The Heir Hunter

by Chris Larsgaard

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” replied Alex.

  “Living room floor’s a little hard.” He approached her and lay down on the futon next to her. “Scoot over—I got something for you.”

  He placed the watercolor in her hand.

  “What is it?” she asked, clicking on a flashlight next to her.

  “A memento of the worst trip of my life.”

  Her face registered shock, then broke into a wide smile. “I can’t believe you,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “I love it.”

  She propped it up on its stand next to the mattress. They both looked at it for a few seconds before she clicked the light off.

  “I hear Geneva’s beautiful,” she said. “I wish I could have seen it.”

  “Next time you will,” said Nick. “Who knows—we’ll probably need to find an heir there someday.”

  “Maybe we could go even if we don’t have to find an heir, Nick.”

  The evening was warm, and the window was cracked open a bit. A light breeze rustled the shades against the glass. Outside, nothing stirred except leaves blowing slowly down the black streets.

  For the first time in nearly a week, the partners slept well.

  CHAPTER

  29

  BY DAYBREAK IT was raining. The skies over Albany were gray and angry. A sporadic wind threw gust after gust of raindrops against the window like handfuls of pebbles against the glass.

  Nick woke before eight but didn’t rise for another ten minutes. He lay next to Alex, telling himself that it was nearly over, and the thought gave him strength. Just a few hours more, and they could put the fear behind them for good. He looked over at her. She was on her side, her eyes closed. He heard her question again. What’s going to be left for us? He wasn’t entirely sure, but maybe they were strong enough to build something new, something with a hopeful future. Maybe it could even turn out to be something pretty damn good.

  He stayed there for a few minutes, watching her sleep, before stepping out to the kitchen.

  He was at the laptop when she emerged from the shower. The final additions to the Jacobs mailer had been made. The packet would be thorough, eloquent, and make for very compelling reading. He had prepared a mental list of the recipients. The Washington Post and The New York Times would start the ball rolling, and he would follow those up with the Washington, DC, and Albany offices of the FBI, the Senate majority leader, and the attorney general. He was even considering mailing one off to the White House. The Post and Times would probably suffice to get the story out, but why take any chances? He would let everybody have a taste of it.

  From the motel, they drove to North Pearl Street in Albany. Nick dropped Alex off around the corner of a copy store and waited in the car as she went in and ran off the attachments. He watched the morning pedestrians through the tinted glass and felt safe. The only way the cops would notice him was if he stood out, and he was going to be as inconspicuous as a fire hydrant. For once in a storied career of speeding tickets and late yellow lights, Nick Merchant was going to be the model driver. He would show courtesy unheard of on the Albany roadways.

  She returned to the car in ten minutes. She had made copies and purchased envelopes and postage. Nick started the car and headed back in the direction of the motel.

  John Malloy eyed the stately gray Columbia County courthouse and nodded to himself. They had decided rather arbitrarily that he would watch the back entrance while Regnier watched the front. It made no difference to him. He now saw that the task would prove equally difficult from either angle.

  His reconnaissance had begun at 6 A.M. that morning. The courthouse was on the corner of Court and East Allen, probably the busiest intersection in Hudson. Normally the existence of a crowd was only beneficial to his assignment, but in this case he saw no advantage gained. His chief difficulty lay in the surrounding landscape. From the rear of the building, he saw no elevated vantage point. Directly behind the courthouse was a small park offering scant cover. He had photographs of Moreno, the Von Rohr woman, and Spinetti, but picking them out of the crowd in a four-or five-second window of opportunity would be nearly impossible. They weren’t going to be wearing name tags.

  He walked along the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets. He stopped at a hot dog stand directly in front of the courthouse and bought a foot-long with mustard. He devoured it in half a dozen bites and returned to the car. His mind was made up. Making the hit inside would eliminate the use of gun or knife, but that was fine. Anyone as intimately familiar with the crucial arteries as he was could do a job with a pencil, a comb, anything handy, really. He made his decision. He would do it inside.

  He checked his watch. It was 9:30 A.M. The hearing was at three-thirty that afternoon in courtroom number two. He could think of no surer spot to find them than the hallway directly outside.

  It took them fifteen minutes to pack and label the envelopes. As a personal touch, Nick added the Israeli consulate general to his final mailing list, bringing the total to eight recipients.

  He glanced at his watch. Doug’s flight was due to arrive at 1 P.M. It was now 10 A.M.

  “Not yet,” he said, as Alex stripped off the adhesive from one of the envelopes.

  “Why not?”

  “I want to run one last errand before we seal them up. Ready?”

  “Don’t you think we’ve pushed our luck enough with all this driving around? How about I go do this errand by myself? The police aren’t looking for me.”

  “Somebody a lot nastier is, though. We both go. We’ll be fine as long as I drive okay.” He grabbed his keys and waited by the door. “Trust me—we’ll be fine.”

  The rain let up on them when they were on the road. The blanket of gray in the sky was shredded with streaks of sunlight. Blue sky reflected off the puddles in the street like a million little mirror fragments. The trees along the sidewalks glistened wet-green under the sun’s glare.

