The Heir Hunter

by Chris Larsgaard

  “We’re safe there. Matt said he wouldn’t tell her, and I believe him. Did you tell her how much the estate is worth?”

  “I tried to, but she was in a rush and pretty much shuffled me out the door.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Everything we’ve put ourselves through and she doesn’t want to sign? This is unbelievable.”

  “Not much we can do about it now. I’ll have to come up with another approach later.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Hell with it—tell me about the brother. I thought for sure you’d have the same problem.”

  “Not at all, Nick—he was great. Just a regular working stiff, engaged to be married. He was overjoyed. He seemed fairly certain that his sister would sign. He also said his brother Tim was in the Navy in San Diego seventeen years ago.”

  “What kind of reaction did he have when you told him it was coming from his uncle?”

  “Reaction? He was toasting the old geezer. Laughing about it. He said he never knew anything about him and never wanted to either.”

  “You’ve got the contract with you?”

  “No, I left it by the side of the road—of course I’ve got the contract, silly man.”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “Highway 80, approaching SF.”

  “Drop that contract off at Doug’s office before you go to the airport. I want to wrap Matt Von Rohr’s third up quickly. The deeper we get into this, the harder it’ll be for the FBI to pull us out.”

  “Are you going to call them?”

  “I think I better. I can’t blow ’em off anymore. By the way, I’m flying straight back to San Francisco. I have some military contacts in SF I can contact to get the search going on Tim.”

  “Should I wait here for you or . . .?”

  “There’s no need to, Alex. Get back home and I’ll call you in a day.”

  “You better. Hey, I think this calls for a name change.”

  “Huh?”

  “A name change. Merchant and Associates sounds so stiff and boring. How about Merchant and Moreno?”

  “Whatever you say, girl.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  AT THE MAIN office of heir-finding giant General Inquiry, the 8 P.M. chime of the clock barely caused a ripple among the busily working investigators. Two secretaries were dispatched to the deli for take-out dinners and sodas, but most scurried about their desks while trying to make themselves useful and inconspicuous. The talk of the day had been the Henry Orville Roque estate. Jerry Acosta was lead investigator, and he had already utilized the skills of half a dozen colleagues in his search for heirs. Progress was slow and tempers short, as little had been gathered on the decedent, a friendless World War II veteran who had died in tiny Amador County. The classic loner, a completely unremarkable man with nothing to his name but a single bank account holding $380,000. Death had made Mr. Roque suddenly quite popular. Everyone in the building knew his name now.

  The two employees in the firm not concerned with Henry Roque were behind closed doors. President Lawrence Castleton knew his second-in-command well enough to know by his expression that something had gone horribly wrong.

  “Merchant filed papers.”

  In a single swift movement, Castleton took the glass paperweight from his desk and hurled it against the wall. Borg didn’t flinch. Violence wasn’t unexpected. Depression would surely follow.

  “Sonofabitch! How? How did he do it?”

  “He’s only got one, Lawrence. We can get the other two.”

  A light knocking came from outside.

  “Go away!” shouted Castleton, on his feet now. He rubbed his great bowling-ball head and looked disconsolate. “How could we get beaten, Richard? Have we slipped this much? Why wasn’t Merchant called off? The FBI said they were going to contact him—why didn’t they!”

  “They probably did. We never thought he would drop it, remember?”

  Castleton fell to his couch and fanned himself. His head was beaming red and looked like a giant swollen beet. “Who are the heirs?”

  “Two nephews and a niece. Merchant’s only got one of them. The sister refused to sign and the other brother’s missing—”

  “So why are we sitting here talking about it?”

  “I’ve got people working on it right now.”

  “Why am I the last to know?” Castleton demanded.

  “Because if I came to you first, you would’ve screamed at me for not getting our people moving quickly enough.”

  Castleton looked stricken as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Borg hoped his heart could take it. The thought of having to perform mouth-to-mouth wasn’t pleasant.

  “Why wouldn’t the woman sign?”

  Borg shrugged. “Don’t know. All their filing says was that she was contacted.”

  “We have an address?”

  “Des Moines. Lake’s on the way.”

  “I want him to talk to me before he makes the approach.” The president’s composure was slowly returning. “What about this other brother?”

  “The file says he’s missing. Neither sibling has seen him in years. We’ve got nothing so far, but the wheels are turning. We know he’s got a criminal record. A real loser. We may be looking at a street person or a possible incarceration. I’ve got our Prison Bureau people moving, but it’ll take a while.”

  Castleton grasped his head again. “How could this happen? Head-to-head and we lose? To Merchant? I used to wipe up the floor with his father.”

  “It’s not over yet.”

  “How much did he get?”

  “Thirty.”

  The old man slid down the leather upholstery until he was on his back. Borg was certain another outburst would trigger a coronary.

  “We’ll get forty,” said Borg. “From both of them.”

  “Merchant’s still out there. What if he finds the brother too?”

  “I doubt that, Lawrence. He wouldn’t have filed papers and given us the names if he thought he had a chance.”

  “The other companies will be in on it now.”

  Borg shook his head. “They won’t have any reason to jump on it. There were no cash amounts given in the filing. By the time somebody else bothers to investigate, we’ll have it wrapped up.”

