The Heir Hunter

by Chris Larsgaard

  Normally a comment like that would get some sort of rise out of Doug. Nothing.

  “You been watching your tail, Doug?”

  “I’m clear.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m fucking sure. Lay off, will you?”

  Nick felt the blood rush to his face. “Hey, what the hell’s your problem? I’m not enjoying this any more than you are.”

  He heard Doug exhale into the receiver.

  “I’m sorry. I haven’t slept. Nick, I . . .” He paused. “I just want to get this over with.”

  “You ain’t the only one, buddy. Listen, meet me at 200 Willett Street, okay? I’m driving a gray Ford Aerostar.”

  “You’re driving a what? Wait a second—what’s your room number?”

  “There is no room number. Just drive there and wait on the street.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just a little precaution. I’m going to let you sit there by yourself and have a smoke while I reconnoiter the area.”

  “For Christ’s sake, nobody’s following me, Nick.”

  “The only reason I’m alive to talk to you right now is because I’ve been careful, Doug. Quit fighting me, all right? What kind of car are you in?”

  “Blue Taurus. How long will I be waiting?”

  “I don’t know. Probably no more than fifteen minutes. If you see anything behind you that looks even remotely suspicious—”

  “I’ll call you. Where’s Alex?”

  “Taking care of a little last-minute research.”

  “What about Jessica Von Rohr?”

  “What about her?”

  “Is she coming with you?”

  “She’s gone, man. I’ll see you in a while.”

  Alex paid the cabbie and walked quickly through the campus of Albany State University. She had more than enough time for what she needed to do. She stopped and asked a student for directions and was directed to the east end of campus.

  The library was a bustle of students getting back into the flow of another semester. She moved through the crowds and found the elevator bay. Government Publications was on the third floor, west side. She strode down the rows of books and felt like a law student all over again—not a great feeling. It took her only a minute to find her bearings.

  She spotted the New York State Controller’s directory and paused. It was worth a shot. She found the current year’s volume and took a seat at a table. The biographical index was in back. She ran her finger down the S’s and checked for Semko and Semka. Then Simko and Simka. After that she moved on to Senko and Senka, Symko and Symka. Nothing. The C’s were checked in a similar fashion. Same result.

  She found the New York Serial Set. An Ernest Semko was listed as working for the State Controller’s office but as a mail room clerk. The other variations of the name revealed nothing.

  She returned the book and checked her watch. It was one forty-five—less than two hours before the hearing.

  She scanned the labels of books and drummed her fingers on her chin. She tried to recall exactly what Nick had said. Had he just heard the guard wrong? Semko. Semka. Phonetically it could only be spelled so many ways.

  She took the current year’s Congressional Listing and found the index. She checked the S’s and then moved on to the C’s.

  When she saw the name, a fluttering ran through her stomach. This was the closest yet. Philip Anthony Cimko. She quickly turned the pages and sensed this would be something well worth reading.

  Two hundred Willett was not actually a building, but a wooded playground on the edge of Washington Park frequented by young mothers and their small children. Between the neatly manicured trees and bushes was a small clearing with swings, slides, and a sandbox. Nick knew it better than any part of Albany, other than his partner’s house. He and Alex had used the park as their private sanctuary a number of times, their oasis when an investigation was stalled or the walls in Alex’s house seemed to be sliding inward. Lunch outside on one of the green wooden benches beneath the trees was often all it took to break down the mental walls blocking one of their searches.

  Nick drove through Albany, only blocks from Alex’s home. If the police or his other pursuers were keeping a list of likely places in Albany to find him, he would guess that a children’s playground would have to be near the bottom. What business would Nicholas Merchant—the fugitive cop-killer—have in a place like that? He smiled. Well, maybe he just wanted to ride the swings.

  Just then the phone rang, the sound muffled in his coat pocket.

  “Nick, I got him! I got him!” Alex said.

  “What?” He pulled the car over to the curb. “Where are you?”

  “Never mind that. I got Cimko, Nick!”

  “Are you at the apartment?”

  “I will be shortly. Shut up for a second and listen to me. I think I’ve figured out who this Cimko person is. It all makes sense now.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I’ve got it all photocopied,” she replied. He could hear her shuffling papers. “‘Philip Anthony Cimko—State Capitol Building, One Clinton Avenue, Albany. Regional Director for Republican senator Thomas Newland of New York . . .”’

  Nick stared through the windshield. “Newland? What could he—”

  “Wait—it gets better. Listen to some of the dear senator’s committees: Commission on Security and Cooperation in Europe, Committee on Appropriations, Committee on Veterans’ Affairs, and twelve others. But here’s the really interesting one: Senator Newland is the head of a special Banking Committee he formed four years ago which—I’m quoting here—‘has led an inquiry into the current status of assets and accounts of European Jews and others held by Swiss banks deposited in the 1930s and 1940s. The Banking Committee will seek to aid Swiss banks in an independent and impartial audit of all accounts under question through an unprecedented cooperative agreement with a number of Swiss banks, both private and cantonal. . ..’”

  Nick studied the dashboard and tried to replay the information in his head. A bevy of half-formed questions were swirling in his mind, refusing to come together.

