“He was slain in San Quentin Prison.”
Alex shuddered a bit and looked around. The mystery of Tim’s whereabouts had been solved with all the subtlety and warmth of a bucket of ice water in the face. The few remaining survivors of Gerald Jacobs had dwindled to one.
“I have nothing more to say to you,” she said, stepping past him.
She pushed her way through the double doors of courtroom number two before he could reply.
Court was in session. Alex walked to the second to back row and found an empty seat. She needed to pull herself together, to focus. She had witnessed enough of Doug in court to know what to do. The procedure was actually quite simple. First she would establish the genealogy with the vital documents they had gathered—the obituaries, the birth and death certificates. From there, she would reconstruct the family tree. All she would have to do then was simply prove the identity of the heir. In this case, Jessica Von Rohr’s birth certificate in conjunction with her driver’s license issued by the State of Iowa would do the trick.
Barring any tricks from the feds, she would win them their fee. For all the good it would do her partner, she would earn Merchant and Associates the biggest fee they had ever hoped to see.
Alex rubbed her face and thought of Nick. She wondered where they had taken him. What was their plan for him? She felt nauseous, almost dizzy enough to pass out. She fanned herself with her papers. She noticed one of the bailiffs keeping a watchful eye on her. What she didn’t notice was the man named John Malloy as he settled into a seat to the right of her and pretended to focus on the court proceedings in front of him.
They took the fugitive to FBI headquarters in Albany. He was seated between two agents in the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car, hunched forward with his hands shackled behind him. The car lurched over the sidewalk and descended down to the parking garage. No one spoke.
Nick was numb. After all the chances taken, the risks and dangers withstood, this was how it ended. He couldn’t have predicted a finale like this in his wildest nightmares. Murdered perhaps, arrested even, but betrayed by Doug? He could not allow himself to believe that. His best friend could not have sentenced him to the next twenty-five years of his life in prison.
He was pulled from the car and escorted through the basement, a powerful hand on each of his elbows. Half a dozen agents walked around him like a boxer’s entourage. They stopped and silently waited in a dimly lit entryway, then filed into the elevator.
Upstairs a small crowd of men in dress shirts and ties greeted the group. One of them made a smug comment. Nick could feel the eyes on him as he walked, head partially down.
The FBI’s Albany office had three small holding rooms at the end of the second floor. They led him wordlessly down a corridor, undid the handcuffs, and motioned him into the last cell. When the door was shut, he was alone.
Nick glanced around the tiny room. It was perhaps seven by ten feet, with a cot affixed to the wall and nothing else. The walls were a glossy pink. He frowned. So he had become their latest psychological experiment, their lab rat. Holding cells painted pink supposedly did wonders on agitated cons, and he would now do his part to help bolster that claim. What did they think—he was going to scratch and shout and pound his fists on the door until they were bloody? Well, he was sorry to disappoint them. The show was over.
He sat on the cot and looked himself over. He was still wet with mud and grass, and his leg was pulsing with pain. He rolled up his pants leg. Blood was congealing around an ugly red gash on his shin. He had no recollection whatsoever of slamming it.
He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. The sickly bright pink was giving him a headache already. He closed his eyes and thought of Doug, and his stomach ached. He couldn’t believe it. His attorney had been acting strange, a behavior he had attributed to court nerves. Had he been given another incentive? A sweet little deal perhaps? At any rate, it didn’t make a difference now. The Jacobs fiasco was over, and for all intents and purposes so was he. He just hoped Alex would have the good sense to get out of the country. Unfortunately she would have to do it without money, because without Doug there would now be no hearing and thus no inheritance.
They came for him after thirty minutes. The booking was standard procedure, not any different from his own days back on the force. His fingerprints were taken, as was his picture, both a front shot and a profile. His pockets were emptied, their contents taken away. He was given a wet cloth to wipe the ink from his hands. The agent seated in front of him watched him in silence as he cleaned his fingertips.
