jacobs once again, finally pausing to draw a noticeable breath. “And I’m tired of being lied to.”
“Well, that’s why we’re here, Mr. Jacobs,” replied Malloy soothingly, as if he were speaking to a child. “We want to fix things.”
“I don’t like being lied to.”
“We understand. We wouldn’t like that either.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” snapped Jacobs. “I have new demands. To begin with, I’ll need more money. After everything I’ve given them, I’m entitled to it. Or perhaps they would prefer if I went to their newspapers. Is that what they want?”
Malloy clasped his hands together and had no answer. His assignment didn’t include knowing these things. He didn’t even know who this mysterious they were. He looked down at the thick Oriental rug at his feet—authentic undoubtedly. Everything in the living room—the chandelier, the grand piano, the fine antique furniture—screamed of opulence, of serious money. He studied old man Jacobs and realized he was genuinely curious as to who this arrogant little person really was.
“You don’t have to do anything drastic, Mr. Jacobs,” he finally ventured. “We’re going to work this out tonight. Here and now.”
“I’m tired of their lies,” muttered Jacobs.
Malloy nodded and listened to the muffled sound of the faucets running. The flowing water became clearly audible as Malloy watched his partner slowly step down the stairs into view. The man cut through the kitchen and suddenly appeared directly behind Jacobs. His name was Regnier, and he hadn’t said a word to the old man, which wasn’t unusual; he rarely said much to anyone. He was half a head shorter than his seated companion, but stocky. He held a heavy wooden cutting board in his thick, powerful hands.
“So,” continued Malloy, quickly now, “I want to make sure we understand where you’re coming from. You want more money and—”
“Enough of this. I want to meet with Taylor. He’s the only one who can help me.”
Regnier had silently stepped into position. His eyes flicked to Malloy’s and got the silent affirmation. He raised the board slightly, held it for a moment, and then with a sweeping arc slammed it against Jacobs’s head. The old man pitched forward with a groan and sprawled onto the coffee table in front of his seat.
Malloy was on his feet. The two of them converged upon the old man and carried him quickly across the rug to the stairway. Regnier led the way up, following the sound of the running water to the bathroom. The tub was sufficiently full. Malloy turned the knobs off and then began to unbutton the old man’s shirt.
“Help me with this.”
Regnier bent down with a grunt and removed the old man’s shoes and socks. He undid the trousers and pulled them off along with the underwear. They tossed the clothes to the corner in a heap.
Malloy stooped down to the crumpled, naked body. He hoisted the upper torso over the edge of the tub until the forehead dipped into the water. Red drops fell in a steady trickle from an oozing scalp wound. When the head was completely submerged, the body abruptly revived. The old man began to flail his arms and splash both men as they leaned their weight into him and kept his head beneath the surface. It was not difficult. The arm movements lasted only a few seconds, but they continued to hold him under for an additional minute. A bubbly ribbon of pale yellow bile rose up to the surface of the water.
When they were satisfied, they eased their grip on him and lifted the rest of the body into the tub, leaving it facedown in the now pinkish water. Malloy tossed a bar of soap in with the corpse before they exited to the hallway.
They divided the house strategically, beginning with the garage. Their search took an hour and a half. It was nearly 11 P.M. when the two men finally returned to their car and drove off into the night.
CHAPTER
1
THE PIVOTAL MOMENT of the negotiation had arrived, the point in the dialogue when pen was poised over contract. Nick Merchant stud
ied his latest clients and felt his pulse drum at his temples. They were simple people, probably possessing no learning beyond the ninth grade, if that. They sat across from him—Emma McClure in her faded floral dress and house slippers, and her son, a greasy, yellow-toothed biker named J.P. They huddled on their worn living room couch looking like two expectant parents. Nick expected their reaction to his forthcoming disclosure to be on a par with being told they held the winning lottery ticket.
“Do you have any further questions, Mrs. McClure?”
“I can’t think of any.”
Nick leaned over the table and pointed to the blank line that read Client. J.P. looked over his mother’s shoulder.
“Sign it, Momma.”
“Quiet, J.P.”
“He wants you to sign it.”
“I told you to hush, boy!” she hissed. “Don’t you be hanging over me like a vulture when I’m tryin’ to think.”
Nick searched his mental data bank for the few properly placed words that would sway Emma McClure to give her autograph. Twelve thousand dollars hovered like the horseflies buzzing in the stagnant air of the McClure shack. He leaned forward and tried to speak soothingly. “You seem a bit unsure, Mrs. McClure. Is something unclear?”
“Well, it’s just that . . . well, things like this don’t usually happen around here.”
“I understand,” said Nick, with a smile. “I know this all seems a little strange. Do you have a copy of the yellow pages by chance? I’d like to show you something which may reassure you.”
J.P. rose from the couch at his mother’s prompting and returned with the phone book. Nick took it and flipped through it till he came to the heading Private Investigators.
“Here we are—Merchant and Associates. Our firm is a completely legitimate, family-owned business. We’ve been licensed by the state of California as private investigators for the last twelve years now. Our reputation in the field is excellent. If you’d like to check into us, you can call the local Better Business Bureau. I’m sure they would be happy to tell you all about us. I encourage you to do that if it will ease your mind.”
“He’s bein’ honest, Momma,” begged J.P. his voice almost frantic.
“You pipe down!” she snapped. She turned to Nick. “I don’t think I’ll be needing to call ’em. I believe I can trust you, Mr. Merchant. You say your family owns this business?”
Nick shifted in his chair a bit. He didn’t want to lie to the old woman, but he felt it was best to shield her from the complete truth. “My father started the company, ma’am. He retired four years ago.”
Emma looked over at her son. “I suppose a family-owned business couldn’t be all bad, huh, J.P.?”
“Sure,” replied J.P., happy to agree.
Nick nodded earnestly. “Ma’am, I promise you—there’s nothing to be worried about. I wouldn’t come into your home and lie to you. I guarantee you’ll be very happy once you sign.” He directed her gaze to the line requiring her endorsement.
Mrs. McClure frowned. Her life had never been complicated by important matters such as this, but Nick Merchant had a boyish, honest face, and even though she hadn’t been brave enough to admit to him that she didn’t really understand half the things he had explained to her that past half hour, she did feel that she could trust him. She gave J.P. one last uncertain look and, seeing nothing but encouragement on his face, scrawled her signature across the line. She handed Nick the contract and his pen and sighed.
Nick glanced over the signature and felt his saliva glands finally start working again. “Thank you, Mrs. McClure, and congratulations. This is a happy day for the two of you.” He placed the contract into the folds of his portfolio. “I’d like to give you the details on your inheritance now.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“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 whos
e 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.”
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