The Heir Hunter

by Chris Larsgaard

  “Let’s hope I pull this off like Rambo,” replied Nick. He grasped the door handle, hesitated, and looked back at her. “You all right?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You sure?”

  “Ask again and I may say no. Get your butt moving before I start thinking too much.”

  “Okay. If all goes well, you’ll hear from me in less than ten minutes on the radio. If anything goes way wrong, I could be back here real quick, so just be ready to gun it.”

  “I’ll be ready,” replied Alex. “Be careful.”

  Nick stepped to the curb, closed the door gently, and disappeared around the corner.

  John Malloy slouched behind the wheel of the car and listened to his partner gurgle. The breathing was rhythmic, almost hypnotic. With every wheeze and snort, he felt himself grow drowsier. He pinched himself and glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes after one. Another forty minutes and it would be his turn to be annoying. His partner would hear some real snoring then.

  They had parked at the end of Michael Drive, beneath the long shadow of a tree. Their vantage point was completely perfect. It was boring, simple work, but at least the money was right.

  Malloy was almost glad to see the pedestrian. Watching him would kill a few minutes. He reached for the binoculars and raised them. The solitary figure was moving quickly down the dark sidewalk of Michael Drive. He immediately felt suspicious. The stranger wasn’t jogging, didn’t have a dog by his side. Malloy studied him and wondered what the hell he was up to.

  Nick walked briskly along the sidewalk toward the Jacobs home, feeling every thump of his heartbeat. Despite his reconciliation with the plan, he couldn’t purge a distinct uneasiness in his gut. The Jacobs case was about to become unique in more ways than just money. He had always respected the law, and despite his and Alex’s rationalizing, he knew this was wrong, wrong, wrong. He thought of his father and wondered if he could see him right then, see his only son drifting to the other side of the law. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t too certain old Bill Merchant wouldn’t be doing the same damn thing.

  The surrounding houses were silent and dark as Nick approached the front walkway of the Jacobs home. Before second thoughts could surface, he cut to his left and quickly moved up the walkway leading to the front porch. Boards creaked loudly as he gingerly stepped to the door. He crouched down like a soldier in a foxhole, temporarily sheltered from enemy eyes. The bushes adorning the front garden were effective allies; their shadows were covering him like a shroud. He was thankful the old man hadn’t made use of the hedge clippers.

  He grabbed the cold hard steel of the crowbar, feeling the solid weight of it in his hands. Before he could think too much, he turned to the door. He felt the doorknob, and with the full force of his weight, wedged the crowbar firmly between the door frame and the knob. He bent the door outward, knowing he could snap it from its hinge quickly, but noise was the concern. He would need to lean against the crowbar and slowly increase the pressure.

  “Dammit—”

  The wood was creaking in protest, flexing to its limits. With an ear-splitting crack, wood fragments exploded outward. The door creaked open. Nick cursed and ducked in quickly, pushing the door shut. With no bolt to hold it, the door swung slightly inward. He reached into the darkness and grabbed what felt like a coffee table, propping it up against the door. He placed the crowbar to the floor gently and peered through the peephole. Another light in the house directly across the street had flickered on. He reached for the radio.

  “Alex . . .”

  The response came instantly.

  “Are you in?”

  “Yes. We’re home free. Watch for cops. I’ll be out as soon as possible.”

  “The house across the street lit up—”

  “I know. Just watch for cops. Toughest part’s over.”

  “Just hurry up, Nick . . .”

  Nick stared into the inky blackness. For better or worse, he was in. He had gained his entrance relatively easily, but that didn’t mean some nosy neighbor wasn’t reaching for a phone. He strained his eyes and glanced around the living room.

  Where to start, dammit, where to start?

  The house was almost completely black. He reached for his penlight and shot a laser beam of light around the room. The beam was weak, but he could still see the lavishness with which the old man had surrounded himself. A dust-coated crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a thick Oriental rug covered the floor. To the left, elegant nineteenth-century gilt chairs with burgundy upholstery surrounded a stately antique dining table. A heavy gold-framed mirror hung directly behind the table, and the walls were covered with imposing works of art with elaborate gilded frames. He ran a gloved hand down the surface of one, feeling the rough texture on his fingers. It felt authentic.