They led him back down the hallway to a small interrogation room. He sat as requested at the end of the rectangular table. Then they left him alone again.
Nick watched the dust particles float through the air. In a strange way, it was almost a relief. At least now he knew he would be alive to attempt his defense. His thoughts now could be directed solely to that end. He thought of Alex. He prayed she was safe. The image of her being on a plane out of the country was a huge comfort.
After ten minutes, the door opened, and a man in coat and tie entered. Nick knew this was no simple field agent. His visitor was on the smaller side, with slicked black hair and a pale complexion—a ghost in a tie. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar.
Deputy Director Arminger took a seat to the side of him and folded his hands together. He was close enough for Nick to catch the staleness of his breath. Nick looked at the surface of the table and waited.
“So,” Arminger said softly. “This wasn’t part of the script, was it?”
Nick looked at him, impassive. Bad enough to be arrested—he had to hear gloating on top of it. He turned away and focused on a picture of the President on the opposite wall.
“Where’s Alex Moreno?”
“I have no idea.”
“I think you have a very clear idea where your partner is.”
“Why don’t you go ask Doug Spinetti?”
Arminger leaned back in his chair, a bemused smile on his lips. The comment seemed to have him at a momentary loss for words.
“You’re about all he could come up with,” he finally said. “He did the right thing. He may have saved your life.”
“Saved and ruined it all at the same time,” replied Nick. His elbows were on the table, his head in his hands. “What are friends for, I guess.”
This earned another humorless little smile. Arminger had a folder in front of him on the table. He leafed through it casually, as if he were browsing through the Sunday paper.
“Where have you been staying this past week?”
“I’d like to speak with a lawyer.”
“You’ll get your chance. I’d like to ask you a few questions first.”
“You’re welcome to try.”
“It may be to your benefit to cooperate. Miss Moreno might benefit from it as well.”
Nick stared at his fingernails and thought for a moment. “What’s she have to do with this?”
“She is your partner. Or should I say accessory. I assume she’s been helping you evade us this entire time?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“We know you’ve been traveling with Jessica Von Rohr. We also know you’ve signed her to one of your inheritance agreements. Did you do this before or after the murder of her brother Matthew?”
Nick did not like the overtones of the question. He decided it was best to say nothing.
“Fine then,” said Arminger, leaning forward to him. “Let me try you another question. Do you know a certain Swiss private detective by the name of Arne Muend?”
Nick’s eyes flicked involuntarily over the table.
“I’ll take that flinch as a yes. In any event, he knows you. How about Victor Chagnon? Does that name sound familiar?”
Nick said nothing.
“Answer the question, Merchant.”
“I want to speak with an attorney.”
“I heard you the first time. What business did you
have speaking with a Swiss PI, Merchant?”
“It’s all explained in the report.”
“What report?”
“The one you’ll be getting in just a little while. I sent a couple to you guys, one here, the other to Manhattan. I think you’ll want to take a look at it. I have a feeling you’re not going to like it very much. You’ll have a whole slew of new questions once you read it, believe me.”
Arminger blinked several times, then pushed himself away from the table and stood.
“My main purpose in speaking with you was an attempt to determine what charges we’ll be bringing Miss Moreno in on. It’s interesting, Merchant—this little partnership of yours. The sudden deaths of the two Von Rohr brothers triples the value of Jessica Von Rohr’s inheritance. Then—with your help—she disappears. That’s going to be an interesting avenue for the prosecution to pursue. And a very difficult charge for you to refute.”
Nick didn’t even look at him. Apparently Timothy was dead as well. Jessica was the final heir, then, the only one they hadn’t murdered. Yet.
Arminger lingered for a moment, waiting for a response, but finally stalked out.
“Get him out of my sight,” he muttered to an agent waiting outside.
Two agents led Nick back to the holding cell, shutting the door behind him.
When Arminger returned to his makeshift office, someone was there waiting. Senator Thomas Newland smiled and took a step toward him.
