The Heir Hunter

by Chris Larsgaard

  “Time’s up,” said a guard. “Let’s go, Von Rohr.”

  “What a joke,” mumbled the convict as he was led out of view.

  Borg looked at Risso and smiled slyly. He couldn’t agree more. Three point seven million in twenty minutes. What a joke.

  Matt Von Rohr reached for his jacket and broke into his thousandth smile of the week. He slipped his card into the machine and felt the chomp of the time stamp. He waved good night to a few of the warehouse grunts and pushed through the exit to the lot. T minus seven days to freedom. Seven days until his life started all over again.

  He had gotten the call two hours ago. She sounded nervous, probably more than a little embarrassed, but that was understandable. It was slightly unbelievable to him how it could happen. While it was true there was no protection against a fire or other acts of God, you would at least think anyone with a piece of paper that valuable would put it in a bank vault or something. No big deal. Alex was cool. Besides, he had checked everything she told him by calling the Columbia County offices and verifying his uncle’s estate. Merchant and Associates was sending a new contract express airmail and he would be returning it to Alex’s P.O. box the same way.

  He drove through his Sacramento neighborhood and felt absolutely gleeful. They had planned on raising their children there. They had scraped up enough for the house and made sure it wasn’t too far from the best schools in the city. But they could scrap that plan now. His fiancée was thinking big, talking about a four-bedroom in San Francisco or Hawaii and a cabin in Tahoe for the winter. Yessir, tough choices they were facing nowadays.

  He pulled into his driveway and checked his watch. They were going out to celebrate over dinner. He was getting used to this. He slammed the door of his Corolla and envisioned a black 944 with a sunroof. He shook his head and laughed. This was no dream.

  He grabbed the mail and found the front door key. He found a beer in the fridge and headed upstairs. He needed a shower badly. Eight hours of warehouse dust and grime was penetrating his pores. Another week and a half of it. And that’s only because he was nice enough to give them two weeks’ notice. He took his shirt off, threw it in the corner, and undid his belt.

  The blow hit Matt Von Rohr from behind, a stiff shot to the neck that put him on his stomach. From the floor the room was spinning. He turned his head up painfully. Two men looked down at him. Both held guns. One of them circled around him, his head tilted thoughtfully.

  “Your brother Timothy—you know where he is?”

  Von Rohr looked at the gun and shook his head. He was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. He shifted to his side, his pants wrapped around his ankles.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “When did you last see your brother?”

  “Christ, not for years. What—”

  They each fired a shot, one of them applying a final bullet to the head. The two gunmen walked downstairs and entered their car, taking Brooke Street to the freeway.

  CHAPTER

  17

  THE PLANE BEGAN its descent at 6:30 P.M. The ground below was coal black as the sun’s final rays broke the horizon.

  Nick turned from the window. He was rested and felt a bit calmer. He had managed to doze off somewhere over Nevada, and it had been deep, dreamless sleep. His fear and confusion over Rose’s murder had been replaced by an angry determination to find answers.

  He took the Fifth Street exit off State Highway 5 and parked the car on the corner of Euclid and Second. As promised, the white pickup truck was parked and waiting. Nick made a U-turn and caught a glimpse of the face behind the wheel.

  Dave Reinbeck was just as Nick remembered. The cheeks were still red, the whiskers still unshaven, the hair still a wavy blond mess. Little had changed from the day two years ago when Nick had appeared at his front door with the news of Stanley Reinbeck’s death. It had been the first bit of news Dave Reinbeck had gotten about his father since the old man had walked out on the family nearly thirty years ago.

  They shook hands on the sidewalk.

  “Glad I could help, Nick,” said Reinbeck, handing over the small wooden box. “Just get it back to me as soon as you can.”

  “You bet, Dave,” replied Nick, placing the box under his arm. “I appreciate you coming out here.”

  “No problem. I work only about five minutes away from here.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “So what’s going on anyway? You’re not in trouble, are you?”

  Nick opened his car door and placed the box on the passenger’s seat.

  “Everything’s fine. I had to catch a quick flight out here and didn’t have time to clear a gun with airport security.” He shut the door. “So how’s your brother doing?”

  “Real good. Still working in construction. He says hello, by the way. He wanted to know if you had any more money for us.”

  Nick smiled. “I wish I did.”

  “Oh well. Guess I only got one deadbeat dad, huh?” He shook his head and pulled out his truck keys. “I’m run-nin’ late to dinner. Good seein’ you again, pal. Lemme know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks again, Dave.”

  Nick gave him a wave as the truck pulled off onto the road. He entered his car and removed the lid of the box. The pistol was a six-shot, snub-nosed revolver, hardly heavy duty but better than nothing. Dave was nice enough to include a box of ammunition as well. Nick slipped six bullets into the cylinder and placed the gun in his coat pocket. The weight against his chest was reassuring.

  His phone rang. Doug’s voice had an unrestrained urgency.

  “I got the full background on that Brecker guy. It’s pretty ugly, Nick.”

  “Give it to me,” said Nick, reaching for his notepad.

