The Heir Hunter

by Chris Larsgaard

  Doug braked at a yellow light and thought of Nick for the hundredth time that day. He wasn’t quite sure where his friend was at that moment. His phone had been frighteningly quiet. He just hoped and prayed Nick was still alive.

  Doug was too lost in his thoughts to notice the police car that had been tailing him for several blocks. The red and blues were flashing suddenly, and a quick bleep of the siren made the cops’ intentions clear. A floodlight bathed the back of Doug’s neck in a blinding glare. He swore and made a right on Grove Street, pulling to the curb. With all the junkies and drunks near Civic Center, they had to bug an honest citizen like him.

  He found his license and registration as he heard the cop’s heavy boots stepping toward his door. A flashlight beam skimmed over the front and backseat before the officer spoke.

  “License and registration, please.”

  Doug handed them over. “What’s the problem?”

  The cop didn’t even look at him. He glanced at the license and then turned back to his car. “It’ll just be a minute,” he said, disappearing back into the glare.

  Doug slouched back and listened to the police car’s radio crackle. God, he was drained. All he wanted to do was collapse next to Kimberly and pass out. He had received three calls from SFPD that day and returned none of them. Did this harassment have something to do with that? He had nothing to say to them! No, I don’t know where Nick Merchant is. No, I haven’t spoken to him. No, I won’t come down and speak with the detectives. Jesus Christ already! This Jacobs thing had been an absolute nightmare.

  The cop walked slowly back to the side of the car after about five minutes. “I’ll need you to step out of the car, sir,” he said.

  Doug thought he might have heard him wrong. “Excuse me?”

  “Could you please step out of the car?”

  “What the hell for?”

  The cop’s hand settled on his holster. “Step out of the car now, sir.”

  Doug unlatched his seatbelt and slowly stepped to the pavement. He glanced at the police car, then back at the cop. This had gone beyond simple harassment.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Step to the sidewalk, please.”

  Doug hesitated, then did as he was told. It was then he noticed that a gray sedan had pulled to the curb behind the cop car. Two shadowed figures in suits were stepping out. Detectives?

  One of the men approached the police officer and nodded. The cop said something back and gestured over at Doug. The newcomer approached him, and as he did, Doug remembered the face.

  “Agent Healy, FBI. Met you yesterday.”

  “I didn’t realize it would be a daily occurrence. What is this?”

  “Agent Zepeda and I would like your permission to search your car.”

  Doug blinked. “What?”

  “I’m asking for permission to search your car.”

  “Get out of my face.”

  “We’ve received a tip from a reliable informant that your car may be involved in the transport of narcotics—”

  “Narcotics—”

  “—so with or without your permission, we will be searching your car. Give me the keys.”

  “What informant?” Doug took a step back. “You’re not getting my keys.”

  The two cops, as well as the other FBI agent from his office that morning, were by Agent Healy’s side now.

  “I’ll ask you one last time. Keys.”

  Doug weighed the situation momentarily before muttering a curse and fishing into his pocket. A hollow, sick feeling was suddenly aching in his stomach.

  The two agents ducked into the Jag. They looked under the seats, pulled loose the paneling, emptied the glove box. Doug looked helplessly over at the cops, who were standing nearby pretending not to pay attention. Several midnight pedestrians had stopped to gawk.

  The agents moved on to the trunk. It took four or five seconds before Healy removed the bag, looked at it, then stared over at the attorney. Doug’s eyes shot wide. He ran up to them.

  “What’s that!” he demanded, his fists clenched. “What the fuck is that!”

  He could see what it was, or at least what it appeared to be. It was a large, clear cellophane bag. It was filled with a fine white substance he assumed wasn’t powdered sugar.

  The Agent named Zepeda tore the bag and dipped his finger in, touching it to his tongue. He nodded.

  “Put your hands on the hood,” said Healy.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” said Doug, backing away. “You piece of shit . . .”

