The Heir Hunter

by Chris Larsgaard

  The guard replaced the phone. “Do you have the certificate to the box?”

  Jessica handed the letter of authorization to him. He scrutinized it closely, holding it up to the light to check for watermarks. He handed it back to her with a frown.

  “Come with me.”

  He led them down a corridor to a heavy metal door and slid a card through a sensor. Through the door a carpeted stairway ascended to what Nick assumed was the main floor, a larger room equipped with four heavy oak desks sporting computer monitors. Several impressive paintings hung on the walls, and some large potted plants added a touch of life.

  They were directed to a black leather couch and barely had time to sit before a young woman in a fashionable business suit emerged from a rear office. Nick guessed she was no older than her mid-twenties.

  “Hello,” she said, extending her hand to them. “I am Bernadine Konauer, acting director.” She looked them both over. “You wish to view the contents of a vault box?”

  “Yes, we do,” replied Jessica, extending the letter and her identification.

  “But I’ve a question first,” said Nick, guiding Jessica’s hand down.

  The woman gave him a curious look, as if he had just breached some unspoken rule of etiquette. “A question?”

  “Right.” He took the paper from Jessica and handed it to the banker. “This certificate was signed by Eric Konauer—”

  “My father, yes. He is cofounder of the bank.”

  “I’d like to ask him some questions regarding the account.”

  “My father is out of the country,” she replied, somewhat sharply. “What exactly would you like to know?” She read the owner’s name from the certificate. “Monica Von Rohr is the owner. Her personal account information would be confidential.”

  “Can you tell us when the account was opened?”

  “That I can allow,” she said, taking several steps toward a desk.

  “One other thing, Ms. Konauer,” said Nick, removing a small piece of paper from his wallet. “We’ve come to Geneva on behalf of my uncle who’s just passed away in the United States. We’re aware that he very recently had a number of accounts with your bank. We’d like to gain ownership through right of inheritance. The only problem here is that we don’t know if the accounts still exist. Could you please check these account numbers and tell me?”

  “If these accounts aren’t under your name, I can tell you very little. We maintain full customer confidentiality.”

  “And I respect that,” replied Nick patiently. “But please try and see our problem. We’re about to open a very time-consuming court procedure back in the United States that we wouldn’t even have to bother with if we knew that the accounts were gone. All we want to know is if they still exist. I have the numbers here with me.”

  She took the paper, her frown widening. “Eight accounts your uncle had with us.”

  “Yes, he did. Uncle Ludwig always felt his money was safe here.”

  She studied Nick’s face to detect sarcasm but found only a smile. She was suspicious, and Nick knew he needed to be careful. This wasn’t like the American banks, where a customer tantrum would ensure a sympathetic talk with the manager. Getting upset here might get them thrown out, and that couldn’t be allowed to happen.

  “Give me a moment,” she finally said, turning back to the desk.

  Nick clasped his hands together and waited. From the assortment taken from Jacob’s garage, he and Alex had actually counted nineteen accounts with Hahn and Konauer. He hoped these eight would provide an indicative sampling of the total.

  Jessica had returned to the couch. Nick gave her a look of reassurance as he listened to Bernadine Konauer’s fingers skim over the keyboard. He wished he had brought more account numbers.

  He took a seat on the edge of the couch, clasping his hands together. Konauer was frowning at the monitor screen as her fingers pecked at the keys. Nick licked a finger and rubbed out a scuff on the tip of his shoe. He glanced back up as Konauer suddenly muttered something to herself. The banker’s eyes were wide, an expression of surprise spreading on her face.

  “Find anything?” Nick asked, rising from the couch.

  “I’ll need to access your uncle’s records from my office,” Konauer stammered, walking to a rear suite and abruptly shutting the door behind her.

  Nick turned and gave Jessica a puzzled look. “Did I miss something?”

  “She seemed a little . . . funny,” commented Jessica.

  “More than a little,” said Nick, walking around to view the desk Konauer had just vacated. She had cleared the monitor screen. He was tempted to tap in some numbers himself but didn’t want to push his luck.

  Jessica stood. “Is something wrong?”

  Nick strode around the office and glanced down the stairs. From what he could see, Konauer and the guard were the only employees present. He took a slow breath and told himself to relax. He was in Geneva, not San Francisco. The Swiss were known for unconventional banking. Relax.

  He returned to the couch and motioned for Jessica to sit.

  Ten minutes passed slowly.

  The sudden buzzing at the front door was so loud Nick felt it through the soles of his shoes. Konauer’s door instantly opened, and the banker took a single hesitant step out into view. Coming up the stairs, the dull thud of footsteps on carpet.

  The policeman was short and rather slight, but there was a confidence in his stride. He said a quick word in French to Konauer, who responded with a nod.

  “I am inspector Philippe Bourdier,” he said, approaching Nick. “And you are?”

  “Michael Collier,” replied Nick.

  “Your name?” asked the policeman, turning to Jessica.

  “Jessica Von Rohr.”

  The policeman gestured to Konauer’s suite. “May we speak in private?”