  “For starters, we got a 1980 assault with a deadly weapon charge. Charges eventually dropped. Another assault charge, 1983. Charges dropped again. Here’s the kicker: a 1984 arrest for murder. Went to trial and found not guilty. You getting all this?”

  “Every word,” replied Nick, writing away. “Anything else?”

  “That’s the best of it. Or the worst, I guess I should say. The only other thing is a 1992 misdemeanor conviction in Nevada—possession of a loaded firearm in his car. Six months’ probation.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Jesus Christ, you want more?”

  Nick bit his pen and considered everything he had just heard. “Anything else there about this firearm charge?”

  “What? Two assaults and a murder charge and you’re asking—”

  “Will you just answer the question please?”

  “It says the guy was caught with—quote here—an unlicensed custom-suppressed McMillan M86SR rifle with tritium night sights and a laser-aiming device. That’s all it says.”

  Nick closed his eyes for a moment and felt chilled. “What about employment?”

  “You’ll love this. Phoenix police officer, 1974 to ’78. Just the kind of guy you want on the force, huh?”

  “What else from employment?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing?”

  “Nothing, Nick. No work, no taxes paid, no permanent addresses since ’78. Big zero.”

  “What about voter’s and property? Postal atlas? How about credit and utilities?”

  “I ran ’em all. He doesn’t show up anywhere. That’s absolutely everything, man.”

  Nick continued chewing his pen. Absolutely everything wasn’t much. Outside of the arrests, William Brecker had ceased to exist in 1978. He found that very, very frightening.

  “You talk to Von Rohr yet?” asked Doug.

  “I’m a few miles from her place. It’s barely seven P.M., so I’ll give it another hour before I approach her.”

  “I slept like shit last night. This whole thing’s making me a nervous wreck.”

  “Imagine how I feel.”

  “Try and sign her, Nick. If you have to go through all this mise
ry, you might as well get rich doing it.”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  Nick put the phone away and started the engine. He had no desire to walk away from this case rich; all he wanted to do was just walk away alive. He checked the rearview mirror. Whoever had tried to kill him at the apartment was not about to stop trying now. If anything, they were going to double—triple—their efforts.

  He reached for the steering wheel and noticed his hand wasn’t quite steady.

  He parked across from her house at 7:30. The front blinds were drawn, and he couldn’t see any lights on. The evening was clear and still. He decided he would wait a few minutes before ringing her front door.

  He turned his attention back to William Brecker. The background report he had just gotten was more disturbing than he had anticipated. Assault and murder charges weren’t even that shocking. After the events of the prior day, he had almost expected them. It was the weapons charge that was really sticking in his head. He had heard of the M86SR rifle. It was a pro’s tool—accurate from long distances, powerful, deadly. It had not been made for duck hunting.

  The employment information only made him more uneasy. From 1978 on, Brecker had dropped out of “normal” society—no work, no taxes, no address. The conclusion seemed obvious—Mr. Brecker made his living pulling discreet, cash-only jobs. Dirty jobs. How many others had he murdered?

  Nick leaned his head back. The fact that a killer-for-hire had been sent for him was not nearly as frightening as the cold knowledge that his breed was always disposable. William Brecker would be replaced, and probably very quickly.

  He looked over at Jessica’s home. A dim light was suddenly turned on in the living room. He stepped from the car.

  The cold reality of the situation swept over him when he was halfway up the walkway. He could barely believe the circumstances bringing him to her doorstep this time. He felt a touch of anger toward himself. The FBI had tried to tell him, had tried to warn him off, but no—Nick Merchant wouldn’t hear of it. Nick Merchant had to find heirs, Nick Merchant had to be so curious. That curiosity had come back to haunt him now, and it had killed a hell of a lot more than a damn cat. He had to do what he could to prevent another tragedy.

  He pressed the doorbell. In five seconds’ time, the door swung open. Nick opened his mouth to speak but had to pause at what he saw. The face at the door was white, the eyes wide and frightened. Nick’s rehearsed introduction was instantly forgotten.

  “My God,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  Jessica Von Rohr looked beyond him wildly, scanning the front yard. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice charged.

  “I . . . I need to talk to you,” Nick stammered. “Is something—?”

  “I just got a call from a detective in Sacramento,” she said. “He said my brother’s been murdered.”

  Nick blinked several times, then reached for a post to steady himself. For a brief moment, he forgot where he was.

  “My brother’s dead,” Jessica said numbly, almost as if she were convincing herself of it. “He’s been murdered.”

  Hearing her voice brought Nick back. He glanced furtively down both sides of the street, then stepped into her doorway. “We need to talk.”

  “No,” she said, blocking his path. “What’s going on here?”

  “Can I please step inside for a moment? I’ve got some information you need to hear.”

  Her eyes were defiant. Nick spoke softly but firmly. “I’m not here to talk about inheritances, okay? We need to talk about what I’ve learned about your uncle.” His hand caught the door. “Dammit, Jessica—your brother isn’t the only one who’s been killed.”