  “Put your hands on the hood!” shouted Zepeda.

  “Kiss my ass!”

  The cops were immediately back in the fray. The four of them shoved Doug face-first against the hood of the car. They pulled his arms back and applied the cuffs tightly. After patting him down, they half dragged, half carried him back to the unmarked sedan and tossed him in the back, slamming the door on his shouting.

  Doug cursed and yelled for several minutes before tiring. His head was spinning. He could never have prepared himself for this. He thought of Kimberly and the girls. Try explaining this to them. See you in the Big House, Daddy—visiting hours every Sunday.

  He leaned forward and tried to watch through the fogged windshield and the swirl of flashing lights. The four of them were congregating on the sidewalk. The agent held several white bags now. Another two black-and-whites slowly cruised by and left. More gawkers were gathering on the sidewalk, stealing glances at him like leering apes.

  He hunched forward and wiggled his fingers. They were numbing up on him quick. His wrists were rubbed raw from the handcuffs. He waited and felt very frightened.

  The cops who had pulled him over finally got in their car after about fifteen minutes and pulled off into traffic. The two federal agents slammed the trunk of the Jaguar, gathered up the bags in their arms, and slowly strolled back to the car. They reentered and swiveled to look at him.

  “You can’t possibly be this low,” said Doug, forcing some restraint into his voice. He scanned both their faces. “You can’t be. Listen, whatever Nick Merchant’s done, I don’t deserve this.”

  Agent Zepeda seemed unfazed by the argument. “Heard the news about Lawrence Castleton, Spinetti?”

  “Yes, I have. I think it’s terrible.”

  “I bet you do,” he replied. “We aren’t the only ones after Merchant, are we? For his sake, you should hope we find him first.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Doug leaned forward and tried to look as contrite as possible. “What do you guys want from me? I’m not speaking with the guy, I don’t even know where he is. Why bother with me? I’m nothing, I’m nobody.”

  “Those cuffs tight enough?” asked Healy. “What do you think of when they dig into your wrists like that? Do they make you think of your little girls? Or maybe you think of some good-looking young stud hopping on your wife because she didn’t feel like waiting fifteen to twenty for your release?”

  “Do you know how close you are to seeing it all go down the crapper, counselor?” asked Zepeda loudly.

  Doug bowed his head. “I get the picture.”

  “Are we finally making ourselves clear about how important this Jacobs business is?”

  Doug was nodding, his eyes down. He was through arguing. “Yes,” he said. “You’ve made yourself clear.”

  Agent Healy let the silence torture him a bit longer before speaking.

  “There’s a court hearing scheduled two days from now in New York State. As it turns out, you have a schedule conflict. A prior engagement. Check your day planner, Spinetti. Find something else to do that day. Go to that fancy club you belong to and practice your putting.”

  “It’s a pretty good deal, Spinetti,” said Zepeda. “Skip this hearing and you get your life back. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out this one.”

  Doug considered it in silence. Not much to consider really. “Okay, okay—I understand. I agree to everything. No hearing, no nothing. Can you take these cuffs
off now?”

  “Sure, we’ll take them off,” replied Healy. “But you go back on your word and it may not be flour we’re finding in your car next time. If you do try to attend this hearing, you’ll be stopped. We’re very serious about this, counselor. Next time it’ll be the real thing.”

  They walked him out to the sidewalk, removed the cuffs. The thought of decking the two of them flashed through Doug’s mind, but sleeping next to Kimberly that night was now priority number one.

  “Think about what Agent Zepeda said,” said Healy, handing back the keys and driver’s license. “Better we find him than the other guys. You read what they did to Castleton. How long do you think he can run from them? One mistake—that’s all it’s gonna take. One mistake and he’s gone.”

  “It’s gonna happen, Spinetti,” chimed in Zepeda. “Count on it. At least if we’ve got him, he’ll have a fighting chance. I want you to think about that. You can still save your friend’s life.”

