The Heir Hunter

by Chris Larsgaard

  He leaned over the sink and splashed frigid water on his face. He needed to wake up. There was no telling what Alex would find in Columbia County. He dabbed himself dry as he surveyed himself in the mirror. His face remained youthful despite the creases around the eyes, the lines in the forehead. He smiled at himself weakly. He was doing fine. Four years after the murder and he was finally doing okay.

  The doorbell rang. He glanced at his watch. Noon. Alex’s call was long overdue, but at least his secretary was on time.

  “How can you live out here?” Rose asked as she stepped inside. “I had to park almost four blocks away.”

  “This is where all the successful young people like me live,” answered Nick, with a wink.

  Rose dropped a stack of files on the kitchen table. “You’re not so young anymore, Nick. Look at Doug. He’s barely older than you, and he’s got two kids already. Time for you to stop acting young and start thinking about settling down.”

  “You have someone in mind for me? A young Raquel Welch who can cook? I’m all for that.”

  “I might be able to arrange something,” she said as she took a seat at the kitchen table. “My niece Patricia is single, and she’s very sweet. She’s a big girl who’ll keep you well fed and happy. I think it would be good for you to meet someone new.”

  “I meet someone new every day.”

  “I’m not talking about old dead people, Nick. I’m talking about someone young, someone with a pulse, for goodness sake.”

  Nick smiled and shook his head helplessly. Taking on Rose two years ago as full-time secretary had been one of his better moves. With nearly thirty years of executive secretarial experience behind her, she had quickly made Merchant and Associates a fortress of organization.

  The phone rang. Rose grabbed it, drawing an amused look from Nick. She held it out to him after a moment. “Alex. She’s hyperventilating.”

  “She’s what?”

  She shrugged. “She’s excited about something.”

  This was nothing unusual. Nick took the phone. “Hey, girl.”

  “Nick! Nick, you aren’t going to believe this!”

  “That good?” he asked, taking a pen and paper from Rose. “How many estates?”

  “Only four, but you are not going to believe the fourth.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “The name’s Gerald Jacobs. Gerald Raymond Jacobs. That’s J-a-c-o-b-s. Died five days ago upstate, and I’m not kidding you about this figure. Are you by your fax?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because I’m sending it now. I’m not even going to waste my breath telling you about this one. You need to see it for yourself.”

  “Well, quit yakking and start faxing.”

  “Call me the second you’re done reading it. No—book a flight out here first. We’ve got to get moving on this, Nick.”

  “I’m hovering over the fax, sweetie. Talk to you in a few.”

  Nick placed the phone down and rubbed the side of his face. Alex’s enthusiasm was a strong point. It was one of many reasons he enjoyed their partnership so much.

  Rose was staring at him. “Well?”

  “She’s excited, all right. Must be a nice one.”

  Rose dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “She gets excited doing her nails,” she commented dryly.

  Nick smiled and grabbed an apple from the kitchen. The fax suddenly rang. He approached it as a sheet slowly began humming through. He snatched it before it could fall to the tray. One part only he needed to see—the Inventory and Appraisement section. He found it on the third sheet.

  “Oh my God . . .”

  He let himself fall backward onto the couch. His mouth was locked open. Rose watched him from the kitchen doorway.

  “Nick?”

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, not looking up. “Is this right?”

  “What is it?”

  His eyes were seeing it, but even with the act of reading it, of holding it, he found belief to be lagging. But there it was, as undeniable and real as a punch to the jaw. Was it a typo? He narrowed his eyes into slits and read the number again.

  Twenty-two million, three hundred forty-six thousand dollars. And change. He leaned over the documents and continued reading.