  Castleton bolted to his feet quickly. Borg marveled at this sight. This was easily three hundred pounds in motion.

  “You said Lake’s en route to Des Moines?”

  “Right.”

  “Where’s Risso?”

  “Here. I was about to reassign him.”

  “Well, don’t. I’ve got something for him. He’s going to San Francisco.”

  “San Francisco? For what?”

  “Something I should have done a long time ago. We’re done playing around.”

  Doug insisted on a celebration, and Nick didn’t have the energy to fight him. His attorney took Highway 101 from the airport straight to the city. He passed through South of Market and crossed Market, then up Van Ness to Sutter. The table was reserved at Burris’ Steakhouse, a swanky, dimly lit landmark that catered to the important few who felt the need to order beef at thirty-two dollars a slab.

  Nick pulled his tie a bit looser and squinted around the restaurant. A dignified looking older man in a tux was tapping out a forties tune on a piano in the corner. The large round table next to theirs was filled with a mix of drunk Japanese and Americans in suits. Nick wondered what kind of deal was being finalized over the steaks and creamed spinach.

  Doug finished the remainder of his second rum and Coke and hung an arm over the leather backing of the booth. His smile had been a fixture.

  “Get used to places like this, buddy. Your life’s just taken a sweet turn.”

  “Nice. Very romantic. But if you pull out a ring, I’m gone.”

  “You notice some of the women walking around this place? Man, if I were still single . . .”

  “Never stopped you before,” said Nick, looking around. A stunning young blonde had just set
tled into a booth fifteen feet away. In the half-light, she looked familiar.

  “Take a look over your left shoulder when you get a chance, Doug. Don’t make it obvious.”

  Doug nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. He turned after a few seconds and did his best leer. The blonde caught it and gave a little head toss.

  “Jesus. Can we switch seats?”

  “No chance,” said Nick, motioning the waiter over.

  “Another Beck’s for me and a rum and Coke for him.” The waiter bowed and left.

  “Oh, before I forget,” said Doug. “I need that Dawson contract from you.”

  “Fiftieth time you’ve told me.”

  “Usually takes that many times to get your attention.”

  “It’ll be at your office tomorrow morning. Rose is going by my place to pick it up.”

  “She’s got your apartment key now?”

  “She checks my fax and mail when I’m away. Even does my laundry occasionally.”

  “You serious?”

  “Not about the laundry part.” Nick gave the girl another look. “I know who that blonde reminds me of. She looks just like Jessica Von Rohr.”

  “That good?”

  “Real close. Christie Brinkley in running shorts. Kind of short, though.”

  Doug snorted. “Too bad she was such a little bitch.”

  “She was kind of uptight. But real sharp. I barely had to explain anything to her.”

  “Well, there’s the problem,” grumbled Doug. “Stupid fool thinks she knows everything. She’s probably planning on backdooring us.”

  Nick shrugged and stared at the candle between them. “Who knows. Something else is bugging me, Doug. She knew something about Jacobs. I could tell. Man, I’d pay a thousand bucks just to know what was going through her head.”

  “You just paid a couple million. How hard did you push the contract?”

  “As hard as always. I thought it was in the bag, but she was being a real hardass.”

  “She get mad at you?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that. She was calm but very adamant. She just was not going to sign.”

  “She’s cheating us, Nick. Just you watch.”

  “She may try. We’ve got no control over that, though. I just wish I knew what the story was with her uncle.”

  Doug shook his head and reached for his drink. “All you need to know is we’re out about two million bucks if she doesn’t sign. Who cares who her uncle was?”

  Nick leaned back and watched the pianist go to work on the keys. “There may be some family skeletons there. Could be something pretty ugly, like an abusive past or something. Remember the Harrison case? That woman told my father to get lost for a quarter million dollars. Later on we found out the dead guy had molested her when she was a kid.”

  “Quarter million’s a quarter million,” said Doug. “This is twenty-two mil, buddy. Why’d we have to get a flaky heir for this case?”

  Nick shrugged. “What I plan to do is give her a little time, let it cool off a bit, and then maybe visit her again. Hell, we’ll lower our fee to maybe fifteen or twenty percent. If she doesn’t go for that, we’ll just have to write it off. As long as we’ve got her brother, I won’t really care. It’s still a dream case. Think about how lucky we are, man. A multi-million-dollar estate with no heirs hovering around? It’s unheard of.”

  The waiter returned with the drinks and asked if they were ready to order. Doug chose the lobster; Nick, the pepper steak.

  “I think it was a mistake filing the papers so quick,” said Doug. “Everybody and their mother will be out looking for this brother now.”

  “He’ll be a tough find. I’ve already run his name through a dozen databases and gotten nothing. I mean zero. The guy may be dead.”

  “I still think we should have waited a day or two.”

  “I want to see this done, Doug. We still have the FBI to contend with. Which reminds me, I need to call them first thing in the morning. They can’t tell us to back off if we’ve got our client already going through probate court.”

  “Yeah, you hope not.”

  The front bar was a bustle of happy businessmen and businesswomen. Coats were off and ties were loosened. One man sat by himself and ignored the revelry. He would not be eating, and he was not waiting for a dinner guest.

