“Quite possibly.”
“Quite likely, I would think. I’d like you to gather your evidence and file your charges against this Merchant person. Didn’t you tell me that he used to be a police officer?”
“In San Francisco, yes.”
“San Francisco? Is he a homosexual, by chance?”
“I have no idea,” answered Gordon.
“Well, find out. Have your agents check that house up and down. We need evidence, Arthur. It’s very important that we nail this man if he’s insisting on pressing this investigation forward. We do not need undue attention brought to this Jacobs fellow, not after all the fine work the senator’s committee has done.”
“Mr. President, the house has been cleared out and handed over to the New York Department of Justice. Those were your instructions.”
“Yes, and that was a favor to Senator Newland. Knowing his involvement, I’m giving him a certain leeway on this situation.” He crossed his arms on his chest. “Arthur, I’m not looking for anything complicated here. Just get in there, find the evidence—a few fingerprints perhaps—and file the charges. This needs to happen quickly. I wouldn’t be so insistent if it weren’t very important to Senator Newland and his committee.”
“Is Merchant’s firm very large, Mr. Gordon?” asked the senator.
Gordon kept his eyes on the President when he spoke. He didn’t like being questioned by Newland, nor did he feel comfortable with the senator’s involvement in this part of the discussion.
“A two-man show, basically.”
“So you take care of Merchant and his operation pretty much shuts down.”
“That’s probably true.”
“Sounds like a clear solution,” Marshall said, a bit too quickly for Gordon’s liking. In the silence that followed, the director saw his opening.
“What will be required of the FBI if Merchant by chance brings any of this out?”
“I’m counting on you to make sure he doesn’t,” Marshall said, clearly irritated now. “Goddamnit, the longer we sit here and chat, the more likely it is we’ll see problems. I want you two to work together here. If you have any more questions, pick up the phone and call each other. Frankly, I feel I’ve spent more than enough time on this, and I’d like to get on with running the country. Did you have any more questions for Tom, Arthur?”
Gordon slowly shook his head. He wanted to pick at it more, but he resisted the urge.
“Good,” said Marshall. “Now that Senator Newland has been good enough to brief you, you can move on with this. It sounds as if it’s no big deal if it’s just taken care of in a firm manner.” He turned to Newland. “Tom, I trust I won’t need to intervene any further.”
“I agree, Mr. President.”
The three of them rose to their feet and exchanged handshakes. The President ushered them to the door and said goodbye.
Gordon followed the senator into the lobby just outside the Oval Office. Newland turned to him and said, “It was good to clear the air today, Arthur. I appreciate your help on this. I want you to feel free to contact me if you have any more concerns.”
Gordon nodded and said nothing. He felt certain he would have further questions, but he doubted if he would be approaching Newland for answers. He let the senator walk off, then he took several steps through the lobby before stopping and looking back. The President’s door was shut.
He finally turned away, a vague uneasiness nagging at him. This would not be the end of it. There were complete answers somewhere, and he planned to find them. Soon.
The fishermen were returning to their berths at the Marina Greens. They were largely older men, grizzled, hardened types with foreign accents who rose before daybreak to ensure they found favorable spots on the water for their small, barnacle-encrusted boats. For ten years now, they had waged a losing war, for the bay was in slow decline. Health officials spoke of toxicity levels and mercury content, of fish too poisonous to eat, but still the fishermen set out in the misty mornings with their ten-foot poles and assortment of multicolored lures. They had nowhere else to go.
Nick lowered his window completely and felt little relief. The morning fog had lifted, removing the city’s only defense from the sun. Indian summer was in the air-two weeks or so of intolerable heat that native San Franciscans endured rather than enjoyed. The smell of sea salt and bird guano blended sickeningly in the faint, almost nonexistent breeze. Nick fanned himself slowly with a newspaper. Ever since college, he had hated heat, hated those dusty hundred-degree afternoons in East Texas where the nearest relief was some godforsaken water hole miles down a simmering hot concrete turnpike. Indian summer was coming at a bad time this year.
It was one in the afternoon. He had hours to kill before his flight would leave, and until then all he could do was sit. A newly purchased garment bag lay on the backseat, and two large shopping bags sat on opposite sides of it. He had purchased new pants, shoes, shirts, and underwear. It had been charged to the tune $970 on a credit card issued to a Michael Dean Collier, a fake ID he had kept for years but until now never used. The billing address on the card was a post office box—worthless to anyone looking to find the cardholder. He felt reasonably safe using it. He had a driver’s license and passport to match. From that moment until some undetermined point in the future, he would be Mr. Collier.
Nick slouched in his seat and watched the fishermen come and go. One horrible image would not dislodge itself from his mind: the thought of a fifty-five-year-old grandmother on a metal slab. He had rubbed his temples raw thinking about Rose.
His pager began to vibrate. A New York area code—thank God. He reached for his phone.
“Where are you?”
“Schenectady,” Alex replied. “I got a one-month lease on a studio. If I have to hide out, I at least want to be comfortable. Where are you?”
“Near Fisherman’s Wharf. Anybody follow you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so? Did you look?”