  Uncertain where to begin, he turned and promptly slammed his shin on a table. Stifling a curse, he grabbed two books that lay on the table and examined them. One was a biography of Chopin, the other an illustrated translation of Dante’s Inferno. Finding nothing between the pages, he placed them aside and scanned the living room with the penlight. A grand piano stood in the corner like a casket.

  Moving through the living room and into the hallway, Nick gazed up a long flight of stairs leading upward. People usually kept their personal mementos hidden away in their bedrooms; it would be a good place to start. He was about to head up when his eye caught a tiny flashing from the hallway. He approached the rapidly flashing light and quickly saw what it was. The answering machine’s message light was flashing like a pinball machine. Odd, he thought—a recluse getting that many calls. He pointed the light on the machine and popped it open, taking the tiny message tape. It would make for interesting listening later.

  He quickly stepped up the hardwood stairs. Two large portraits adorned the wall to his right. One depicted a somber elderly man with a flowing white mustache staring out over a cliff; the other a young woman in an elegant white dress holding a parasol. He firmly grasped the portraits and lifted them from the wall, noting the surprising weight. Placing them gently at the bottom of the staircase, he returned to the wall and began pressing and feeling the uncovered wall space. He tapped on it lightly and heard no echo.

  Seen too many detective movies, Nick. Quit wasting time . . .

  Thinking of the initial racket of the entry, he thumbed his radio. “Alex . . .”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing much. I’m heading upstairs. How’s it look out there?”

  “We’re okay. That light went off across the street.”

  “You should see this place. Nothing at all like the outside. The old man had a hell of an interior decorator.”

  “Quit sightseeing and get to work.”

  “I’ll try not to take more than an hour.”

  “An hour!”

  “At least. Talk to you soon.”

  The hallway upstairs was darker than the rooms below, and the penlight seemed dimmer. Four doors beckoned: one directly ahead, one to the left, and two to the right. Nick grabbed and gently twisted the first knob on the right. A windowless closet with six shelves. A lightbulb cord hung from the ceiling and Nick pulled on it, flooding the tiny room with light. He grabbed towels from the top shelf and quickly shook each piece, discarding them in a pile as he went. In two minutes’ time, the entire contents of the closet lay in a heap in the hallway. Nothing was found.

  The next door on the right was the bathroom. Nick foraged through all drawers and the medicine cabinet, finding nothing except prescription medicine bottles and lotions. He quickly examined the labels of the medication bottles, making a note of the prescriptions. If necessary, he would find time to call a pharmacist to see what the medications might reveal about Jacobs’s health. He pulled aside the shower curtain, looked in the tub, and saw nothing. He remembered the death certificate and ran the light around the inside. A faint pinkish ring was visible.

  A bedroom was the first room on the left side. Fro
m the sparseness of the decor, Nick assumed he had entered a guest room. A single twin-size bed, neatly made, sat primly against the right wall. The curtains were open, and faint indirect light from the window facing the street streamed in weakly across the floor. He considered drawing the curtains but quickly thought otherwise. Feeling hot suddenly, he removed his jacket and placed it on the bed. He approached the closet. One by one, he tossed sport coats, sweaters, and overcoats aside as he checked every lining, every pocket. Boxes on the top shelf of the closet held some old turntable records and a wide variety of hats, gloves, and dusty books. Many were printed in German. Nick looked through one of them. Bonnie had been right about that—Jacobs was German. Or Austrian. The books seem to substantiate it.

  He leafed through each of the books, looking for the postcard, the scrap of weathered paper, the birthday card—anything that would give that crucial family contact. After spending five minutes looking in drawers, under the bed—even under the throw rug—he crept toward the door at the end of the hall. If there was nothing of value in the old man’s bedroom, there was still the garage, the dining room, the living room, and any other closets. Something had to turn up.