  Regnier lifted his glass of wine. Red, always. He let the wine stand in his mouth before swallowing. He gave the booth a careful, casual look. The investigator and his attorney were getting drunk and foolish, and this was perfect. They had just ordered and would be in the restaurant for at least another hour. This would be plenty of time. His cohorts wouldn’t need that long to finish their work. He, meanwhile, would indulge himself in another glass. The bartender responded to his nod and brought a full glass over.

  Rose parked in a spot stenciled guest and stepped to the concrete. She was always happy to run an errand in exchange for an early day at the office. Nick was good about things like that. And with the signing of the Jacobs heir, she knew she would now become one of the higher-paid secretaries in all of San Francisco. She was lucky. Her boss was a good guy.

  She thought of her niece Patricia as she waited for the elevator. Patricia was thirty-two now and anxious for a husband and babies. Nick was thirty-five and available. And lonely, she had always sensed. She was confident the two of them would get along nicely. If Patricia lost a little weight, it was a certainty.

  She exited on the third floor and walked down the corridor. Yes, she would set up a lunch date down by the wharf, something casual and low pressure. They would get to know each other slowly over calamari and crab cakes.

  She reached apartment 302 and found her key ring. Nick’s apartment key was the one with the gray electrical tape on the end. She held the keys and paused. Listened. A noise, nothing more than a light tinkle, sounded just behind the door.

  “Nick?”

  She found the key and slid it into the knob. A split second before the flash, Rose heard a shout from within, then the eruption came, tearing through the front wall. It impacted her squarely, lifting her from her feet. The fireball billowed from the apartment in a wave of blinding heat and tore straight through the hallway and into the unit across. The windows exploded outward to the street, spewing fire and showering the sidewalk with burning debris. Everything was silently illuminated on the street momentarily, then the hypnotic effect of the flames wore off and people began to shout—frightened calls against the backdrop of a distant fire engine’s wail.

  As expected, neither man was in any kind of condition to drive. Nick and Doug slouched in the backseat of a taxi and laughed at stupid things they hadn’t joked about since the last time they had gotten tanked together. Doug was gagging with loud laughter and undoubtedly annoying the hell out of the cabbie.

  “Hey,” he said loudly in Nick’s ear. “That reminds me—remember that time we snuck into that boarded-up house on Anza Street?”

  “And that old derelict came out and chased us?”

  “We were like ten years old,” laughed Doug. “Hey, we didn’t know what we were on to then. Turns out that was just a warm-up for old man Jacobs’s place.”

  “That crazy bum was scarier than any gunman.”

  “You’re a cat burglar at heart, Nick. You’re one gutsy bastard.” Doug turned to the front. “Hey, buddy! Brown corner house on the left.”

  The driver nodded and pulled to the curb at the end of Franklin Street. Doug threw a twenty in Nick’s lap and fumbled for the door handle.

  “I need a ride down to my car tomorrow morning. Can you swing by and pick me up?”

  “Seven-thirty?”

  “See ya!”

  “Enjoy the couch.”

  Nick watched him zigzag to the front door. He laughed. Kimberly was really going to let him have it. Move over, Fido—you got company tonight.

  He leaned back as the taxi took off again. His vision was really starting to swirl now. He let his head fall back as he watched the
wavering glitter of Lombard Street pass by in one nauseating river of white and red neon. He hadn’t planned on getting stewed, but hell, they had a valid enough reason. Gerald Jacobs had been the toast of the night. Tomorrow would be an ordeal, but who gave a damn? He could close shop for good now if he wanted to, and the way he felt at that moment, he might do just that. He could just fly off somewhere and never come back.

  The road was gently buffeting him. As he sat his mind drifted, a kaleidoscope of faces and pieces of the last week. For some reason, he could see Alex’s mother, sitting in her bedroom of crucifixes and candles, clutching a rosary to her breast. The picture show shimmered and changed, settling in the Columbia County Clerk’s office, with Lloyd Koenig, the attorney with the slick suits and ten thousand dollars in his pocket. There was a bathtub behind him—a red water bath with an old man’s corpse floating facedown in the mess. Jessica Von Rohr now, standing in her living room and shaking her head slowly back and forth . . .

  The cabbie’s words registered, cut through the fog of a half dream. Nick pulled his head up with great effort and blinked groggily. The driver whistled and repeated the words, his first of the ride.

  “Big fire, mon . . .”

  The sight of it seemed to sober Nick up just a bit. He straightened up out of his slouch and put his face to the window. They were on Marina, all right. Two large fire trucks were shooting jets of water at a building. His building?

  A cop appeared in the middle of the road and motioned them down a side street.

  “Stop, driver. Let me out.”

  The driver parked around the corner. Nick paid him and broke into a run, making his way quickly back around to Marina. As he approached his building, he saw people standing behind the police lines, pointing and watching the firemen applying the finishing touches. A fine mist from the hoses hung in the air and dampened his clothes. He looked up and in a sickening flash recognized whose unit it was. He approached a cop.

  “Officer, I need to get through,” he said. “That’s my apartment.”