The Heir Hunter

by Chris Larsgaard

  He walked unsteadily past the barricade and scanned the street. Could it be that . . .? No. Rose was home. Had been for hours.

  A powerful hand squeezed his arm.

  “You deaf, buddy? Nobody goes near that place until we get the okay.”

  “That’s my apartment,” he protested loudly.

  “Back behind the line or I’m taking you in.”

  Nick muttered something and stepped behind the line. Two girls who looked no older than eighteen stared up the building, eyes wide as they snapped gum.

  “You two see what happened?”

  One of them looked at him suspiciously. “Yeah, a gas line blew.”

  “A gas line? How do you know?”

  She looked irritated. “What else? The whole building shook.”

  Nick turned back to the firemen and watched, even more confused. He felt foolish for having had so much to drink. He could barely think straight.

  The crowd was slowly dispersing back into the night. A woman in pajamas stood miserably by a cop and cried. Nick spotted a police officer standing alone and walked up to him.

  “Officer,” he said, trying to focus on the cop’s face. “That’s my place.” He gestured weakly toward the building.

  The cop looked him over warily. “What’s that?”

  “That’s my place,” Nick repeated emphatically. “I live up there. That’s my apartment.”

  “Your unit?” the cop said, giving him more attention now. “Can you come with me please?”

  “What was it?” asked Nick as he followed him through the crowd. “What happened?”

  The cop led him to a man in an overcoat with a thick gray mustache and a hard scowl. Nick knew without asking that he was a detective. The man held a cigarette and was talking with a fireman by one of the trucks. The detective turned to the approaching cop and gave him a little head nod.

  “This man says it’s his apartment.”

  The detective squinted at Nick and gave him the onceover. “Number 302?”

  Nick nodded. The detective gave the cop a get-lost look and then they were alone.

  “What’s your name?” the detective asked.

  “Nick Merchant. When did—”

  “Just getting home, Mr. Merchant?”

  “Yeah. I want to know what happened.”

  “You aren’t the only one,” the man said. He took his time removing and lighting another cigarette. “A very powerful explosion of some kind tore through your apartment about half an hour ago.”

  “An explosion? What do you mean?”

  “An explosion. You know . . .” He spread his fingers in front of his face. “Ka-boom! You keep anything combustible or explosive in your place?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like dynamite,” he snapped. “Help me out, will you?”

  “Ask a sensible question and I might,” Nick answered angrily.

  “Where have you been this evening?”

  “At a restaurant,” replied Nick. “I got in on a flight from Des Moines about eight o’clock and went directly out to dinner.”

  “Uh-huh. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  The detective gave a knowing little frown. “Work out of your home?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Ever had any problems with your work? Threats maybe, sour business deals?”

  “I can’t say I have, no.”

  The detective nodded condescendingly. Nick was irritated but trying to keep cool. The man was asking the proper questions. He had asked the very same ones while he wore the badge.

  Something in Nick’s peripheral vision suddenly grabbed his attention. He noticed his neighbor from 305 sitting on the curb with a rag to his chin. The young man looked up at Nick slowly as he approached. He was shirtless.

  “Did you see what happened, Jay?”

  The man was staring at him reproachfully. The rag in his hand was spotted red. He and Nick had gotten to know each other fairly well those past few months, sharing laughs as they periodically ran into each other in the hallway. Now his eyes were suspicious, his face hardened and accusative.

  “Yeah, I saw it,” his neighbor said. “I was just getting home from work. That lady you know came and tried to get into your place. The second she went in, it blew.”

  Nick collapsed to a knee as his mouth went dry. “The lady I know?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen her here before.”

  “About fifty or so? Five foot five, hefty?”

  “Yeah, the one I’ve seen going in there before. What kinda alarm system you got in your place anyway?”

  Nick sat next to him and felt the wet grass seep through the seat of his pants. He buried his face in his hands and shuddered. He had instructed her to go and pick up those papers. He had sent her there! A nausea swept over him.