  The decedent, Gerald Jacobs—a.k.a. Gerald Raymond Jacobs—had died at his residence, which was located at 198 Michael Drive in Hudson, New York. The death had occurred just five days ago, and the county public administrator had been authorized to handle distribution of the estate assets. It was a scenario Nick had seen in hundreds of cases. After a cursory search for blood relatives, the PA would in all likelihood find no related heirs. Being bogged down with dozens of other estates, he would then file away the Gerald Jacobs case until time would allow for further examination.

  Nick found the order of administration, the document appointing the county public administrator as caretaker of the estate. Due to the absence of a will and the apparent nonexistence of blood relatives, the assets had been taken over by the county court. The money would remain with them until further information became available.

  Nick handed the sheets to Rose and rubbed his forehead. He felt Alex’s excitement seize him. Somewhere—somewhere—there had to be heirs, and he felt damn confident he could find them. But from that point on, every second was crucial. He reached for the phone.

  “I need a one-way ticket to Albany out of San Francisco. As soon as possible.” He bit his pen. A flight that evening was absolutely essential. “Today, three-thirty P.M.? That’s perfect. One ticket, yes . . . yes, it’ll be on my Visa card.. . .”

  He hung up and looked at Rose, who was still scanning the probate filing.

  “My God, Nick.”

  “Unbelievable. I’m gone. My flight’s in three hours.”

  He entered his bedroom and found his garment bag. He took five shirts and half a dozen ties from his closet.

  “Could it be a mistake?” asked Rose, watching him pack.

  “No chance. It’s all spelled out nice and clearly.”

  “You think you can solve it?”

  “The real question,” answered Nick, reaching for one of his suits, “is whether I can solve it before anyone else does. If the East Coast outfits know about Jacobs, this might already be over. I’ll know soon.”

  “You’re supposed to call Alex back, Nick.”

  “Thank you,” he said, reaching for the cordless.

  Alex answered on the first ring.

  “Nick?”

  “You’re right. I never would’ve believed you.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Same thing we always do, baby—we build ourselves a family tree. Listen to me—I’ve got a three-thirty flight this afternoon to Chicago with a connecting flight to Albany. I should be out at your place no later than two A.M.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” said Alex. “Is this a dream, Nick? Twenty-two million and no relatives making a claim?”

  “Well, if there are relatives, you and I are going to find ’em, partner. But don’t go out and buy your yacht just yet. Something tells me this ain’t gonna be easy. Who knows who else Koenig talked to? I figure General Inquiry’s a safe bet. He’s probably getting paid off by a bunch of heir-finding companies.”

  “He could make a million off the information alone.”

  “He’s a fool if he didn’t. He has no loyalty to us, that’s for sure. There’s just no way that we could be the only ones who know about this.” He checked his watch. “It’s three-thirty over there. What can you do in the next hour and a half?”

  “A bunch. I’ve got our runners picking up the death certificate and the obituary. A couple of couriers are checking marriage records too. I’m going to the archives as soon as we hang up.”

  “Good girl. We’ll be off to a running start tomorrow morning. I’ll be knocking on your door about two A.M., okay?”

  “Coffee’ll be waiting.”

  “Make it strong. See you in the morning.”

&nbs
p; They could do it, Nick thought as he hung up. No doubt about it. The tools were in place. The fiche readers, volume after volume of skip-tracing manuals, law books, phone directories, and genealogical texts. The collection of birth and death records data, adoption records, marriage and divorce records. The business was on-line with almost every state-of-the-art database currently in existence for finding people and the dirt on those people. The essential networks were ready, the phone numbers in place to a small army of private investigators and researchers. The company was equipped to go to war with anybody. Even General Inquiry.

  Nick reentered the bedroom. Rose had his flight bag packed and ready to go.

  “You’re all set, Nick,” she said, zipping the bag closed. “You’ve got three suits and plenty of shirts and ties—”

  “And enough underwear and socks to last through a nuclear winter. You’re a lifesaver, Rose. Hey, I know I said I’d give you the afternoon off, but do you think—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she replied. “Let’s get to the office and get your things together.”