  Nick paused, then arched an eyebrow at Jessica. Now this, he knew, was not normal, even for the Swiss. He noticed the armed guard who had gained them entrance downstairs was now standing watchfully at the top of the stairs.

  He followed Jessica inside the office. The inspector shut the door and waited for them to take seats before speaking.

  “You are here on behalf of your uncle?” he said to Nick.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Your mother is the named owner of an account here?” he asked Jessica.

  “Yes, she is,” confirmed Jessica. “She’s deceased.”

  “Is this the only account she held with this bank?”

  Nick had tired of the interrogation. “Is there a problem here?”

  “Yes,” replied Bourdier succinctly. He crossed his arms on his chest and began to pace slowly in front of them. “I have been notified by the bank proprietor of your inquiries into these accounts. The accounts to which you make a claim appear on a list the police have built over the last several months.”

  “What kind of list?”

  “A list of marked accounts.” He stopped pacing and faced them. “Your bank accounts, as well as a number of other accounts, are being used as evidence in a vast fraud investigation now being conducted by the Swiss police.”

  The policeman purposely paused to read both of their faces, looking for a telltale twitch or quiver of guilt. Nick kept his face calm, knowing well the techniques of police interviews.

  “Fraud,” he replied thoughtfully. “Have you spoken with the bank owner?”

  “Monsieur Konauer has left the country under—shall I say—suspicious circumstances.”

  “You should probably speak with his daughter, then.”

  “She has been cooperative,” Bourdier replied ambiguously.

  “We just want to see the contents of a bank box,” said Jessica. “We don’t know about any fraud.”

  Bourdier leaned against the wall and crossed his arms on his chest. “The accounts you’ve asked about have all been illegally emptied. Every one of them.” He looked casually at his fingernails. “Are either of you familiar with someone na
med Otto Kranzhoffer?”

  Nick swallowed. Bourdier was laying a trap now, and he wasn’t about to place his head in its jaws.

  “No, I’m not,” he replied, rather innocently.

  The inspector looked to Jessica.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” she said.

  Bourdier locked eyes with Nick. He let the room simmer for a moment before pushing away from the wall and opening the office door.

  “Please wait in the lobby.”

  Nick nodded at Jessica, and they stepped outside. Bourdier motioned both Konauer and the guard over, and the three of them entered the suite to speak in private.

  Nick immediately moved for Jessica. Their opportunity wouldn’t last long.

  “Come on,” he whispered, taking her hand and pulling her along.

  They quickly padded down the stairs. Nick was relieved to see that another guard hadn’t assumed front door duty. He pushed the door bar and looked out into sunlight. Another police officer, probably Bourdier’s partner, was happily chatting with a citizen.

  “Walk,” said Nick, tugging Jessica along in the opposite direction. “Casually.”

  They reached the end of the alley in seconds. Nick whisked her around the corner and looked about the avenue. Plenty of people to lose themselves in, but luckily a cab was parked just down the street. They ran up to it and slid in.

  “The Beau Rivage, please.”

  The taxi moved through light traffic. They passed by the alley and had a perfect view as Bourdier and the security guard burst from the bank and sprinted to the corner of the boulevard. The second policeman joined in behind them, and the three of them fanned out in opposite directions down the street.

  Nick frowned, his suspicions confirmed. He had heard a warning bell in the back of his mind as he had listened to the inspector, a signal telling him to get out. The Swiss police weren’t the ones they needed to speak with. By tomorrow morning he hoped to acquaint himself personally with one Otto Kranzhoffer.

  Alex sat in the small studio apartment, shades drawn and lights dim. The situation was worsening. Bad news seemed to be snowballing, dragging her and Nick along with it.

  The perky news anchor was annoying her. The woman was delivering the morning news so glibly she seemed to be speaking directly to her, almost mocking her. Alex knew that was crazy, but she couldn’t shake the impression. To make matters worse, the woman’s shiny blond hair and perfect teeth were reminding her of Jessica Von Rohr.

  The pretty blonde was droning on mercilessly, describing the current status of the ongoing search for fugitive Nicholas Merchant. The suspect was described as armed and extremely dangerous. A phone number to a police hot line was shown at the end of the story.

  Alex angrily grabbed the remote and silenced the television. For several minutes she just sat and rubbed her eyes. Had it really been only seven days ago since they had found out about Gerald Jacobs? It seemed like a month-one terrible, disastrous month.

  She reached for the morning edition of the Albany Times Union. The small headline still delivered a nasty jolt as she read it again.

  FAMED PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS SLAIN IN LOS ANGELES . . .

  She was genuinely frightened now, and more than a little paranoid. She couldn’t possibly be out driving around, not if she wanted to feel safe. She was afraid to pick up lunch, for God’s sake. She questioned whether she would be able to keep food down anyway.

  Doug had called after she had left the Bronx and told her what had happened in Los Angeles. She had found the story on the second page of the Times. The brazenness of it was shocking. Apparently the killers had strolled right into the main office and done it. She had considered Lawrence Castleton nothing more than an unscrupulous bully these last four years, but there was no way that he or any other heir finder deserved to go out like that.

