Nick purposely held his stare an extra second before standing and approaching the nightstand. He pulled out a phone book.
“Ever been to New York?” he asked, knowing the answer already from her background check.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re going back there tonight with me.”
“For what?”
“We’re going to meet up with my partner and figure out what to do. You got yourself a free flight back East, courtesy of Merchant and Associates.”
This time it was her fingers that disconnected the phone.
“There’s no way I’m going like this.” She stood and ran her hands down herself. “I look like a bum.”
Nick checked her over. She was five foot four, all right—in heels. Somehow, in her dirty blouse and torn nylons, she didn’t look half bad to him. Not bad at all.
“Is there a city nearby with a decent department store?” he asked.
“Ames. About ten minutes down the highway. They’re open until ten on Saturdays.”
“We’ll take a cab there then. After we get clothes and a couple of travel bags, we’ll go straight to the airport. Till then we sit tight.”
“I have to call my office and let them know I’ll be out for a while.”
“A long while, I’d say. If they press you for details, I wouldn’t get into it with them.”
A car door slammed out in the street. Nick checked through the curtains. Jessica grabbed the remote and clicked the television off.
“I told you what I know—it’s your turn now. I want to hear about everything you’ve found.”
“That ain’t much.”
“Then it won’t take you too long. I’m all ears, Mr. PI.”
Nick sat across from her on the bed and started talking.
The Institute for Historical Review was an unremarkable little building situated between a Russian bakery and a twenty-year-old furniture store in downtown Albany. Three blocks east of City Hall, the institute was rarely frequented by pedestrians, but that would change today.
Alex had never taken much notice of the building the dozens of times she had been downtown, but now the modest two-story Victorian on Columbia Street stood out like a beacon. She found parking down the street and pulled to the curb.
She sat for a moment in silence as a fly buzzed about the inside of the car. She was thinking of her mother again, and the pit of her stomach had contracted accordingly. She knew her mother didn’t read the newspapers. Her television time was almost exclusively dedicated to the Spanish channel. She probably wouldn’t know of the charges against Nick, but with her blabbermouth friends, that could change quickly. And if one partner of Merchant and Associates was now a wanted fugitive, could the other be far behind? The thought of putting her mother through something like that was enough to make her shudder.
She stepped from the car, feeling slightly nauseous. She had called Nick immediately with the news but hadn’t been able to reach him. Her partner didn’t go anywhere without his phone. She couldn’t think of a single comforting reason why he wouldn’t be answering it.
A bell chimed against the back of the door as she entered the building. She looked around, a bit confused. Despite the distinguished title, the place had the look of a used bookstore. The room was dusty and poorly lit, with rows of dented book stands forming narrow passageways for several browsing patrons. The musty scent of aged manuscripts filled the air. A lanky man of about forty emerged from a row. He approached Alex with a friendly smile, his arms holding several worn volumes.
“You must be Ms. Ramos.”
“Yes—Debra Ramos,” she replied, offering her hand. “Are you John?”
“Yes, I am—John Franklin. We spoke this morning.”
“I appreciate you sticking around so late, John.”
“Oh not a problem. Our senior researcher, Mr. Gruber, is here now, as usual.” He brought a hand to the side of his mouth. “Old guy practically lives here. He’d probably stay all night if we’d let him.”
“Well I’m definitely grateful,” Alex said, scanning the interior. “What kind of business is this exactly?”
“We’re a state-funded, nonprofit group which does historical research, mostly for universities and local government agencies.” He noticed her expression. “Our funding hasn’t exactly been abundant lately. Can you follow me please?”
Alex followed him back through the tight rows of books and into a small, poorly lit office. In the center of the room was a large, neatly organized desk behind which sat a bearded elderly gentleman. The man looked up from his papers and nodded at Alex with a cordial smile.
“This is Paul Gruber, Ms. Ramos,” said Franklin. He turned to the seated gentleman. “She’s the one who wanted the research done on Ludwig Holtzmann.”
