“Who are you?” Nick demanded, pinning the man down. “Who the
fuck
are you?”
The man was gape-mouthed, wheezing desperately for breath knocked clean out of him. Nick looked up as he heard a voice in the distance. The other flashlight was heading back in their direction now, and quickly.
Nick groped wildly in the dark for the gun but found nothing. He grabbed the flashlight, clicked it off, and sprinted away with it. He stumbled down a mossy incline, half expecting bullets to tear through him at any moment. He ran west through the park for five minutes straight, paused for thirty seconds, then ran for another five minutes.
Exhaustion finally forced him to stop. He hunched in the darkness, shivering and listening to himself wheeze. The giant eucalyptus trees of the park swayed and creaked in the wind around him.
Things were happening too quickly. Whoever these people were, they were not wasting a second of time. They hadn’t even let the smoke clear from his apartment before coming at him again. But he had left them a convenient trail. From here on, he would make himself invisible. Untraceable. He only prayed Alex had gotten out of her place in time. God forbid, if they had found her . . .
Painfully he began jogging north toward the lights of the Richmond District, looking back every few seconds. At the edge of the park, he scanned both directions, then darted across Fulton Street. He would disappear into the avenues, find a safe place to plan. When morning came, he would finally make a long-overdue phone call.
T
HE TEMPERATURE GAUGE
was at 122. Lawrence Castleton sat hunched on the wooden bench, his giant folds of skin glistening with droplets of sweat. The Saturday morning ritual was never missed. Stationary bikes for three miles. In the sauna by 8:30
A.M.
At the desks finding heirs by 9:30
A.M.
A decade-old formula for success for the chief executive of General Inquiry. He had weighed himself that morning—a svelte 303. He had actually dropped a couple of pounds.
The door opened and Borg quickly slipped in. Castleton didn’t open his eyes.
“Nine o’clock, Richard? Can’t keep up with the old man anymore?”
Borg plopped down on the bench across from him.
“One of the Sandoval heirs called me at home. Crying about the usual crap.”
Castleton threw a spray of sweat from his forehead. In the half-light, the president looked like an enormous poached egg.
“I’ll never let an heir ruin my favorite morning of the week,” he said, his eyes still closed. “You’ll carry me out of here someday, Richard.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Borg replied, wondering which four investigators would help him.
“What’s the news up north?”
“Sounds like it went well. Risso said it took three trucks half an hour to douse it.”
Castleton’s eyes snapped open.
“Three trucks? Goddamn it, this was supposed to be a
controlled
fire. I didn’t want to torch the entire fucking building.”
“Relax, no one got hurt. It went perfectly.”
“Is Risso in yet? I want to talk to him.”
“Wait a minute, Lawrence—there’s something else you need to know. Get a load of this—someone blew up Merchant’s apartment last night.”
Castleton swung his head to Borg quickly, whipping spray from his forehead.
“What?”
“Someone planted a bomb in his place. From what I’m told, two people were killed.”
“What people?”
“Bystanders, I guess. I know it wasn’t Merchant. He showed up at the scene while they were cleaning up the place. Anybody’s guess where he is now.”
“Risso didn’t have anything to do with this, did he?”
“God, no, Lawrence. Are you crazy? It’s a bizarre coincidence.”
“I don’t like bizarre coincidences. If his office gets traced back to us, we’ll be the prime suspects in this bomb thing.”
“It can’t be traced. The people we used never even saw Risso’s face.”
Castleton leaned back and closed his eyes again. “Who’d blow up his place?”
“I don’t know. Other heir finders?”
“No other heir finders even know about this. None of them are crazy enough to try it anyway. No, it’s all related to this Jacobs business. The FBI knows exactly what’s going on.”
The ceiling intercom crackled.
“Lawrence?”
It was Danny Risso. Castleton quickly pressed a button.
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve got a break on Jacobs.”
“I’m listening, Danny. What is it?”
“We found an heir.”
They stared at each other.
“Meet me in my office in ten minutes.”
They grabbed their towels and hurried to the showers.
Danny Risso was waiting in the president’s office. He was grinning like a proud new father.
“What do we got?” asked Castleton.
“We got ourselves a jailbird,” replied Risso, smiling.
“I knew it!” said Borg, punching his hand. “I knew he was a con.”
“Where is he?” Castleton asked Risso.
“San Quentin. My flight’s at noon.”
“You’re going with him,” said Castleton to Borg. “I want forty-five percent from this son of a bitch.” He turned back to Risso, who looked a bit deflated to hear he would have a partner. “What’s he in for?”
“Drugs. Nine-year sentence. Out in five months.”
“Make it fifty percent,” said Castleton. “This guy has no bargaining power. I want you to get whatever you can.”
“The more we get, the fatter the bonus checks,” said Borg, with a grin.
The optimism had returned to the president’s face again, the familiar glow he hadn’t shown in days. Lawrence Castleton’s sense of euphoria had distracted him just enough to prevent him from noticing the midnight blue van parked forty yards down the street, or its occupants, who had just listened to every word of the conversation he had enjoyed with his associates.
The limousine drove through Manhattan in silence. Director Gordon watched Times Square stream by as his
deputy director sat and simmered. Arminger was tired and irritable. He enjoyed long hours of work, but the time put into the current project was producing no tangible results. Jacobs was four days old, and he still didn’t know what was going on. His lack of knowledge and his chief’s seeming indifference were making him all the more irritated.
“Why do you think it was him?”