  Malloy laughed to himself incredulously. Despite the overgrowth of bushes blocking his view, he felt fairly certain now that the prowler was inside. Breaking and entering—this bastard had balls. But that didn’t mean they were going to let him get away with it. He nudged his companion awake with his elbow.

  “Wake up. Something’s going on here.”

  Regnier grunted and sat up straight. Malloy nodded in the direction of the house.

  “Some guy just walked up and busted in. I heard him with the listener. He’s been inside for a while now.”

  Regnier grabbed the binoculars and quickly brought them down.

  “All I see is bushes.”

  “He’s not sitting on the porch swing. Trust me, he’s in there.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Malloy considered it. Nobody was supposed to show up and pull a stunt like this.

  “Instructions are to keep the place secure. Shit! I didn’t agree to this.” He reached to the back and found his gun. “I’ll have to go introduce myself.”

  “Why not get him on the way out? We’ll take him out on the sidewalk and drag him off quick.”

  Malloy shook his head as he shoved the clip in with a loud click.

  “We can’t let him roam around in there all night. I’ll give him five minutes. If he ain’t out then, I’m going in.”

  Holding his breath, Nick twisted the doorknob of the second floor’s final room and stepped inside. The smell was musty and stale, the air heavier than the inside of a crypt. The curtains were drawn, and the room was almost completely lightless. The penlight cut through the dark and traced the edges of furniture. Jacobs had a gigantic bed, almost regal with its elaborate upper frame and curtain attachments. Nick shuddered at the medieval appearance as he approached the large dresser directly across from it. Methodically he emptied each drawer, his anticipation and disappointment growing stronger by the moment. He turned to the closet. It held shirts, jackets, boots, books-even rifles—but Nick could find nothing pertinent to Jacobs’s personal life. Flustered, he stood in motionless confusion among the piles of clothes and bedding. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had been in the house for twenty-five minutes. He thought of the garage and moved toward the door but then remembered to check under the bed. No stone unturned.

  Nick dropped to his stomach and scanned under the bed. He saw a dark, square-shaped object and reached for it. An empty tissue box. He cast it aside and turned back to the door, catching his foot in a small throw rug and nearly tripping. He kicked it aside gently and then paused. He had caught a glimpse of something odd as the light ran over the floor, an irregularity in the floorboards. He shone the light and confirmed it. Stooping, he ran his fingers over the floor. He could see a barely visible ridge. Some kind of small door was carefully cut into the floor where the throw rug had been. He tried to pry it open with his fingers but couldn’t get a decent hold. He hurried back down to the kitchen and found a sturdy knife. If what I’m looking for isn’t in there, he thought as he jogged back up the stairs, it won’t be anywhere.

  He jammed the knife into the crevice and propped it open enough to allow his fingers to reach down and get a hold. He pulled the hatch open. His light beam immediately caught the dull glimmer of steel. He reached to it and felt cold metal, and his mouth went dry.

  Placing the container on the bed, Nick saw under the light that it was a metal security box. His pulse was moving fast now. He tried to open it but saw that it was locked. He tried to pry the knife into the edges but found that it was too thick. Walking briskly back downstairs with the box under his arm, he entered the kitchen. He found a thinner blade and took it and the metal container into the living room. Placing it on a coffee table, he jammed the blade into the hinges with all his might. After prying and twisting for several moments, the mechanism suddenly gave.

  Inside the box was a jumble of letter-size envelopes, one larger manila envelope, and three aged black-and-white photographs. He examined the three small photos first.

  One was a photo of a young boy, perhaps nine years old, holding an infant in his arms. On the back of the photo, in faint pencil, was written 1922. The other two photos were of two young women. The women’s expressions were somber and reminded Nick of passport photos. On the back of one was written Monica 1935. The other was blank.

  “Hello, Monica,” he whispered as he took the envelopes.

  He spread the papers on Jacobs’s living room floor and found that he had about a dozen brief handwritten letters, two blank New York City postcards, and a greeting card. The greeting card was a Hallmark, a cartoon cover with colorful ribbons and streamers. The printed message inside was generically simple—Many Thanks! The sender had scripted his own note beneath the generic one. The writing was labored and crooked, the handwriting of an elderly person.