  “I don’t know about this,” was all he could manage.

  “I know it’s wild, but is it within the realm of possibility? Nick, if I’m right here . . .” She didn’t finish her thought. “I think our mailer’s complete now. If we’re wrong, we’re wrong, but this is where those photos will come in handy.”

  “Why would a senator be involved in this?” Nick asked. “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? Why wouldn’t he? Everyone knows Newland is the party’s candidate in the next election. I think a man like that would have a hundred different uses for a few extra million dollars, don’t you? Who knows who he’s paying off?”

  Nick was slowly shaking his head back and forth. “I don’t know about this.”

  “I don’t either,” Alex replied. “But now we’ve done our part. Now we can sit back and watch it all come together once you get that mailer out. And if those pictures do turn out to be this guy Cimko, God help Senator Newland.”

  He was nodding now. She was right. It was time to pass the baton. “Are you going to the apartment now?”

  “Yes, and I’ll have all these documents for you when I get there.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “You think you need to tell me that?”

  When she hung up, he reached for the envelope and quickly, almost feverishly, reached for the photographs. He had doled out almost all of the Jacobs pictures to the eight mailers, keeping a few for his own records. He cursed as he pulled them out. He only had three of them left.

  But they were the right three.

  He was in the background, less prominent than the others, behind several younger men in suits. His face was shaded a bit and at a quick glance very easy to miss. Nick brought the picture to within inches of his face, his eyes slits of concentration. There was no doubt in his mind. There was no doubt at all.

  His arm fell to his lap
as he closed his eyes and swore softly. He had never wanted to be a part of this. But they had dragged him into the middle of it, tried to murder him, and damn them, they had succeeded with Rose and Matt Von Rohr and who knew how many others.

  He opened his eyes and looked at Senator Thomas Newland’s face once again.

  Nick cast the photos aside and felt physically sickened. The partners’ assumptions had been wrong from the very beginning. All along, they had focused on the most prominently featured man, Taylor, or Cimko, or whatever his name was. Jacobs, clearly unaware as well, had made the same mistake. They had all been wrong. The boss—the mastermind—had been there all along, lurking in the background.

  He looked at the picture once again and a soft, involuntary groan escaped his lips. He dropped the photo and rubbed his eyes. If he had only recognized Newland that morning, perhaps he wouldn’t have gone to Germany. Perhaps he would have elected instead to burn every scrap of paper he had found in Jacobs’s home. Burned them all and flown home. In hindsight he realized that might have been the best move of his life.

  He took to the road fifteen minutes later. From Spring Street, he made a left on Willett. He could see the park dead ahead, a blue sedan under the shade of trees. He circled around, scanning the streets as he went. Two older ladies walking briskly. A mother pushing a stroller. A worker in a hard hat and fluorescent orange vest was up a telephone pole while another one chomped on a cigar stub and watched from below. He glanced up through the windshield. Clouds and broken blue sky. He felt reassured. Doug was a champion attorney, but asking him to be able to recognize when he was being followed by professionals was beyond him.

  He circled the streets a final time and pulled up behind him. Doug stepped out of the car. His face was ash gray as he walked up to Nick’s driver-side window.

  “You okay?” asked Nick. “Usually I’m the one who looks terrible.”

  “I’m all right. Little bit nervous.”

  “You’ll make it. We all will. Doug, I’ve got something really shocking to show you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Follow me back to the apartment and I’ll show you everything.”

  Doug nodded and turned back to his car. Nick wrapped his hands around the steering wheel and frowned. We’ll make it, he thought. We all will.

  Doug sat down in front of the wheel and slammed the door. The second he did, it all came undone.

  It was a gray sedan with two men inside, and it screeched around the corner in front of them. Nick’s eyes shot to the rearview mirror. Two more sedans appeared from around the corner in back. Cars suddenly seemed to be coming from everywhere. Nick’s confusion vanished in one sickening instant of realization. Blind instinct told him what to do. He kicked open the door and ran.

  Later he would remember it as being just like a dream.

  Everything around him was moving at normal speed while he was stuck in some horrible slow motion. His path opened up for him. Women were grabbing their children as he tore through half a dozen toddlers in the little playground. He slammed his shin hard hopping a concrete step but didn’t feel a thing. He was running on the wet grass as voices, harsh and commanding, seemed to be coming from every direction. Every tree, every bush, seemed to hatch forth one of them. A large man in a blue suit was charging hard from the right, yelling something. Nick felt one of them lunge for his legs, and he swung his fist back wildly, grazing the top of his attacker’s head. But the dive had served its purpose. The failed tackle had caused him to stumble, slowing him enough so that the pack could gain a crucial three or four steps, and then they piled on hard, throwing him to the ground on his stomach. He could feel the weight of half a dozen men pressing on him and the wet grass against his cheek as puddles on the cold ground soaked through his clothes. They turned him over after his hands were cuffed, and he was vaguely aware of young mothers holding their children and watching. A dark-haired man in an overcoat was looking down at him then, and when he spoke, the satisfaction in his voice was as palpable and cruel as the cold, hard shackles binding his wrists.