“Good to meet you,” said the old man, smiling again. “You’ll be pleased with what I’ve found.”
“I’m very interested in seeing it,” Alex replied.
The old man rose to his feet slowly and with great effort. “Come with me.”
Alex followed him up a narrow wooden staircase and into a low-ceilinged attic. Here, neatly organized in domino-like book stands, were thousands of manuscripts and volumes. The old man walked purposefully to a desk and took a seat, motioning Alex to a chair on his left.
“An interesting figure you’re researching,” said Mr. Gruber, leafing through a folder. “I confess that I normally consider myself quite the expert when the subject is World War II personalities, but I admit I was a bit thrown by our dear Herr Holtzmann. It took me some time to find anything at all on him.”
Alex watched him pull a single sheet of paper. He put on a pair of thick-lensed glasses and cleared his throat.
“Here we are—Ludwig Wilhelm Holtzmann. Born in Germany in 1913, died there in 1997.”
“Died in Germany in 1997,” repeated Alex thoughtfully. “How do you know this for sure?”
“The records verify it.”
“Records can be falsified,” she said softly. She saw his confused look. “I’m sorry. Please go on.”
Gruber turned back to his notes. “Holtzmann joined the National Socialist party in 1934.”
“National Socialist,” said Alex. “A Nazi, you’re saying.”
“That’s correct. A banker actually. Basically a bureaucrat of the worst kind. Received a war deferment in 1939—bad eyes supposedly. Humph. Whether this was a genuine infirmity or simply another case of a privileged party member having the right connections, we can’t know. The latter I would guess.” He found another sheet and extended it to her. “A photograph . . .”
She was anxious to see this. A studio shot—the young Gerald Jacobs. The face was as bland and generic as the biography she had just been given. A serious expression, a youthful face without a trace of humor. Tight, thin lips and bony jowls. The beady little eyes had a kind of subdued arrogance.
She handed the photo back and felt disappointed. She saw nothing remotely interesting about Ludwig Holtzmann. Certainly nothing notable enough to make him the center of all this attention.
“I’m confused about something,” she said. “If he was just a banker, just a common bureaucrat, how is it you found anything on him at all?”
The old man removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes slowly. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not being very clear.” He stood and walked toward a bare wall. “Perhaps a bit of footage can clear things up better than a forgetful old man can.” He reached the wall and pulled down a hanging screen.
Alex swiveled in her chair, confused. “What’s this?”
“You’ll see,” he said.
She let out a breath, impatient but trying to be courteous. She wanted information, not home movies. She opened her mouth to speak, but the old man had doused the lights. A film projector clicked into motion as a ray of light was projected to the screen.
“Mr. Gruber, I really don’t—”
A blaring of trumpets silenced her. She looked to the
screen. A grainy and dark image formed. The deep baritone of thousands of male voices suddenly boomed from the speaker. The picture focused on the dagger-beaked head of a bird as the camera slowly panned out. The bird became enormous, its fifty-foot wings pinned outward onto poles like a giant specimen in a butterfly collection.
Alex looked backward at the old man helplessly.
“Almost there,” he said.
The camera now focused on two figures in military garb walking down the pathway through tens of thousands of perfectly aligned flagbearers. The volume of the singing reached a resounding crescendo as the two figures in military garb ascended a great stairway upward. In several seconds, they had reached the summit. They parted, one saluting the other. One of them now faced the thousands of onlookers on his private pulpit. The singing in the stadium stopped. With a sudden thrust to the sky, he saluted the masses. As one, they responded, rhythmically, fervently praising their leader. The camera switched to an elevated box holding perhaps thirty dignitaries.
Alex watched in silent fascination. She was no history buff, but she recognized several faces. The rotund Göring, grinning widely in his gaudy white military uniform, his hands clasped together in unconcealed delight. The weasel-faced Goebbels, smaller but equally radiant in his joy in the moment. The picture suddenly froze.
“The Nuremberg party rally of 1938,” said the old man in satisfaction. He approached the screen. “The hierarchy of the Third Reich. The most sinister lot of criminals the world has ever seen.”