CHAPTER
31
AT EXACTLY 3:35, one of the armed bailiffs of Columbia County courtroom number two approached the bench and leaned toward the Honorable Judge Darius Pritchard. After a minute’s discussion, the bailiff positioned himself in front of the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to have to ask anyone not involved with case number 612375 to kindly exit the courtroom. I repeat: anyone not a part of the Jacobs estate hearing will have to vacate the courtroom.”
A few hushed comments and confused looks were shared among the public, and then as one they stood and began filing out. Alex straightened up in her seat. This was a first for her. She had never heard of the public being excluded from a court hearing. The FBI’s doing, no doubt.
She stood and made her way to the side walkway. A man was blocking the end of her row, his hands deep in his pockets. He looked at her with dull brown eyes when she drew within a few feet of him.
“Excuse me,” she said.
Malloy smiled warmly and flicked his eyes to the bailiffs quickly. One of them was at the door holding it for the departing public. The other was on the opposite side of the bench, watching them. He looked back at her, smiled again, and stepped aside.
“Sorry about that,” he said softly.
She nodded and moved by. He watched the back of her head as she walked to the front and took a seat at one of the long wooden benches facing the judge. He paused, then grabbed his briefcase and exited the courtroom, ignoring the bailiff as he passed into the hall.
Alex looked around the now nearly empty courtroom and felt a shudder of fear. She was alone, exposed and waiting for anyone who might come charging in. Yes, metal detectors guarded the entrance of the building, but they would hardly scare off the people looking for her. They were accustomed to being creative.
She scanned the room. To the right side of her, a fiftyish man in a sport coat had taken a seat at the opposing attorney’s table. This she assumed was the public administrator of the county. The man caught her stare and gave a quick, businesslike nod. Alex noticed that two men in suits were seated in the first row behind him. Feds—they were everywhere now. They were staring back at her like she was an unwelcome guest.
She turned her attention back to the bench. Judge Pritchard was a stern, silver-haired old man, a wizened figure with an imposing frown. He leaned forward from his perch, his elbows splayed outward on his desk.
“Now that the fortunate few are assembled,” he growled, “we’ll proceed with the next case—the hearing for the Jacobs estate distribution.” He looked down at the surface of his desk and muttered, “For reasons unknown to me, this is a closed proceeding. I’m certain we all feel quite privileged to be in attendance.” He looked at the man to Alex’s left. “I see the public administrator representing the interests of Columbia County is in attendance. Mr. Brumfield . . .”
“Good afternoon, your honor.”
The judge nodded in formal cordiality. He turned to Alex. “And you are . . .?”
Alex cleared the nervousness from her throat. “Your honor, my name is Alex Moreno.” She read off her longdormant state bar number. “I will be serving as attorney on behalf of the petitioners, Merchant and Associates.”
Judge Pritchard frowned and scanned a paper in front of him. “Where is Douglas Spinetti?”
“I’ll be filling in for him, your honor. I realize it’s a sudden change and I apologize, but it seems Mr. Spinetti will not be able to attend.”
“And why is that?”
“I’m not exactly sure why,” she replied. “But with your permission, I’ll be taking his place.”
The judge turned to the public administrator. “Do you have any objection to this change, Mr. Brumfield?”
“Not at all, your honor,” replied Brumfield.
“Fine then.” He nodded to Alex. “You may serve as counsel, Miss Moreno.”
“Thank you, your honor.”
Pritchard grunted and turned his attention to the documents before him. He surveyed the petition closely as Alex stood and remained silent, her hands crossed in front of her waist. His eyes ran across the documents carefully, no word ignored, no phrasing unanalyzed. Alex stood quietly, feeling almost like a grammar school student in front of the principal. One of the bailiffs sneezed, and she was grateful. After what seemed an eternity, the judge looked down the bridge of his long, bony nose at her.
“Your research shows that there are three heirs to this estate, counselor?”
