The Heir Hunter

by Chris Larsgaard

  “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?”

  “Immediately. But—”

  “No buts. It has to be done.”

  Nick was seated outside Gate 26 of Salzburg International Airport when he got Alex’s call.

  “I found Monica, Nick.”

  “Great. What do we have?”

  “I’ll give you the bad news first. I found her in the Iowa death index. She’s been dead for about
two years—”

  “Damn,” said Nick, clutching the phone. “What about the good news?”

  “Her maiden name was Holtzmann. She’s got three children—Jessica, Matthew, and Timothy. Jessica’s still in Des Moines. Matthew’s in Sacramento. I’ve got a flight reserved to California.”

  Nick watched a line of travelers entering a boarding tunnel. “What about the other brother?”

  “He’s not coming up on any of the searches I ran. Let’s just wrap up two-thirds and worry about him later.”

  Nick hesitated but quickly realized there was nothing to think about. “Do it. You run background on Jessica?”

  “Sure did. She’s an attorney, Nick.”

  “Oh man. So much for a quick and easy presentation.”

  “Probably pick over every little word and phrase of the contract,” said Alex.

  “I can handle her. Listen, there’s a fax service available here at the airport. I want to get these reports in my hands now. I’ve got a lot of flight time to kill. How many pages are we looking at?”

  “Ten.”

  “Great.” He gave her the fax number. “Get that to me, and I’ll call you right after I see Jessica.”

  “It’s on the way. We’re so close, Nick!”

  He hung up and hurried through the terminal.

  CHAPTER

  12

  A STRANGE CALMNESS SETTLED over Nick during the Iowa flight. He watched the descent into Des Moines and told himself that things were now out of his hands. He and Alex had done their best, pushed themselves to the limit. They couldn’t possibly have moved quicker on the Jacobs investigation than they had those last three days. If they had been beaten to them by their competitors, so be it. At least then they wouldn’t have to concern themselves with the FBI anymore.

  From State Highway 5, Nick pulled the rental car onto the Fifth Street exit and made a left on McKinley. A long, tree-lined street led him to Pinecreek, his next left. He slowed to a cruise until he read the address he was looking for.

  The house at 11 Pinecreek Road was a ranch-style dwelling with beige paint and brown borders. It was a modest, simple home, and Nick hoped this was indicative of the owner. He felt encouraged by what he had read of her background during the flight.

  Alex had done her usual thorough work. She had first traced one of Jessica Von Rohr’s billing addresses to a law office. An Internet search through the Martindale-Hubbell legal directory confirmed that Jessica was an attorney specializing in real estate, with an emphasis on farming law. She had completed her undergrad studies at the University of Iowa and received her law degree from NYU.

  Their IRS contact provided more information. Miss Von Rohr’s W2 tax forms showed her to be earning in the range of sixty thousand dollars each of the previous five years. She was doing well income-wise, but not well enough for Nick to be concerned. For some reason, the most difficult clients had always been the wealthier ones, a fact that had always mystified the partners.

  A credit report showed Miss Von Rohr to be carrying minimal credit card debt, a student loan of twenty thousand dollars, and a forty-five-thousand-dollar debt with the Bank of Des Moines—a mortgage loan, Nick assumed. Her home was owned under her name, and an occupancy check revealed no other boarders. She was single.

  The Iowa State Department of Transportation gave further key data. Thirty-one-year-old Jessica Anne Von Rohr was born in Ames, Iowa. She was five foot four, one hundred and fifteen pounds, with blond hair and blue eyes. She drove a 1994 Saab—apparently rather quickly. She had received two speeding tickets in the last fourteen months.

  A general Internet search on her name had provided two final hits. Jessica had a current State of Iowa fishing license and was also part of a local jogging club.

  Nick put the papers aside. He felt optimistic. Jessica was a rural attorney with country roots and a decent income. Any woman who liked to fish couldn’t be too uptight.

  He glanced back over at the house. The Saab was parked in the driveway. He checked his tie in the rearview mirror and smoothed his hair.

  From his coat pocket, the phone rang.

  “Hey, Alex.”

  “Do I sound like Alex?” asked Doug. “I’ve been waiting for your damn call. What’s the latest?”

  “I’m in Des Moines getting ready to approach a possible heir. I think I—”

  “Jesus, you got an heir? Why the hell haven’t you called me?”

  “I can’t call you every fifteen minutes, okay? Gimme a break. I’m about to make an approach here. Heir or not, I’m going to be on my way home this evening, which reminds me—can you pick me up at SFO?”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I book the flight. With a little luck I’ll be walking out of that boarding tunnel with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen.”