“Yes, I looked. I can handle myself, Nick.”
“Just watching out for you. Listen, something I didn’t tell you earlier—another person was killed in that blast last night. The cops found a man’s body inside my apartment. I got his name from a cop friend of mine. I’m gonna have Doug run it and see what turns up.”
“Let me know as soon as you have something.”
“I will. What did you manage to bring out of your place?”
“The laptop. Some clothes. That’s about it. You yelled at me to get out of there quick, remember?”
“What about the Jacobs stuff? You didn’t forget that, did you?”
“I got it, I got it.”
He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Good. Have you found anything yet on Ludwig Holtzmann?”
“I haven’t gotten a chance yet, Nick. I’m not even sure what exactly you want me to do.”
“Whatever you can. Go to a library or research center or something and see what you can dig up. Find anything, Alex. This guy was German or Austrian, right? Take that and go with it.”
“Fine. What are you going to do?”
“I think Jessica Von Rohr knows some of Jacobs’s story. I have to get it out of her somehow. I’m catching a flight back to Des Moines later today.”
“And what makes you think she’s going to give you the time of day?”
“Because I’m gonna be very damn insistent. Listen, I need to get hold of a gun once I touch down there. Remember those heirs we found in that little town south of Des Moines about two years ago? Their name was like Reichart or Reinfeld or something like that. . ..”
“Reinbeck,” said Alex. “I remember them. The town was called Indiana or—”
“Indianola,” said Nick, snapping his fingers. “Two brothers, if I’m correct. Couple of hunting-and-fishing country boys. I’ll have Doug dig up their addresses. If anybody out there can get me a gun, it would be those two characters.”
“What—you’re just going to show
up at their door and ask for a gun?”
“If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”
“You don’t have to snap at me, Nick. We’re both in the same mess here.”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve got another lovely bit of news to share with you.”
“Oh God, what now?”
“Someone torched the office early this morning. Every contract we had there went up in smoke, including Matt Von Rohr’s. Doug brought it over from his office and it got destroyed too.”
He could hear her slowly let a breath out.
“Any other good news, Nick?”
“Now that you mention it, yes. Two men tried to kill me last night and I’m alive to tell you about it.”
Alex was silent. “You’re not joking, are you?”
“Not much of a joke, is it? You have to watch your back, and do not use any credit cards issued in your name. Use your fake ID at all times. How did you lease that apartment?”
“Cash. Debra Ramos.”
“Good job. We know what we have to do then: I go to Iowa, you do the Holtzmann research. One of us will have to get back to Matt Von Rohr and have him sign another contract. Just another thing to add to our list.”
“Who’d do all this to us, Nick? Do you think the other heir finders are behind it?”
“I don’t know. The only other people who know about Jacobs are the FBI, which reminds me: I spoke with one of their deputy directors this morning.”
“What did he say?” she asked, her voice hushed.
“Just what we thought—he demanded that we back off Jacobs. I told them I can’t guarantee them anything. But he did tell me one thing, and you better brace yourself for this one . . .”
“What is it?”
“They told me the cop who showed up at Jacobs’s house the other night was almost murdered. That gunman must have shot him, Alex. They want to put that on me.”
“Jesus,” she said. “What proof do they have that we were even there?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe they’re getting their evidence together right now.”
Both of them held the phones and were silent. Nick spoke before she could think too much.
“Listen,” he said. “Sitting around worrying isn’t going to help us. I want you to get moving on the Holtzmann research. Let’s just keep in close contact and check in with each other before we do anything. Okay?”
“I’m scared, Nick.”
“So am I. Just please be careful.”
“You too.”
Nick exited the lot and headed back toward the avenues.
CHAPTER
16
ALEX DROVE THROUGH the side streets of residential Albany with a nagging pain in her gut. She had realized her mistake twenty minutes after the conversation with her partner. She tried to lay blame on Nick, and he was partially at fault, the way he had frantically ordered her out of the house. She had been so busy grabbing clothes and underwear, she had overlooked the one thing they could not afford to be without. She had forgotten the Jacobs pictures.
She made a pass down Morris Street. Nothing odd. Nobody suspicious. Absolutely normal. Mr. Tomiki was across the street, watering his lawn for the tenth time in the last three days. The streets were empty, as usual. She drove several blocks both directions from her house. Clear. A few cars—all unoccupied. She frowned. The whole hiding thing seemed slightly absurd. She would just slip into her home and slip out with the pictures. Nick wouldn’t even have to know about it.
She calmly drove back to her home and parked in the next-door neighbor’s driveway. The couple who lived there would be at work until six and wouldn’t mind in the least. She placed the .22 in her jacket and stepped from the car.
The house was fine. Slightly lonely looking maybe, but untouched. She cut down the adjoining pathway and walked to the back fence. The hinges of the wooden gate creaked as she pushed it open and hurried through to the backyard.
She entered from the kitchen side door. The gun was out now. She did her best Angie Dickinson around the corner into the living room and scanned it. Home sweet home. Any psychopaths in the closet? She smiled and quickly jogged upstairs in a crouch, gun extended. She stopped at the top of the stairs. Her throat went dry as dead leaves. The office door was closed.