  Nick kept both hands on the wheel as his stomach did cartwheels. A sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead. He wanted rain, buckets and buckets of it. The sunlight seemed to be fading the tint of the windows. He felt as if he were on display to the world. He drove like a little old lady, avoiding congested streets and the main thoroughfares. If he had the bad luck to get into a fender bender, there would be no sticking around to exchange licenses.

  Alex watched him closely as he gripped the wheel. A police car was coming toward them the opposite way on Sheridan Avenue.

  “Cops.”

  “Just be cool,” she said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  The patrol car was moving at a crawl. Nick wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. He didn’t dare glance at them as they passed by.

  “Didn’t even look,” Alex said, patting his leg. “Where are we going anyway?”

  “We’re here,” he replied.

  The sun had slipped back behind a mass of clouds. He made a right on Lark Street and then a left on Washington Avenue. They passed the State Education Building. Nick had never been to this part of Albany before, but there it was, between Washington and State Street, looming like a monolith in the center of Empire State Plaza. He was almost certain that he was looking at the state capitol building.

  “What is this, Nick?” Alex asked. “What are we doing here?”

  The sign by the sidewalk declared it in gold-faced letters: NEW YORK STATE CAPITOL BUILDING. Nick turned into a ten-minute loading zone on the street in front of the building.

  “You said . . .” He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to remember. “You said that that PI you found in the Bronx told you that he took the Holtzmann pictures at State and Swan. No—at a park near State and Swan. Where are those pictures anyway?”

  “Right here.” She reached to the floor and found them. “We only brought a few of them.”

  She handed him the half dozen photographs.

  “These are the best ones we have of this Taylor person,” he said, sorting through them slowly. “See how Jacobs labeled
the backs? Victor Chagnon had his own photos too.”

  She took one of the pictures and examined it. The man had glasses, thick black hair, and a long, thin face.

  “So you think he might work around here,” she said.

  Nick nodded. “Someone here might recognize him.”

  “He could work anywhere, Nick. You can’t assume that he—” She stopped herself and looked beyond him. An elderly security guard was ambling up toward them. “Uh-oh. I think it’s time to get moving.”

  Nick was staring at one of the pictures, oblivious.

  “Nick, someone’s coming.”

  He looked up at the approaching guard. “This guy might be able to help us,” he said, opening the door.

  “What are you doing? There’s too many people around here.”

  He hesitated and scanned the crowd. There were way too many people, but he was too close to back away now.

  He stepped out of the car and walked briskly to the sidewalk. The guard put his hands on his hips like a grouchy old grandfather as Nick hurried up to him.

  “You’re gonna have to leave,” he said, waving a finger. “No parking there.”

  “We’re leaving right now,” Nick replied. “I wanted to ask you something first.” He showed him one of the pictures. “Do you recognize this person?”

  The guard squinted his gray eyes at the photograph. “I might. I’ve worked here for thirty-two years, y’know.” He studied the face in the picture. “Yes, sir . . .”

  “Yes sir what? Do you know him?”

  The old-timer frowned at Nick, then snatched the picture away with surprising speed. “What’re you—a reporter? What’s this all about?”

  Alex quickly gave two quick honks on the horn. Nick waved his arm back at her without looking. A police car was moving down Swan Street toward them.

  “Does this man work here?” Nick asked. “That’s all I want to know.”

  “Yes, he does,” the guard replied testily. “You’re gonna have to get that car out of here now. No one is supposed to be stopping there.” He gave a little wave in the direction of the slowly moving police car.

  “I’ll move it, I’ll move it. I’d appreciate it if you’d just give me this man’s name.”

  “I’m getting the cops over here.”

  Nick grabbed the picture back from him and hustled back to the car. Alex’s face was like a ghost as he fell back into the passenger seat. The cop had stopped thirty yards down from them and was harassing a double-parked delivery van.

  “He’s here!” he said. He was euphoric. “He knew him!”

  He started the car and reversed into the street. The ancient security guard was trudging back to his post in the front of the building.

  “What did he say?” asked Alex.

  “He knew the face. He said he works here.”

  He made a right on State Street and then another right on Swan. They were behind the capitol building now. Nick was slapping his palm on the steering wheel.

  “Why don’t I—”

  “Bad idea,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking and it’s nuts. If you’re actually thinking of sneaking around inside that building and flashing those pictures—”

  “I can’t run off now.”

  “Nick, you’re wanted. Let me go in and ask around.”

  He stopped in a red zone and threw the gear into park. “There’s another guard,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “Lemme just give him a try.”

  Alex grabbed his arm. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes were pleading.

  “One more shot,” he said softly. “Then we’re gone. I promise.”

  He stepped to the curb and walked quickly to the guard. This man was black and about fifty years old.

  “How are you?” Nick asked casually, drawing a nod and a suspicious frown. “Hoping you can help me.” He brought the picture up. “This gentleman here works here at the capitol. You recognize him?”

  The guard studied Nick harder than he did the photograph. “Maybe so.”