  “Talk to you soon,” said Healy. He and Zepeda turned and walked back to their car.

  Doug could think of several choice responses, but he thought better of sharing them. He returned to the Jag and slumped into the driver’s seat. The FBI agents pulled from the curb, Zepeda giving a wave from the passenger window. Doug slowly raised his key but couldn’t find the ignition. He lowered his head to the steering wheel and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER

  26

  FOR DECADES THE sprawling estates on the southern edge of Lake Geneva have been inhabited by the wealthiest of Genevese. Steep and winding private streets lead to the homes, immense mansions shielded by high concrete walls and retractable steel gates. Each street corner is equipped with a security camera directly linked to the network of police stations along the southern bank. Crime in the area is virtually nonexistent.

  The Chagnon manor was located on Rue du Lac, an immaculate cul-de-sac with spotless concrete sidewalks and bronze streetlights. Rue du Lac was only accessible after clearance through a security station that blocked the mouth of the street. Two security guards manned the station at all times.

  Nick sat in the back of the taxi and stared out at the gate. The driver watched him with concealed amusement in his rearview mirror.

  “Oh man,” Nick muttered to himself as he pondered the imposing steel barrier. “Good luck.”

  The driver turned to him. “Your stop,” he said, the statement sounding more like a question.

  Nick frowned. The driver wasn’t the only one who was wondering what the hell they were doing there. What seemed like such a logical plan in the States now seemed doubtful at best, outright ludicrous at worst.

  “I need you to wait here,” Nick said to the driver. “It won’t be any more than a few minutes.”

  The cab driver shrugged and found a cigarette as Nick stepped out to the road.

  He was alone. Jessica had again refused to accompany him. He had tried to convince her of the necessity of her coming along, but she had been adamant. It was his problem to fix, his mystery to solve, and she wasn’t going to be the one who lost her life over it. He had been angry, but at the same time he had understood. What real right did he have to get upset with her? He had been the one to bring the Jacobs estate into her life, and she had lost a brother and been chased across the globe because of it. Maybe Jessica Von Rohr had done all that could be reasonably expected of a normal person. Either way, he had hung up the phone and left her in the room.

  Nick headed up the inclined street to the security station. A frowning guard glared down at him from behind heavily tinted glass and waited. The gate seemed to expand as he neared it. A lack of horizontal crossbars made scaling it virtually impossible. Nick had a passing vision of himself trying to clamber over the top, and he had to smile at how stupid he would look trying

  Barely visible through the dark glass, the guard leaned forward and waited for him. An intercom buzzed.

  Nick stopped in front of the booth. He glanced back at his taxi, then nodded a greeting to the guard.

  “I’ve come here to see Victor Chagnon,” he said. “I’m a private investigator from the United States. I have important news for him.”

  A second guard Nick hadn’t noticed appeared at the window. The two of them stared at Nick with disinterest.

  “I am not a reporter,” continued Nick. “Or a policeman. All I want—”

  A suspended speaker crackled to life.

  “Monsieur Chagnon doesn’t see anyone but family.”

  “Monsieur Chagnon would surely like to hear me out,” replied Nick. “This has to do with the murder of his father.”

  The guards looked at each other. Nick held his ground. It was a risky statement, one that would undoubtedly get him tossed back out very quickly if he couldn’t back it up inside. But he had to get in.

  He heard the speaker click off as one of the guards reached for a phone. Nick glanced back down the street. The cabbie was looking back at him, finishing his smoke. He kicked a pebble and waited, feeling small and very exposed standing there in the street. He tried to bolster himself by mentally reviewing Alex’s conversation with Chagnon, but he suddenly felt considerably less confident over his chances to meet with Chagnon. He wondered why he had felt so certain before.

  It took the security guard nearly three minutes to hang up the phone.

  “He doesn’t wish to see you,” the man said. “Leave now.”

  Nick stepped forward and placed a hand up against the glass. “I have to see him,” he said.