  The detective approached him and spoke in a softer tone. “Can you talk to us?”

  “Just give me a minute,” he replied numbly.

  A mist hung in the air, soaking through Nick’s clothes and making him shiver. He looked down at his shoes. The puddles of water looked reddish. The blood was running from his neighbor’s chin, forming little red rivers between the pebbles and dirt.

  A new detective now—younger, his face clean-shaven and softer. “Are you Nick Merchant?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Nick.

  “You’re in apartment 302?”

  “You got it,” he replied from his soggy seat in the grass. He was still drunk, but he didn’t really care now. “Look, I just got back in town. The cab dropped me off and I saw the fire. I have no clue about any of this.”

  “Do you keep anything combustible in your apartment?” asked the detective.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You say you know who the dead woman might be?”

  Nick closed his eyes tightly. “I might. My neighbor says he saw a woman who fits the description of my . . . secretary entering my apartment a second before the blast.”

  “Does your secretary have the key?”

  “Yes, she does. She was picking up some documents.”

  The detective stooped down closer to him. “Do you have any roommates?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You don’t?”

  “That’s what I said. No roommates.”

  “Okay then,” the detective said. “Anybody else have the key besides your secretary?”

  “Yeah, the landlord.”

  “Besides him. We’re trying to figure this out, friend.”

  “Nobody—nobody else has the key. Why do you ask?”

  “We’re trying to figure out who the other body inside the place is.”

  Nick looked up at him. “Inside?”

  The detective nodded. “Male, as far as we could tell. Any idea who that might be?”

  Nick looked up at the smoky shell that was once his apartment and shook his head. He had no idea. None whatsoever.

  He sat a while longer until the cold forced him to move. The trucks were still there, but the hosing had stopped. His apartment was a black cavity in the building, like the burnt husk of a candle.

  The younger detective approached him.

  “Where can we get ahold of you, Mr. Merchant?”

  Nick didn’t respond. He didn’t know the answer. He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock.

  The detective noticed that Nick didn’t look entirely steady.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m great,” he mumbled. “Just . . . great.”

  “Keep this,” the detective said, offering his card. “We’ll need to talk soon.”

  Nick nodded remotely and took the card. The cop turned and left.

  The scattered few who still needed to stand and gawk were finally getting bored now that the spectacle was over. Nick loped across Marina Boulevard to the parking lot in the back of the complex. He saw his car under the wooden canopy of what used to be his apartment. It looked untouched. The lot was po
orly lit and empty. He scanned it. If they knew his apartment, they could find his parking spot. Despite the artificial courage of the booze, he turned back. He was in no condition to drive anyway.

  He walked south on Bay Street toward Chestnut. Considering the hour, the streets were fairly crowded. He was drawing looks—his suit was wet, the seat of his pants dirty. He looked like a mugging victim and felt much worse. He reached Lombard and ducked into a taxi.

  “The avenues.”

  “Which one?”

  “Take Doyle Drive to Park Presidio.”

  They moved through the nighttime traffic of the Marina. He wanted to purge himself of the alcohol and think clearly, but he knew it would now have to run its course through him. He rubbed his face and thought of Rose again. His instructions had sent her there. His instructions! His eyes shut tightly, then flew open again. There was someone else he needed to speak with immediately.

  He pulled his phone from his jacket and called her cell phone first, then her home phone. He heard her fumble for the receiver, dropping it once. Her sleepy voice made it sound as if she were heavily sedated.

  “It’s me, Alex. Where’s your cellular?”

  “It’s two-thirty in the morning, Nick—”

  “Something’s happened here. Get up and turn on your cellular. I’m calling you back in ten seconds.”

  “What’s going on—”

  “Alex, do it. Something bad’s happened over here.”

  “All right, all right . . .”

  He waited ten seconds and called her again on the secure line.

  “Nick?” Alex said as the connection went through.