  “You know his name?”

  He reached a large hand up and took the picture. Nick held his breath.

  “Kinda looks like Mr. Cimko.”

  “What was that?” asked Nick.

  A shrill whistle tore through the air. Nick looked up quickly. The elderly security guard from the front was hurrying toward them from the back of the building now, blowing a whistle. “What was that name you just said?” asked Nick.

  The guard was looking back at his rapidly approaching coworker. “What the heck’s goin’ on here?”

  Nick wheeled and walked quickly back to the car as the whistle continued to sound. Alex had taken the wheel. She pulled into traffic, and Nick directed her to make a left down Elk Street.

  “I got him,” he said, checking the rearview. “I got him.”

  “Who?”

  “That guard recognized him too. He said his name is Semka or Semko—something real close to that.” He pointed her down Dove Street. “Once we get back to the motel, I’ll get the wheels turning.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “He said he recognizes him,” Nick repeated. “He said his name was Semko, or something like that.”

  “And he works there?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Alex frowned. “Those old guys were a hundred years old. They probably wear reading glasses an inch and a half thick.”

  “No way. The second one said it very emphatically. How would he recognize him if he didn’t work there? I could tell he knew.”

  “What can we do back at the apartment?”

  “Bust it open, baby. We’ll send a courier to hit up a library and look up all the Semkas or Semkos in a government employees directory. Once we verify the name, I’ll call the Department of Motor Vehicles and try to finagle a driver’s license photo out of them. Once we get that, we just compare it to the Jacobs pictures.”

  “What if we can’t verify the name?”

  He took a breath. “Then I guess I go back to that building.”

  “No, you don’t, Nick. A couple thousand people must work in there. We’re already including the photos in the mailer. Let some hotshot reporter figure it out.”

  “Are you kidding? After everything these people have put us through? After Rose and Matt? No, no, no—I want them to know that we were the ones who brought this out. I’m seeing this all the way to the end.” He shook his head. “Jesus Christ, can you believe that guard and his whistle? Somebody please give that old guy a promotion.”

  She was not amused by this. She rubbed her forehead and pulled the car to the side of the road.

  “Look,” he said. “Hopefully I’ll be able to do this through DMV. I don’t think I’ll have to go back there.”

  “If anybody goes, it’s me,” she said. “There’s no argument on that, Nick.”

  Her expression was angry, combative. Nick smiled at the realization of how much he had missed that look.

  “I would never argue with you, Alex. Look, you said yourself we’ve taken enough chances. Let’s get some runner to get to a library and look this up for us. It’s the safest way.”

  Alex held the photograph and frowned.

  “It’s the best plan,” he said.

  “It’s your plan, Nick. I can get to the library and find out exactly who this guy is in about two seconds. You think some fifteen-dollar-an-hour runner is really going to care about this?”

  “No, they’re not, but I don’t want to expose either of us any further.”

  “I can handle it. No one’s going to find me in a library, for Godsakes.”

  Nick nodded, not comfortable with it. “Just be careful.”

  Alex turned back to the photos, focusing on Taylor and the cold black eyes behind the metal-framed glasses. She was going to enjoy this. It was time to turn the tables on Mr. Taylor, drop the curtain right on his head, and she was going to savor every last moment of that.

  Back at the motel, Nick called
for a taxi.

  “I don’t care if you’re not wanted,” he said. “You need to watch yourself.”

  Alex was sitting on a kitchen chair. “Relax,” she said. “I’ll be fine. When are we supposed to hear from Doug?”

  “Any time,” replied Nick, glancing at his watch. “His flight’s landing just about now.”

  A car horn sounded outside. Nick pulled aside a window blind and spotted the cab.

  “There’s your ride. You’re coming straight back here after, understand?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Alex gathered up what she needed and opened the door. She turned back to Nick and winked. Nick watched her enter the cab. He continued to watch until the car was out of sight.

  “Please be careful,” he said aloud.

  He made a final addition to the Holtzmann dossier.

  Addendum: We believe the persons shown in this picture are Ludwig Wilhelm Holtzmann and the as yet unidentified individual named “Taylor.” A source in Albany believes “Taylor” works at the state capitol building in Albany. . ..

  He read it and frowned. Not conclusive, but enough. If Alex couldn’t come through, the newspapers would have the pictures and the address. If it took publishing the pictures to crack the story, they certainly wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

  The entire letter was reread a final time. Then one by one he removed the adhesive strips from the envelopes and sealed them. The single videotape would be included as part of one of the two FBI mailers. He would make sure those arrived in their Manhattan and Albany offices that very day.

  The shades were closed and the lights were on. He was sitting on the edge of the bed thinking about his father when his phone rang. His attorney, he guessed.

  “Where are you?”

  Doug’s voice was choppy and mingled with the sound of his car humming along the road. “Albany. Where else?”

  “You brought everything?”

  “Yeah, yeah. How many times you gonna ask me?”

  “Probably four or five more. Lighten up, you’ll have about half a million dollars in your pocket in few hours.”