  “Nicholas Merchant, by order of FBI Director Arthur Gordon, you are under arrest.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  THE DRIVER STOPPED at the intersection of East Allen and Court and flicked his eyes to the mirror for what must have been the hundredth time of the ride. Knowing that this would be one of his last opportunities, he decided he would give a long, appraising look to the pretty young passenger in the backseat of his cab.

  Alex was too stunned to even notice the leers she was receiving. She was having enough difficulty coming to grips with the disastrous events of the last thirty minutes. She had just received the shock of her life.

  Her call to Nick had been answered, but not by her partner. The FBI had finally gotten him. The agent who had answered Nick’s phone had even shouted her name once. Panic-stricken, she had called Doug to let him know. A federal agent had greeted her on Doug’s line as well.

  Distraught, she cupped her face in her hands. It was over, then. Both Nick and Doug had been arrested. No happy endings, no riding off into the sunset. Simply—cruelly—over.

  She looked up after a moment, oblivious to the gawking of the driver. She could still leave the country. Nick wouldn’t blame her for hopping on that plane and fleeing the country. He would be happy to see her do it. But this was not an option. If she ever wanted to face herself again, she needed to do one last thing.

  Angry, she pulled herself together. Nick had been convinced that their portion of the estate could help clear him. She had her doubts, but if he truly believed that, then she would do everything in her power to make it happen.

  The driver slowed the cab to the curb. Alex studied the outside of the Columbia County courthouse with a renewed feeling of dread. She had hoped that she would be able to simply step out of the taxi and duck into the building in a few quick steps, but apparently nothing about this day was going to be easy. Reaching the front stairs entailed walking fifty yards through a front courtyard of thin trees and little other cover. Moving at a brisk pace would easily mean a good twenty seconds of complete exposure. But there was no getting around it.

  “Courthouse,” said the cabbie, as if she couldn’t see that for herself. He swiveled around to face her. “You okay, lady?”

  She shook herself into motion and found her wallet. Stalling would make her neither safer nor less nervous. She handed the driver her fare and pushed the door open.

  It was the taxi that got Regnier’s attention first, then the dark hair of the passenger. He lowered his binoculars and reached for his rifle.

  He was on the roof of the Hudson post office directly across from the courthouse. It was the best vantage point to be had. He watched the woman through the scope as he flicked the safety off. Just another brunette, but this one was special. Dark-featured, a little bit heavy, very attractive—he felt reasonably confident that it was her. She was halfway to the entrance. He closed one eye and brought the crosshairs to the side of her head. Held it.

  But there was an ounce of doubt. He jerked the gun down. A wrong choice would bring a swarm of cops and undoubtedly chase off the real target. He couldn’t place the entire assignment in jeopardy. He watched as the small figure hurried up the stairs and disappeared inside.

  He frowned and rose to his feet. It was too risky this way. It was time then for a much more direct approach.

  The lobby of the courthouse was packed. Alex took little comfort in that. Safety in numbers only applied if everybody was on the same team, and she felt hardly certain of that. Every casual glance that happened upon her felt like a loaded glare.

  She hurried through the crowd and found a stairway, scanning each face as she climbed the steps. She told herself she was safe. They couldn’t dare try anything with so many people around. She wondered why her knees felt so weak if that were the case. Maybe a crowd was exactly what they wanted.

  On the second floor, she was faced with three doors—one on each
side, one straight ahead. This was nerve-wracking. Behind door number one awaits . . . what? The hall was empty except for two clean-cut men in navy suits. One suddenly took a step toward her.

  “Alex Moreno?”

  She held her breath and took a step back.

  “Nothing to be concerned about, ma’am,” said the man, producing a badge. “David Foulke, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Possible to have a word with you?”

  “If it’s a quick word. I need to be somewhere.”

  The agent gave a knowing little smile and gestured to a bench in the hallway.

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  He placed the badge back within his jacket. The other agent had moved away from them, positioning himself at the top of the stairway.

  “I’m sure you’re aware of the manhunt currently being conducted for Nicholas Merchant.”

  “I’m aware, yes. What about it?”

  “Any idea where he may be?”

  “How would I know?”

  The arrogant grin was back. “Why don’t you stop with the Little Orphan Annie routine, Miss Moreno. Some very reliable sources inform us you’re his partner.”

  “Really. And what do your very reliable sources have to say about the murder of Rose Penn and Matt Von Rohr?” The sound of her own question triggered her anger. “What kind of progress is the FBI making in its search for their killers? Or are you trying to pin those on Nick Merchant too?”

  “We’re not involved in either Miss Penn’s or the Von Rohr brothers’ murder investigations. What we’re trying to do is—”

  “What did you say?” she asked quickly. “Brothers?”

  “I said we’re not involved in Miss Penn’s or the Von Rohrs’ murder investigations at the moment, but—”

  “Tim Von Rohr is dead too?” Alex asked, looking shocked.

  Foulke nodded gravely. “Yes, he is, Miss Moreno. You weren’t aware of that?”

  “Where did it happen?”

  Foulke looked slightly uncomfortable now. “California. I thought you—”

  “What happened to him?”