  “Rose is dead.”

  “What?” She went silent momentarily. “What are you talking about?”

  “Rose has been killed. Someone planted a bomb in my apartment last night and Rose walked into it. She’s dead.”

  “Oh my God, Nick!” said Alex, fully awake now. “Where . . . where are you right now?”

  “In a taxi. Just listen for a second. We’re into something bad with this Jacobs thing. You need to pack up and get out of there. You’re my partner and they’ll know that. They’re going to come after you too—”

  “Who’s they?”

  “I don’t know, but you have to get up and leave.”

  “Leave? Where am I supposed to go?”

  Nick ran a hand through his hair. He noticed the driver watching him in the rearview mirror, obviously hanging on every word.

  “Keep your eyes on the damn road,” he snapped, glaring at him. He turned back to the phone after a moment and lowered his voice a bit. “Alex, listen to me, okay? Rose is dead. She’s been murdered. It was in my apartment, so there’s no question it was meant for me. If you stay in your house, they’re going to find you. If they find you, they’ll try and kill you. What more do I have to say?”

  “But why don’t—”

  “No buts, Alex! You were being followed the other day, remember? I really hope it was GI, because if it wasn’t it may have been someone a helluva lot nastier. Get out of there.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m leaving.”

  “Bring all of the Jacobs stuff. Everything. The mail, the pictures, the tape—all of it. Grab a few changes of clothes and just get someplace safe. You still got your .22, right?”

  “Yes—”

  “Load it and bring it with you. Get moving now, okay?”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I get there. Wherever there is.”

  “Be careful, Alex. I mean it.”

  “Have you been drinking, Nick?”

  “Yes. Call me as soon as you can.”

  Nick clicked the phone off and felt a measure of relief. The only people in the world he needed to be concerned with now were Alex and the Spinettis. He doubted Doug would be a target, and his family would be fairly useless to anyone looking for him. All he needed to do, then, was watch his own back. Being alone in the world had its advantages. His emotional baggage could fit in his back pocket. This fact would only make it harder for them to kill him.

  The taxi went through Golden Gate Park, emerging on Lincoln Way and making a right. Nick had the cabbie stop in the Outer Sunset, and he walked two blocks east on Lincoln to the Travelers Lodge. The old woman behind the counter looked him over warily as he filled out the papers. She asked him if he was okay. He nodded and asked how much for her cheapest room. “Forty-five dollars,” she croaked through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “You’re lucky—you got the last one.” He checked his pockets and found thirty-six dollars. He paid with plastic and took the outer staircase to his second-floor unit. It was a dim room with two saggy queen-size beds. He threw off his jacket and sat down with the lights off.

  The Battery Street office complex was dark and vacant at 1 A.M. A sixty-one-year-old security guard dozed at his desk in the east wing. At the furthest reaches of the west wing, two men in dark pants and black pullovers cut the lock on the chain-link fence bordering the complex and entered the parking lot. Each man had lengthy criminal records for burglary, assault, and extortion. They had been approached and paid handsomely by a man who had identified himself as Henry Fields, although his real name was Danny Risso. The assignment he had given them was simple.

  Both men lugged two six-gallon buckets through the gate. One of them stooped at the side door of the building and placed a thin metal spike into the door lock. The mechanism was stubborn but they were inside after half a minute. They walked in silence, the contents of their covered pails sloshing. A tiny flashlight skimmed the door of each unit. They stopped at unit number eight and placed the buckets on the floor. This lock took a full two minutes of tinkering before they were inside. They quickly inspected the two rooms comprising the unit before beginning the night’s assignment.

  The file cabinets received first attention. Each drawer was emptied in the center of the room. All books were then gathered and added to the pile. The phones were ripped from their connections. The three computer video monitors were smashed, their insides soaked with fluid. In fifteen minutes’ time, all but the furniture lay in a center mound, a grotesque pyramid of Merchant and Associates’ vital innards.