  “Leave now or you’ll be placed under arrest.”

  Nick stood there, defiant. He reached into his shirt pocket and found a business card. “I’ve written my phone number on the back of the card,” he said, placing it into a sliding tray in the front of the station. “Tell Mr. Chagnon if he wants to find out more about his father’s murder to call me. Tell him I know all about Holtzmann and Taylor. If he has any shred of courage left in himself, he’ll call me.”

  He slapped the plastic cover of the tray shut loudly. The guards did not draw it in. Without so much as another glance, Nick turned back to the waiting taxi.

  “That’s it,” he said, slamming the door shut. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Nick watched the gate shrink as they drove off. This wasn’t the end of it. He would take the phone number Muend had given him, and he would call every five minutes until he got Chagnon on the line. He would do that for twenty-four hours straight. If that didn’t work, he would consider his last-ditch options. If he could just figure out what exactly those were.

  Nick gripped the phone and silently cursed. Twentieth ring and no sign of life. He had called Victor Chagnon a dozen times in two hours and gotten nowhere. He dropped the phone to the cradle and rubbed his eyes.

  “Nothing?” Jessica asked.

  “Muend wasn’t too sure if the number was correct,” replied Nick. “I think it’s bad.”

  “So now what?”

  “Grab your skis,” he replied bitterly. “Let’s hit the slopes.”

  Nick let himself fall back to the mattress, his thoughts black. He felt a piece of paper being placed into his outstretched hand.

  “We need to talk about that whenever you get a chance,” Jessica said.

  Nick sat up. She had slipped him one of his blank inheritance contracts.

  “What about it?” he asked.

  “You don’t want me to sign it?”

  Nick held the paper, looking at it blankly, then suddenly crumpled it up. He tossed it to her, rolling it to her feet in a tight ball.

  “You don’t want to make your claim anymore?” she asked.

  “I have a few slightly more pressing concerns at the moment.”

  “Well, I intend to make my claim,” she said. “Do you still want to represent me in court?”

  “I can’t jeopardize my attorney or anyone else by having them make an appearance at this hearing. If whoever’s behind this wants to stop the hearing, what will they do? They’ll stake out th
e courthouse and try to make a final hit right there.”

  “How could they? The streets are probably packed outside, and the inside is full of metal detectors and bailiffs.”

  “Metal detectors and bailiffs aren’t enough. You’re more likely to get killed on the street than inside anyway. It’s not worth the risk.”

  “It is worth the risk.” She sat next to him. “This is enough money to live comfortably for the rest of your life. This is what you broke into that damn house for, what you risked everything for. You deserve this money—”

  “No one deserves this money.”

  “Probably not, but isn’t it a good thing to get it away from these crooked bankers? They’ve been sitting on these assets for over fifty years now. At least you’d get it out of their hands, right?”

  Nick fell back to the mattress. He stared at the ceiling and pondered her words. A week ago, her argument might have made a lot more sense. Now it didn’t sit right.

  “I’ll figure all this out later,” he finally said.

  “There’s nothing to figure out, Nick. The hearing’s tomorrow and I’m signing it. If you don’t want to be a part of it, I’ll understand. I can write up my own contract and make a claim all by myself.”

  Nick was about to respond when his phone suddenly rang. He reached for it, hope against hope.

  “Hello. Hello?”

  “My name is Victor Chagnon.”

  Nick exhaled in relief. He quickly walked away from Jessica, sitting on the opposite bed.

  “Thank you for calling me back, Mr. Chagnon. My name is Nick Merchant. I’ve been trying to speak with you. My associate called you the other day regarding Ludwig Holtzmann—”

  “That’s what I thought,” the voice said. “Listen closely. Go to Lyon Park on the western edge of Geneva at exactly ten o’clock. Enter from the north side of the park and follow the signs along the Touillon path. Come alone. You will walk for five minutes and come upon a bench. Sit there and wait.”

  “I’ll be there. Do you—”