  Doug liked the sound of this.

  “Man oh man, I wish your pops was around to see this, Nick. Who would’ve thought we’d pull something like this off?”

  “Haven’t pulled anything off yet, buddy.”

  “You will, man. Hey, I called to let you know I got our petition together. All I need to do is fill in the blanks.”

  “Well, I hope to give you a name in a little while here. Listen, I’m right outside her place. I’ll call you when I know what the story is.”

  “Soon as you’re out, Nick.”

  “Soon as I’m out.”

  He put the phone away and paused. Doug was right—his father would have enjoyed being a part of this one. Nick would have loved for him to be there too. But present or not, his father was a part of the Jacobs case—a part of every case and nothing was ever going to change that. He stepped to the curb.

  An unfamiliar nervousness hit him when he was on the walkway. The presentation he was about to make would be Merchant and Associates’ greatest triumph, dramatically changing several lucky people’s lives for the better. He would be one of those lucky individuals, but only if it went right.

  He reached the door and paused, staring at a motionless set of wind chimes. The very first thing he had to do was determine unequivocally that Jessica was indeed an heir. That would be done with his very first question. He pressed the doorbell and immediately saw movement inside.

  The young woman who answered the door wasn’t what he had been expecting. This was not the slipper-clad, bathrobed client so typical of rural cases. She was dressed in purple running shorts and tank top, an elastic white headband holding golden hair back over her forehead. She seemed shorter than five foot four to him, but she was very pretty. The eyes, bright and intelligent, met and held his.

  Nick straightened up a bit and tried to remember his script.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m looking for Jessica Von Rohr, daughter of Monica Holtzmann.”

  She leaned against the doorway, a confused look on her face. She looked him over carefully before speaking.

  “I’m Jessica Von Rohr,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  Bingo, he thought. “Looks like I caught you on the way out.”

  “You may have,” she said. “Depends on what you’re selling. Salesman, right?”

  “I’m happy to say I’m not,” replied Nick, showing his private investigator’s ID. “My name’s Nick Merchant, I’m a private investigator from San Francisco. I’ve come here with news of an important family matter.”

  She took his card and looked it over. “Okay,” she said, handing it back. “What kind of family matter?”

  His smile came from sheer nervousness. “I’m pleased to say that I have good news for you, Miss Von Rohr. I think you may be an heir to an estate.”

  “Really,” she replied, her expression skeptical. “And what estate would this be?”

  “I’d love to tell you all about it. I do have some documents I’d like to show you, though, first. Can we perhaps sit down for a few minutes and talk?”

  She raised her chin slightly as she leaned against the doorway. It wa
s a small, delicate chin, held confidently. Her face was classically attractive—full lips, oval cheekbones, clear, smooth complexion. She stared at him, bright green eyes under dark blond eyebrows.

  “Did somebody at the office put you up to this?”

  “Absolutely not. Scout’s honor.”

  She rubbed her chin thoughtfully for a moment before stepping aside and motioning him in. “I can give you a few minutes. You better not try to sell me life insurance.”

  Nick tipped his head graciously and entered. He could kick himself. Her good looks had rattled him, turned him into a babbling amateur. Scout’s honor? Good God! But at least he was in, and one thing was resoundingly clear: if another heir finder had gotten to her first, she would have known exactly why he had come. He was first!

  Nick took a seat on a large sectional couch and looked around. The living room was tastefully furnished but not lavish. A picture facing him from an end table caught his eye. A gray-haired woman and a young lady he assumed was his host smiled at him from the frame. They were standing in front of a river and were wearing frayed hats and long rubber pants. The older woman held what looked to be a sizable trout on the end of her line. Apparently that fishing license came in handy.

  Jessica sat in a recliner next to him, leaning forward with her elbows on her bare, toned legs.

  “I notice you creek-fish,” Nick said, nodding to the photograph.

  “Not too much since my father passed away,” she said with a slight smile. She glanced at her watch. “I need to be somewhere pretty quick here. Why don’t you go ahead and tell me what this is all about.”

  Nick nodded and reached for his portfolio. He didn’t want to rush this presentation, but his prospective client appeared to be all business, maybe even a little uptight. He removed a folder that held an inheritance contract stipulating a 30 percent fee. Jessica Von Rohr brushed her hair back behind her ear and waited.

  “Thanks again for sitting down with me. I’ll make this as quick as I can.” He cleared his throat. “Let me first start by explaining my business. I’ve a company located in San Francisco called Merchant and Associates which specializes in doing private research for families. Specifically my firm locates missing family members who are entitled to assets of relatives. We’ve connected dozens of people with assets which were previously unknown to them.”