  A fire safe presented the most formidable obstacle. The key mechanism was an unfamiliar German design with little free space to maneuver in. They were set to abandon it when it suddenly gave. They opened the two drawers and quickly added the fiche and papers to the pile. They stood back and surveyed their work, an ugly mound of papers and office equipment. Then they ripped the covers from the buckets. In seconds the pile was dripping with fluid. The excess was used on the remaining furniture, carpets, and walls. The man who knew locks placed his bucket aside and nodded at his companion.

  The two of them stepped to the hallway as a book of matches was removed. The lock picker struck a match, ignited the book, and tossed it through the doorway. Lines of fire streaked across the fluid trails, climbed the walls, enveloped the pile. The flames first sought out and devoured the lifeblood of the company—its vital documents, its signed contracts, its licenses, its court affidavits. Then they set upon the tools and hardware. When the fire engines arrived fifteen minutes later, the entire unit was an inferno.

  Nick leaned against the headboard of the sagging bed as his mind slowly came back under his control. He had been out on his back for at least an hour, but now the alcohol had started to dissipate as the early stages of a hangover set in. He sat in the dark and stared down at the quilt beneath him. The cold reality of the evening’s events was sinking in with a sick finality.

  Rose was dead. Rose had been murdered. It was horrible, horrible to the point of being unreal. She had a huge family, several dozen relatives in the Bay Area alone. He imagined standing there at the funeral, catching the occasional glance, hearing the hushed whispers in between the crying. There he is, they would say. It happened at his apartment. He felt sick.

  He found the bathroom and bent by the sink, turning on the faucet. The cold water provided a needed jolt as he splashed some on his
face. He reentered the darkness of the bedroom and lay back down on the bed. All he could do now was think.

  Whoever these maniacs were, they clearly were traceable to Jacobs. If it was another heir finder, the motivation to remove him was obvious. He could think of twenty-two million reasons right off the bat. But a murder attempt with a bomb? He wasn’t sure he could buy that. Still, given the enormity of the Jacobs estate, he couldn’t rule it out. He had crossed ethical boundaries himself on this one.

  He considered the FBI. He’d heard of them pulling some pretty dirty maneuvers, but bombings and murders were not their domain. Then again, they probably had all the right connections to people who specialized in just those kinds of activities.

  Nick stared into the dark and felt the beginnings of a headache. He would call the FBI at daybreak. He could only imagine the icy reception they were going to give him. After dealing with them, he would call a contact at SFPD and find out if the body at the apartment had been identified. The detective said they had found a man’s body inside his unit. It seemed clear now. Rose must have walked in on them setting the trap, a trap meant for him.

  He hugged his knees and felt alone, more isolated than he could ever remember feeling. He kicked off his shoes and picked his jacket up off the floor, placing it over a chair. The streets outside were silent in the dead of the early morning. He couldn’t even hear a car in the distance. He lay back on the bed with his arms at his sides and tried to will himself back to sobriety.

  He woke sometime later, disoriented and still woozy. A noise had cut through the haze in his head—a car door shutting. He jerked his head up as he heard another sound, softer but very distinct. A voice. Two voices?

  He crept to the blinds and nudged one aside with his finger. He was just in time to see two figures in long coats disappearing from sight under the walkway. He glanced at his watch. Four in the morning—an odd time to be checking in. He thought of the woman downstairs, speaking through her screen of cigarette smoke. You’re lucky—you got the last one. . ..

  He stood still for a moment, a vague uneasiness sweeping through him, then hurried into the bathroom. The window was five feet from the floor and maybe a foot and a half by two. He moved a small potted plant from the ledge and slid the window all the way open, revealing a bug screen. He thrust his palms at it hard. It popped free on the second attempt and landed silently in the bushes below. He stuck his head out and looked around. It was maybe fourteen or fifteen feet to the ground. A thick drainage pipe snaked down the wall an arm’s length away.