“Mr. Gruber, I appreciate this, but I really don’t see what—”
“There he is, my dear,” he said, walking to the screen. He raised his arm and patted a face. “Ludwig Wilhelm Holtzmann, vice president of the German Reichsbank.”
“Vice president of . . .?”
Her voice caught. She leaned forward in her chair and focused on the face of the man whose death had begun the incredible chain of events of the past week. He stood frozen in time, his mouth open, caught in the middle of a shouted salute to history’s most notorious leader. She felt a shiver. This was no simple bureaucrat.
Gruber continued his narration almost triumphantly.
“I apologize for oversimplifying things. Saying that Ludwig Holtzmann was a banker is rather like saying that Lincoln was a politician. Ludwig Wilhelm Holtzmann was a little-known but instrumental figure in Nazi Germany’s economic administration.”
Alex said nothing. Her eyes remained locked on Holtzmann’s face. He was young, bespectacled, with a short, little boy’s haircut. He was dressed in full Nazi regalia.
The old man produced a paper and read from it.
“As I said, Holtzmann was born in Hamburg and educated at the University of Berlin. Joined the Nazi party in 1934. Held the position of Reichsintendant with the Ministry of Economics from 1934 to 1938. Vice president of the Reichsbank from 1938 to 1945 . . .”
Alex leaned her head back and looked at the ceiling. She needed to focus on something else. Anywhere but that projection screen. She raised her hand to her face and rubbed her eyes.
“In his position,” continued Gruber, relentless now, “he held enormous power. Second only to Walther Funk in the Reichsbank, Holtzmann had ready access to nearly all assets of the German Reich. He could transfer huge sums with a simple signature, and he often did. He periodically authorized checks for millions of marks to Hermann Göring. When Funk learned of the transfers and sought to expel Holtzmann, only Göring’s intervention saved his position.”
Alex finally found her voice. “What happened to him?”
“With the end of the war, Holtzmann went on the run. He was tried in absentia in Nuremberg and—like Rudolf Hess and the others—given life in Spandau prison. He was captured in Italy in 1946 and returned to Germany to serve his sentence. He hanged himself in his cell just three years ago.”
Alex nodded slowly. Three years ago—the same year a Mr. Gerald Raymond Jacobs arrived in Hudson, New York.
“Can I have that paper?” she asked.
“Certainly,” said the old man, handing it to her. “I hope it’s been helpful.”
She rose to her feet slowly. “Do I owe you anything?”
“No,” the man replied, waving his hand. “I don’t mind sharing what I’ve learned.”
Alex bowed her head graciously, then turned to leave. Her brain felt like it was just beginning to work again. She stopped.
“Why exactly did Holtzmann get sentenced to life in prison?”
Gruber looked at her as if the answer were obvious. “My dear, the Reichsbank held the entire assets of the Third Reich, all the plundered treasure, the stolen money, the gold plucked from dead men’s mouths in Auschwitz. After Funk fell out of favor with Goebbels in 1943, Holtzmann was thereafter almost completely in charge of the ill-gotten treasures. In that sense, he was a knowing accomplice to mass genocide.”
Alex asked her next question very slowly and deliberately. “You said Rudolf Hess was sentenced to life in Spandau?”
“Yes.”
“Did he die there?”
“Yes, he did. Somewhere around 1987, I believe.”
She nodded. That information would come in handy later. She stole a final glance at the fanatical face on the screen, then thanked Gruber and exited down the stairway.
Timothy Von Rohr rose from his prison cell cot and threw a handful of cold water on his face. He grabbed his towel and stared at himself in the tiny mirror over his sink. It was true then. Incredibly, it was true. He smiled at himself and shook his head.
Warden Henshaw had done him a favor. After the investigators had left, the good warden had placed a very enlightening phone call to the State of New York, specifically the county housing in the city of Hudson. The county clerk had given him a quick confirmation of the enormous estate they were currently holding under the name of Gerald Raymond Jacobs.