  He could see in her eyes that this statement registered. Slowly she stepped aside. Nick let a breath out and followed her in. They entered the living room but did not sit this time.

  “What happened to Matt?” Nick asked.

  “Someone broke into his home and shot him. I got the call half an hour ago. Can you possibly tell me what this is all about?”

  Nick shook his head helplessly. “I’m not sure where to start,” he said, walking to the front window and sneaking a quick look out. “Last night, someone booby-trapped my home with an explosive. A friend of mine was killed.”

  “Who? Who would do this?”

  “I don’t know enough to give you an answer.” He walked up to her. “I need to know as much as I can about your uncle. These murders have something to do with him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m guessing, but I know I’m right. I need to find out more so I can prove it.”

  She rubbed her forehead and abruptly sat down. She looked up at him, her face tired. Her skin was clean, her perfectly clear complexion exposed. She was dressed in a business skirt and white blouse. The call must have caught her just getting home from a Saturday workday.

  “I don’t know anything about him,” she said. “My mother hadn’t spoken to him for years. He was kind of a . . . family outcast.”

  “Your mother must have told you something.”

  “We always knew that my mother had a brother, much older than she. She told us he was dead, killed back in Germany. She never went into much detail.”

  Nick shook his head back and forth. He took a seat next to her. “There has to be more to it than that. Jessica, your brother and my friend are dead, and for all I know we could be next. Think. What else did she tell you? There’s got to be more.”

  “There is no more!” she blurted out. “My mother’s family was from Germany. They were there at the start of the war. My uncle . . . I don’t know—he was in Germany the entire war. He might have been a Nazi or something, but I don’t see how that’s important.”

  “Why do you think this?”

  “My mother said he was in the military. I don’t know any more than that.”

  “A Nazi,” said Nick emphatically, remembering Alex’s earlier theory. “But this was no run-of-the-mill Nazi.”

  “I don’t know what he was. My mother told us he had a desk job. That’s all she ever said.”

  “And this is absolutely everything you know?”

  She frowned. “There’s one other thing . . .”

  She got to her feet and stepped from the room. Nick felt deflated. He had somehow assumed she knew more. Much more. What this Nazi business added he couldn’t see.

  Nick crept to the windows and peered carefully through the shades. Paranoia was working overtime. He did not want to be in that house for more than another ten or fifteen minutes.

  Jessica returned momentarily, holding an envelope. She opened it and removed a paper. “Your visit the other day got me curious. I did some digging around through some of my mother’s papers and I came across something strange. I didn’t even know I had it.”

  “What is it?” he asked, approaching her.

  “A certificate of ownership to a box at Hahn and Konauer.” She saw his confusion. “A private bank in Geneva, Switzerland.”

  Nick took the paper and noticed the date. The certificate had been issued two years ago. “You didn’t know your mother kept this account?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Was your mother mixed up with her brother somehow?”

  “What do you mean, mixed up with him? She never saw him. Whatever business he was involved in, she had nothing to do with it.”

  “So what business did she have in Geneva?”

  “I don’t know, okay?” She glared at him. “Who do you think you are anyway—interrogating me in my own home. I’m the one who should be asking you questions. You’re the one who showed up at my door the other day talking about inheritances.”

  Nick felt dangerously close to losing it. He instead kept quiet and forced himself to cool down. He needed her help, and she deserved his. He had been the one to first approach her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m just trying to put things together here, that’s all.” He looked back down to the banking certificate a
nd quickly said, “So you have no idea what might be in this box?”

  “No idea,” she replied, a measure of calm returning in her voice. “I’d like to find out.”

  Nick nodded but wondered if he was getting the full story. He looked back down at the bank document. It was no different than the ones he had found in the old man’s garage. Whatever dwelled in that box had been untouched for four years now.

  He looked back up at her. “Does the name Otto Kranzhoffer sound familiar?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. Why?”

  The name on the greeting card he had found in her uncle’s home. He hoped she wouldn’t ask how he had gotten the name. “I think he may have known your uncle. I’ve found a greeting card sent by him to Holtzmann. It sounds as if they may have been friends.”

  “I’ve never known anyone by that name.”

  He nodded and tried to organize his thoughts as he sat back down on the couch. “I was hoping when I came here that you might be able to shed some light on why the FBI would be so interested in this man.”

  “The FBI? What? What are you talking about?”

  He told her of his discussion with the FBI and their vaguely explained relationship with Jacobs. She leaned forward on the couch, her fingers wrestling with themselves.

  “What business would the FBI have with my uncle?” she asked.

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Why would they set him up so comfortably?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Holtzmann was worth twenty-two and a half million dollars. We’re not talking about any ordinary estate here. He obviously had some sort of . . . influence.”

  “This estate is worth twenty-two million? My God, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You threw me out too quick.” He stared at her. “Why? Would it have mattered?”

  “It might have, yes. I thought this was all a hoax.”

  “No hoax, Jessica. Not after my friend gets blown to bits in the middle of my apartment.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last night. They tried to get me a few hours after that, but I got lucky.”