  She walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain slightly. It was seven in the morning—one in the afternoon in Switzerland. Nick was safe and sound in Geneva—she hoped. He said he would try to sign Jessica Von Rohr at some point. This was looming larger in her mind every passing minute. They would be back sometime within the next day or two. If Jessica wasn’t a client by then, it would be time to say goodbye, adios, sayonara. She rubbed her forehead. Four years of heir finding and look where she was now.

  The phone made her jump. She stared at it like it was a bomb. This wouldn’t be Nick. Or Doug. They knew to call the cellular.

  The fax connected and clicked to life. She slowly approached it. She was expecting two documents, one of which would be another key addition to the Holtzmann file.

  With any luck, the German courier’s work would bolster their case. The old man at the Institute for Historical Review had said that Rudolf Hess had died in 1987 in Spandau prison. That being the case, Hess’s death certificate would be on file with the department of health in the city of Spandau unless it had been removed for reasons of notoriety—a distinct possibility. But if Hess’s was there, Holtzmann’s should be too.

  She considered the Jacobs/Holtzmann cover-up as she waited for the fax. If certain individuals were powerful enough to construct a fraud of this enormity, surely they would have had the common sense to cover their tracks and fabricate a false death certificate. If they had done so, the existence of the certificate wouldn’t support any cover-up theories. But what if they hadn’t been so thorough? The mere absence of a death certificate wouldn’t prove anything, but as one of a handful of a growing number of other coincidental facts, the impact of the total would surely be strengthened.

  The paper was curling through the fax. The courier had done his job quickly. The first sheet—a cover page with a hastily scribbled message. The second sheet—the death certificate of Rudolf Hess. She read the handwritten note.

  Unable to obtain death certificate for Ludwig

  Wilhelm Holtzmann. Health official says

  record “nonexistent.” Please verify Spandau as

  Holtzmann’s place of death.

  She was right, then—they had been sloppy. It was unbelievable how careless they had been in covering their tracks. It would have been relatively easy for them to get away with it. If they had only swept up after the old man’s death, they would have been home free. The crumbs they had left were being detected now, scooped up and analyzed by people who were trained to take crumbs and blow them up under microscopes. She would make sure those mistakes exploded in their faces.

  She sat back at the small kitchen table with a pad of paper. It was time to construct a chronology, a timetable of everything they had uncovered about Jacobs/Holtzmann. She suspected several hundred newspapers would be interested in hearing the story.

  Alex spent an hour writing up the report. It was neither orderly nor neat, but for now she didn’t care. All she wanted was to get it all down on paper; the final organizing of the information could take place later, when Nick was back. He would undoubtedly have more to add.

  When she was done, she read everything, adding details here and there. It was an astounding story, but there were still too many gaps, so much unexplained. It was intimidating trying to put it together and much more complex than she was prepared to deal with.

  She cast the papers aside. Without the entire story, the report lacked impact. The words were flat. Not real enough. It needed something more, something that would jar the recipients from their seats. Yes—whoever got the story needed to meet the partners of Merchant and Associates face-to-face. And she knew just exactly how that would happen.

  She found her car keys and said a quick prayer. Back roads—she would take the back roads. She would drive safely and pray every mile of the way that the cops wouldn’t see her. She wasn’t wanted, but there was little doubt they knew exactly who she was. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was set foot outside the safe confines of the apartment, but it couldn’t be avoided. Nick was depending on her.

  She walked to the closet. The pistol was loaded. She placed it under her belt and stepped outside i
nto the sunlight.

  Three minutes after Alex left, the phone rang. The fax came to life with a whirl.

  The credit transaction report for Michael Dean Collier was the seventh one she had received. Like the others, it was a standard printout, showing Mr. Collier’s latest purchases, including his most recent flight and travel accommodations. But there was a crucial piece of new information. The current printout showed that a report had been requested and faxed to an unlisted telephone number in Brooklyn Heights, New York.

  CHAPTER

  24

  THE PASSENGERS in the rear of the taxi were silent as the driver found the bridge to the north end of the lake. Nick sat slouched, his eyes on the frigid waters. Jessica had been silent since they had left the bank. The driver hummed along to a happy tune on the radio, oblivious to the both of them. The sun was sinking quickly to the horizon.

  Nick checked his watch. Ten after five.

  “It’s too late to get anything else done today,” he said. “We need to get back to the hotel. Maybe we can order up something to eat.”

  She rolled her head to him slowly, her face expressionless. “I don’t think I’m very hungry right now.”

  He nodded and turned back to the lake. He wasn’t particularly famished either, but it would at least waste some time until eight the next morning. They had over twelve hours to kill.

  “I need a drink,” she suddenly said. “Badly. You interested?”

  “Read my mind.”

  “One rule. We don’t talk about my mother or Ludwig Holtzmann until tomorrow. I’m sick and tired of thinking about this.”

  “Gladly. It’s probably safest if we limit ourselves to the room, though.”

  She shivered noticeably. “You couldn’t drag me out of there.”

  The driver let them off behind the hotel. They entered from the rear, and quickly but cautiously made their way up to their room.

  Nick took the phone. “Red or white?”