Tim Von Rohr was ecstatic. He did a rough mental calculation. One-third was 7.4, and 50 percent of that was 3.7. Three point seven million! Not only would he be free in five months, he would be set for life.
The prison bars slid open. Von Rohr stepped into line as the crew of cons began moving through east wing lock-down. He frowned. The key now was to make sure none of the prison heavies found out about this. The blacks or the Mexicans might make a move on him if they knew about this bit of good fortune. He certainly wouldn’t be telling anybody about Uncle Gerald. If the guards kept their big traps shut, he would probably be okay.
The line filed into the cafeteria. Von Rohr’s head was reeling. He laughed to himself as he grabbed a tray. From San Quentin to Park Avenue. He had it made.
Tim Von Rohr didn’t see the inmate rise to his feet at the table nearest him. The convict was already a lifer, and he had been paid with a year’s worth of crystal meth and cigarettes. He had smuggled the small wood block out of the workshop and honed it into a blade against the rough concrete of his cell wall. His target’s head was turned as he made his charge. A guard saw him moving, but his shout came far too late to matter. The shank was thrust into Von Rohr’s jugular and twisted down, tearing it. The guards brought the killer down, but by then Timothy Von Rohr was on the ground, his life fluids draining red on the marble floor.
CHAPTER
20
NICK AND JESSICA Von Rohr walked quickly through the terminal of the Albany airport. Alex’s instructions had been firmly stated. Hurry out of the terminal and get to the departures ramp—she would be waiting in a rented van near the United Airlines sign. She would have the newspaper with her.
They exited to the street and Nick saw the van near the end of the terminal. It was dark blue and windowless. The engine was running. He grabbed the side door and slid it open. Alex was at the wheel, her face a greenish hue against the dashboard lights. Nick motioned Jessica into the back, then took the front passenger seat. Nick saw something resembling surprise in Jessica’s face at the sight of Alex. Not the partner she’d envisioned, he thought. Alex glanced at Nick and waited fo
r an introduction.
“Jessica, this is my partner—Alex Moreno. Alex—Jessica Von Rohr . . .”
Alex swiveled around and offered her hand. “I’m the one who met your brother Matt,” she said. “I’m very sorry to hear the news.”
Her hand hung in the air. Nick held his breath. Three unbearably long seconds passed before Jessica took it. They shook hands wordlessly, but their eyes were locked together. Nick spoke quickly.
“Let’s get rolling, Alex.”
Alex turned and took the wheel. Within minutes the scenery was a seventy-mile-per-hour blur. A silence that seemed almost frigid to Nick settled over the inside of the van. He remained quiet and watched the traffic. It was going to be a long drive back to Schenectady.
“Take a look down at your feet, Nick,” said Alex, reaching for the radio.
Nick reached down and found the newspaper, bringing it low to his lap so Jessica couldn’t see it. The FBI had been good on their word. Attempted murder committed in the commission of a burglary. Arminger had gotten one out of two right anyway. But it was the attempted-murder charge that had teeth. Alex had said she had even seen a local newscast about him. He was on television! People were sitting in their living rooms hearing all about Nicholas Merchant, the brutal cop-killer, the burglar of dead men’s homes. And frighteningly enough, this was just the beginning. By now he knew a teletype would have been sent over the national police computer network. If that was the case, there wouldn’t be a city where his name wasn’t known. And if Arminger really meant business, he could make use of his fingerprints at the FBI crime lab in Virginia. Once he had the prints, he could do damn near anything he wanted.
Alex clicked on the radio, filling the van with a soft, generic jazz. The three of them sat and said nothing until they reached Schenectady.
Alex had rented a unit in Towne Villa, a small, tree-dotted apartment complex on Keyes Avenue in the south part of Schenectady. She found parking in the rear in spot number 204.
“We’ll be right up, Alex,” said Nick.
Alex caught the hint and stepped out of the van, leaving the two of them alone. Nick turned back to Jessica. Her head was back on the headrest. She looked drained.
The Heir Hunter Page 23