  Thank you for the chocolates, my friend! Congratulations to you for your new life!

  Otto Kranzhoffer

  September 25, 1997

  Here were key words, thought Nick. Important words. My friend. Your new life. The card was in its envelope. The return address was Rue de Malatrex 23, Geneva.

  He turned to the handwritten letters. The print was similar in each one. His suspicions were correct, then; they were from the same person. Someone named Claudia. The letters came from an address in Germany.

  Nick placed the photos and letters into his backpack. They could be examined more thoroughly later. He opened the manila envelope and found two dozen large color photographs. Odd—the pictures were of men in suits, men talking, men getting out of cars. He shoved them back into the envelope and into his backpack as well. Now wasn’t the time. The garage still needed attention. He walked quickly through the living room, the figures in the portraits staring at him as he hurried by.

  He reached the door on the left side of the hall and found the garage. He crept inside. The penlight stabbed into the black, revealing a tidy garage and the glimmering reflection of a well-preserved Mercedes. Nick traced the far wall with the light. Seven identical cardboard boxes were placed neatly against the wall. He slid one of the boxes from the top of the stack, placed it on the floor, and opened it.

  Inside the box were hundreds of single sheet documents. Each document was emblazoned with what appeared to be the letterhead of some kind of a financial institution. Nick examined a dozen of the documents. Despite minor variations, they all shared a similar look. He flipped the lids off several of the other boxes. Similar documents filled each.

  The crackle of the radio made him jump.

  “Nick!” Alex’s voice was a panicked whisper. “Someone’s outside on the sidewalk! He’s right outside the house!”

  Nick brought the radio to his mouth. “Cop?”

  “No way. He’s . . . oh my God, Nick, he’s coming up the walkway! Nick!”
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br />   Nick didn’t have time to analyze things. He quickly crammed a thick stack of the documents into his backpack and shot to his feet.

  “Get ready to step on it.”

  “What—”

  Alex’s transmission died abruptly as Nick turned the volume down. He dashed back into the living room as quickly and quietly as he could. Already he was too late. A shadow had fallen across the curtains and then the front door was slowly being forced open against the coffee table. Nick dove for the grand piano and scooted under it.

  From his stomach, he watched the intruder ease into the house. He felt a chill. The man was holding a large handgun.

  The newcomer darted from doorway to doorway, his arms extended and locked. Nick tried not to blink as the stranger swept the weapon through the room.

  The gunman seemed to be satisfied with his examination of the first floor, and he quickly approached the stairway. He began climbing the stairs, glancing back as he ascended every few steps. Nick tightened the straps of his backpack and readied himself to move. When the man was out of view, he slid out of his hiding place and quietly hurried to the front door. A flashing of lights froze him, reds and blues flickering in the darkness. The cops were on the scene.

  Would’ve been happy to see you guys a few years ago, he thought grimly.

  Nick hurried to the rear door and eased out the back. He ran over the back deck, inadvertently kicking a patio chair and sending it skittering loudly over the deck. Bolting to the eastern fence, he catapulted himself to the top. He took a quick glance at the gauntlet awaiting him. There were three homes between himself and Alex, each with a fenced backyard. He would need to make like an Olympic hurdler to get to her.

  He swung his legs over the first fence and toppled into the neighbor’s yard. Dashing fifteen yards through a garden, he pulled himself up the next fence as the wood near him suddenly splintered with the impact of bullets. He fell into the next yard and stumbled forward. He could see the streetlight on Michael Court where Alex was waiting. He tossed himself over a third fence as more bullets dotted the wood behind him, and he felt his ankle give as he rolled into the yard just adjacent to the street. Lights were flicking on in houses. Nick felt the full weight of his 190 pounds as he pulled himself over the final barrier. Alex was at the curb with the engine running. He plunged to the sidewalk, the crowbar flying from his jacket with a clatter as he stumbled up to the van. He threw himself in and held on as Alex spun out noisily and accelerated down the street.