There was a simple reason she always left that door open. Air flow. Kept the house from getting musty. She never, ever closed that door. But there it was in front of her—shut tighter than a vault.
Her arm shook a bit. The house was still, a deafening dead quiet. She stepped toward the door slowly. The gun felt warm and slippery in her palm. The floorboards were creaking under her feet like little firecrackers. One thing she was certain of—she had left the Jacobs photographs on the edge of the file cabinet. She reached for the knob, turned it, then threw the door open hard against the wall. Three or four loose papers fluttered to the ground from the sudden breeze. She braced herself outside the doorway, gun extended, her finger lightly tickling the trigger. She could see the pictures, just as she had left them. She exhaled. If someone had been in there, they couldn’t have missed them. She approached the file cabinet and grabbed the envelope.
She was halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rang. She froze, then crept to the curtains. It was only her mailman, an older guy with roaming eyes. He was holding a package. She reached for the knob but quickly drew her hand back. A gasp passed over her lips as she slowly lowered herself to one knee.
Somehow it had registered in her peripheral vision, just a black blob, a dark incongruity against the varnished brown door. She stared at it, eyes wide and unblinking. It was at the base of the door, a metallic looking black box, no larger than a brick. A pair of thin wires—one white, one green—ran from the top of it and reconnected at the base. On the very top was a red crystal, flashing twice every three seconds or so.
The doorbell rang again, but she barely heard it. She backed away from the door slowly, vaguely aware of her heart thumping in her temples. She gripped the gun and looked about wildly. This was no longer her home. Someone had entered and turned it into a house of horrors, a place she could no longer fathom sleeping in.
She made it to the hallway. Her eyes, keen now, spotted the second black brick instantly. It sat at the foot of the door leading to the garage—her normal point of entry into the house. Any other day, she would have pulled her car into the garage and come in from there. Either that or parked in the driveway and entered from the front. The same horrible fate awaited either choice.
In the kitchen, she could almost see the intruders now. The window hung open barely an inch, the latch bent slightly askew. They had broken in and seen the three doors leading in from outside. Having only two devices to plant, they had opted to play the percentages and arm the two most likely entryways. Only blind luck had saved her. But she wasn’t even supposed to have gone back there. Nick wouldn’t need to know about this.
She walked quickly to the side door, double-checking the doorway thoroughly before exiting. She crept down the side walkway between her house and the neighbor’s. The streets were clear. She entered the car quickly and thrust her key into the ignition. She felt heartsick as she watched her home disappear in the rearview mirror. She would not be returning in the near future. Whether she would be returning at all remained to be seen.
A small crowd had gathered at both sides of the glass. Even the warden had found time in his schedule to be present for this special meeting. It was he who personally took the contract behind the glass to inmate number 235150.
Timothy Von Rohr didn’t bother scrutinizing the piece of paper. He turned back to the crowd hovering behind him and raised his hands helplessly. “Can’t sign it with my finger, Warden.”
The warden nodded at one of his men. The guard slapped at his pockets helplessly in search of a pen. Finally the warden rolled his eyes and produced his own pen, a glimmering Mont Blanc.
Von Rohr took it and scratched his name across the line. It was
a messy attempt, like a fourth grader’s, but this was understandable. It was his first signature in nearly nine years.
The warden took the paper back around to Richard Borg and Danny Risso, reading as he walked. He handed the paper to Borg and gave him a serious nod. “Ten minutes, gentlemen.”
Borg nodded and verified the signature before turning back to the prisoner. “I’ll keep it simple, Timothy. You’ve just signed a claim legally entitling you to one-third of an inheritance. Your fifty percent share of that comes to approximately three point seven million dollars.”
Von Rohr leaned back and crossed his thick, tattooed arms on his chest. He gave a snort and glanced up at one of the guards hanging over his shoulder. “Who’s gonna leave me that kind of money, buddy?”
“Your uncle,” replied Danny Risso.
“Yeah. My uncle Donald Trump.”
Risso smiled dryly. “Your uncle’s name was Ludwig Holtzmann. Remember him?”
“Nope. Sure you got the right guy?”
“We’re positive we got the right guy,” said Borg. “We wouldn’t waste our time coming here if we didn’t. When do you get out, Timothy?”
“Five months.”
“What we’ll do—if you’d like—is set up a trust account with a local bank here in the Bay Area. The money will be perfectly safe there for five months until you’re free to claim it. Does that sound reasonable?”
Von Rohr gave another chuckle. Everything the two visitors said seemed to be eliciting a laugh.
“You two walk in here, give me three point whatever million, and ask me if it sounds reasonable? Yeah, sure, it’s sounds reasonable, all right.”
“Good. When the trust account is set up, we’ll send you a letter with all the details.” The investigators rose to their feet. “Thanks again, Timothy. Any last questions?”
“Yeah,” he replied, throwing a glance to the warden. “Would you guys mind sending a dozen long-stemmed roses to Uncle Louie’s funeral? That would mean so much to me.”
The Heir Hunter Page 19