She hesitated. A catch seemed to be stuck in her throat. The judge stared at her.
“Counselor?”
“Your honor, there are no longer three heirs. Unfortunately, Merchant and Associates’ client, Matthew Von Rohr . . .” She paused. It was difficult to say. “Merchant and Associates’ client is now deceased. I understand Timothy Von Rohr is also recently deceased. Jessica Von Rohr is now claiming one hundred percent inheritance rights on the Jacobs estate.”
Pritchard frowned. This flip-flopping of claimants was unusual to him. He looked as if he would comment, but he instead shook his head and looked back down at his papers.
“I’ve received correspondence regarding Timothy Von Rohr,” he said, a bit softer. “His death certificate is now on file with the county.”
Alex nodded and looked down at the table. Her mind could not rid itself of Nick. She tried not to think about him. Impossible.
“Do you have a certified copy of Matthew Von Rohr’s death certificate?”
“Yes,” she said, finding it. The bailiff relayed it to the bench.
The judge scrutinized the petition.
“This is quite a sum, counselor,” he said, giving a dry, humorless smile. “Your vital documents which establish right of inheritance?”
She produced a manila folder and handed it to the bailiff. The judge perused the Von Rohr birth records, the family tree that Nick had constructed, the Jacobs death certificate. Alex saw him hesitate and study the FBI document Nick had taken from Claudia Dorsch in Germany. He suddenly raised it and waved it at her.
“A question, Miss Moreno: Where did you get this document? Given the enormity of the estate, I believe it’s within my scope to ask.”
Alex didn’t expect the question, but she had her answer quickly.
“Your honor, that document was given to a company researcher by a friend of the deceased. The researcher flew to Germany and met her personally six days ago. The situation was explained to her, how Holtzmann had passed away, and how the company wanted to make sure that h
is estate was properly divided up among his blood relatives. He was astounded when she pulled out that document, but realizing its potential impact in court, he convinced her to let him have it.” She spoke smoothly, confident that she had delivered some version of the truth.
“I’ve looked over the FBI memorandum,” replied Pritchard. “The authenticity of the documents has been verified.” He leaned forward, clearing his throat roughly. “The temptation to fabricate a document in dealing with a case this size might be an option for some. Don’t think that I’m saying that you’re involved in a fraudulent presentation of the facts, but I’m certain you’re keenly aware that involvement in any such activity would constitute perjury.”
“I am aware of that, your honor,” replied Alex, finding this warning a bit odd.
Pritchard turned to Brumfield, the public administrator. “Does the county have anything to add to this, Mr. Brumfield?”
Brumfield tapped his papers together on the tabletop in front of him. “Your honor, the county sees no reason to contest this claim. As far as we can see, there’s little to dispute. We do have some additional good news for the petitioners, however. The county has managed to locate some bank accounts which were not included in the original estate appraisement.” He waved a paper to the bailiff. “This addendum to the file includes them. The decedent apparently had another six hundred thousand dollars in various local banks, jointly held with his sister, Monica Von Rohr. . ..”
Alex looked down at the varnished table. Six hundred thousand. Over half a million dollars more and she felt nothing.
“Miss Moreno?”
She had missed the judge’s question. “Yes? I’m sorry . . .”
“Have you anything else to add?”
She was seeing his lips move, but barely hearing the question. She felt light-headed and wanted to get outside and breathe fresh air. She looked up at the judge and slowly shook her head.
“Give me a moment, then,” said Pritchard, rising to his feet.
He gave a nod to the two FBI agents, and the three of them disappeared into his chambers. The public administrator smiled at Alex awkwardly, but she was oblivious. She sat back in her chair. She thought of Nick’s words from the previous night: It won’t be so bad. Things will cool off, and then we’ll rebuild. She looked up at the ceiling and closed her eyes. Nick was wrong. He wouldn’t be rebuilding anything from inside a prison cell.
The Heir Hunter Page 36