  Nick nodded and wondered how he had ever gotten along without her. He slung his garment bag over his shoulder and found his keys. He held the door open for her.

  “I can’t wait to see my bonus check after you get this one,” she said with a smile.

  “That’ll be one monster bonus, Mrs. Penn.”

  He locked the door, and they headed for the elevator.

  The McCarthys were a cautious old couple, one of the more wary he had seen that month, but the old man secretly loved the challenge of it. Lawrence Castleton, sixty-four years young, still felt a passion for his business. Founder of Los Angeles-based General Inquiry, he had been in charge of the heir-locating giant since its inception forty years ago. He was a large man, six foot four and close to three hundred pounds, with thinning white hair smoothed back along his head and a large woolly mustache that gave him a grandfatherly appearance. He insisted that all employees address him as Lawrence, and he disliked titles such as president, much preferring the term chief adviser. He was the living legend of the industry.

  “Mr. Castleton,” said Mr. McCarthy, “it’s not that we don’t appreciate your company contacting us about the inheritance. We’re just looking for some assurance that we won’t be stuck paying any surprise fees.”

  Castleton nodded. A not uncommon concern of prospective clients. “I assure the two of you that you will never incur any expenses whatsoever, and I want to—” He stopped as the conference room door suddenly swung open. His chief investigator, Richard Borg, craned his neck around the door.

  “Pardon the interruption, folks. I need to speak with you, Lawrence. It’s urgent.”

  Castleton gave a tight, irritated smile. “Be out shortly, Richard.”

  “Lawrence, you need to come see this now.”

  Castleton glared at his friend. He hated being interrupted midway through a presentation, especially when a three-hundred-thousand-dollar estate was the topic. He rose to his feet and excused himself, meeting Borg in the hallway outside.

  “Hope it’s good, Richard.”

  “It’s better than good. Follow me . . .”

  Castleton stepped quickly to keep up with his second-in-command as he led him down the first-floor hallway of the Sachmann Building, a three-story company-owned structure now perfectly adapted for the business of people-finding. The first floor, consisting of the lobby and twelve suites, was accessible to the public. Clients were entertained and courted in the centralized conference room. The second floor held eight additional offices and a company gym, which included weights, treadmills, and a spa. The third floor was a genealogical library and research center containing over four thousand genealogical texts and manuals and a dozen workstations with hundreds of databases at the ready. Mormon heaven, as Castleton called it.

  They entered the president’s suite at the end of the hall, and Borg quickly shut the door behind them. Borg, the genealogist instrumental in the solving of the million-dollar Luchetti case in 1989, reached for a small collection of papers on the desk and extended them to Castleton.

  “Read, Lawrence.”

  Castleton didn’t need to read every word, the Inventory and Appraisement section being the only part he was interested in. He quickly flipped through the pages until he spotted it. His forehead instantly furrowed.

  “Well, holy . . . shit . . .”

  “Just came through the fax.”

  The president of General Inquiry continued to read as his hand cradled the faxed sheets like a newborn. “Columbia County?” asked Castleton, giving a quick incredulous laugh. “This is a joke, right? We never get anything out of that godforsaken little burg.”

  “No joke,” said Borg. “We’ve got our people moving on it right now. We’ll have the obit and death certificate shortly.”

  “What’s the name of our contact out there?”

  “Lloyd Koenig.”

  “How much did he take us for?”

  “I told him we’d give him a contingent thirty grand after we solved it. Based on a fee of thirty percent of the estate, that’s about one half of one percent of the gross.”

  “Good job. Who can we send to New York?”

  “I’ve already spoken to Risso and Lake.”

  “Excellent.” He slammed his fist into his hand. “I want fifty-state searches for marriage, divorce, census, immigr—”

  “Lawrence, before all that, we do have one little problem. Koenig sold it to another firm.”

  Castleton rubbed his chin, hardly surprised. He had been in the business too long to let news of the competition catch him off guard. “So who’re we up against? Hogue and McClain? Vanguard?”

  Borg shook his head. “Alex Moreno.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s with Merchant and Associates. Remember that San Francisco firm?”

  “Them? What the hell are they doing all the way out in New York?”

  “Moreno lives there, remember? She runs a route through the local counties.”

  “So what other companies?”

  “Koenig swears they’re the only ones. I think he’s on the level.”

  Castleton grunted. He leaned against the edge of his desk and crossed his arms on his barrel chest. “This Koenig character’s a real fucking genius, isn’t he? I would’ve paid him a hundred grand free and clear if he had just had the common sense to deal with us exclusively.” He waved his hand in the air. “What’s done is done. I don’t see a problem going against a rinky-dink operation like Merchant and Associates. Do we know when they got ahold of the file?”

  “About an hour before we did.”

  Castleton instantly glanced at his watch. It was 7:10 P.M. in New York. The hour had gained Merchant and Associates almost nothing. If they were lucky, they might have gotten hold of the death certificate. But a head start of any kind was still disturbing.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Castleton said. “Merchant won’t be a problem. The father never gave us problems—why should the boy? I’m looking to have this wrapped up in twenty-four hours.”

  Borg was clearly not overwhelmed with the pep talk.

  “I hope so, Lawrence. I keep thinking about Omar Morales.”

  “Well, don’t,” growled the president, confirming a huge sore spot. “It was pure, dumb luck, Richard. We got sloppy and Merchant slipped in and stole one—big deal. That isn’t going to happen here, I promise you that.”

  Borg nodded and said nothing. It was a big deal—a $21,000 big deal. They had called the Omar Morales case an aberration, a freak event, but it demonstrated a sobering fact-they weren’t as invulnerable as they liked to think.

  “When does the Lear land in New York?”

  “Midnight.”

  “Crack of dawn I want Risso and Lake in Hudson at the neighbors’ front doors.”

  “They will be.”

  “Good,” replied Castleton, nodding importantly. “We’ll solve it, Richard. Merchant can’t touch us. I want
to check something upstairs on our friend Mr. Jacobs. You have time?”

  Borg nodded. At the door, Castleton grabbed his friend’s shoulder.

  “One last thing—let’s keep this Jacobs business our little secret. Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone else in the firm besides Risso and Lake. I don’t want to get everyone else here all wound up. Nor do I want to slice this pie up into too many pieces. Capice?”

  Borg nodded his approval.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  JIMMY DEMELLO WAS frightened. He was on his knees, opening drawers and shoving files indiscriminately into his suitcase. Now that he was inside his East Harlem office, he felt a heightened, almost panicked sense of urgency. Ten minutes—he needed to be out and on the road in ten minutes. He ran his sleeve across the wetness of his forehead and cursed. Even close to midnight it was sweltering, the dry air hanging like smoke over the carpet. He was tired of that heat. He would move somewhere cooler, somewhere by the ocean hopefully. It didn’t matter where actually; he just needed to put some serious miles between himself and the Gerald Jacobs assignment. He intended to do that immediately.

  He was reaching for another drawer to empty when he heard a creak, like a foot stepping on aged floorboards. He froze, too scared to move. He listened. He was about to remove the gun when two men slipped into the half-darkness of the office.

  They were an odd-looking pair. One was tall and long-limbed, the other thick and muscular. They both looked dangerous as hell to Jimmy Demello. His stomach suddenly hurt. He hadn’t noticed them staking out the parking lot, but apparently they had been there all along. Waiting for him.

  Malloy and Regnier both held pistols affixed with silencers.

  “Strange hours you keep, Demello.”

  The PI felt his bladder loosen at the mention of his name. He swallowed hard and tried not to show how scared he was. “Can I help you guys with something?”

  “Oh yeah,” replied Malloy, with a barely perceptible smile. “I think you know what it is we’re looking for.”