“Seems obvious,” replied Arminger, with thinly veiled condescension. “The day after the break-in, Merchant was off on a flight to Germany. The day after that, he signs up the heir. He found something in that house. Must have been damn good for him to shoot a cop on the way out.”
“What evidence?”
“Evidence won’t be a problem. He’s the only suspect.”
Gordon frowned and watched Broadway through tinted glass. Anger, impulsiveness, stubbornness—traits he was seeing all too often in the DDNY. He sat next to the future of the Bureau, and the future frightened him.
“It’s time to go after him, Arthur.”
“He hasn’t returned our calls. I admit he’s acting every bit the guilty man.”
The car circled around Federal Plaza and found the entrance down into the parking lot. They took the elevator to the second floor and entered the office of the deputy director. Arminger found the coffee machine and poured himself a cup.
“Anything interesting in the house?” asked Gordon.
Arminger blew steam from the surface of the coffee.
“Nothing I saw. Merchant had gone through it pretty thoroughly the night before. If—”
The intercom interrupted him.
“I’m with Director Gordon, Carol.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You have a Mr. Nick Merchant on line one . . .”
They stared at each other for three seconds before Arminger responded.
“I’ll take that, thank you.”
Arminger found his seat behind the desk. Gordon placed the headphones on and nodded. A finger pressed the flashing light.
“This is Deputy Director Edmund Arminger.”
“Nick Merchant . . .”
They raised eyebrows at each other. Arminger moistened his lower lip.
“Does it normally take a dozen phone calls to get your attention, Merchant? I feel sorry for your clients if that’s the case.”
“What do you want with me?”
“Nothing terribly complicated. We’re insisting that you drop your investigation into Gerald Raymond Jacobs. Don’t dig around him, don’t look into him at all. This is a federal matter and I strongly advise staying clear of it.”
The line was silent. They could hear what sounded like traffic in the background. The tape would be analyzed later.
“Why do you want me to drop it?”
“Mr. Jacobs had a very close association with the FBI. I’m afraid that’s all I can say and about all you need to know.”
“What if I don’t back off?”
“Then your problems will only be starting. I should tell you that the FBI is now handling the investigation of the attempted murder of a Hudson police officer, as well as the break-in of the Jacobs home. I understand the list of suspects is very short.”
“Wait a second. Attempted murder? What attempted murder?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking—”
“I don’t know a damn
thing
about any attempted murder!”
“Yes you do, Merchant. Yes you do. Once we get this investigation under way, I’m sure we’ll find all the evidence
we need to build a very strong case against our single suspect.”
A long pause settled over the line before Nick again spoke.
“Sir, I don’t know what happened with this police officer, but I’m telling you right now I didn’t shoot anyone. I’ll make you a deal—I’m willing to help you if you’re willing to help me. I’d like to know who this Jacobs person really was. I’d also like to know why people are trying to kill me. I assume it’s all part of the same story.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a bomb that was placed at my front door last night. I was fortunate enough to walk away from it, but my fifty-five-year-old secretary wasn’t so lucky. Oh, and before I forget, there was this other little incident: two lunatics tried to fill me full of bullets this morning. Do me a favor, sir—go pick up a morning edition of the
San Francisco Chronicle
and read the front page. Tell me if it sounds to you like someone’s trying to kill me.”
Arminger shook his head at Gordon and received a puzzled look in return.
“I don’t know anything about that, Merchant. I assure you we will not be giving out any information pertaining to Mr. Jacobs, though. The only thing we’re interested in is that you end your investigation. It’s a simple solution.”
“Yeah, real simple. So simple I can’t believe I didn’t think of it. Just go back home—if I had a home—lie down, and forget all about this. I guess I’ll just tape a note on the door telling whoever tried to kill me that they don’t need to bother with me anymore because hey, I’ve wiped my mind clean of old Gerald Jacobs. Then you guys can come over and arrest me for some murder charge I had nothing to do with. Yessir, that’s a great solution you thought up. Can I tell you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“I have no assurance whatsoever that whoever tried to murder me last night will stop trying if I drop this. Hell, in
their eyes I probably already know way more than I should. As much as I’d like to back out of this, I just don’t think I
can
anymore. If I try to go back to my life, I’m either going to wind up dead or in jail.”
“So you won’t cooperate.”
“Cooperating on your terms will get me killed. If you want to help me figure out what’s really going on here, then let me know. Otherwise I need to do two things, sir. I need to find out who killed my secretary, and I need to do whatever it takes to keep myself alive. If that includes finding out
everything
I possibly can about Mr. Jacobs, then that’s what I’ll do. I don’t care about your little secret, but I do care about my life.”
“Merchant, you’re only bringing more trouble down on your head by—”
“This conversation’s going nowhere. Go talk to SFPD. Maybe you’ll understand my position better.”
The line went dead. Arminger held the receiver for a second before replacing it. Gordon removed the headsets and placed them on the desk. Then they looked at each other.
“Sounds as if he’s made up his mind, doesn’t it?” Gordon said.
Arminger’s response came swiftly. “We’ll go after him hard. He can’t be allowed to roam free on this.”
“I’d like to speak with SFPD before we make any decisions. I want to hear about this so-called bombing.” Director Gordon rose to his feet and rubbed the small of his back. “I’m tired of this, Edmund. I’m about to fly back to Washington, and I assure you, I’m not leaving until I get some answers. It’s time I went directly to the source.”
The Lexus slowly moved among the warehouses until Kragen saw Pier 11. He turned right and parked along the waterfront, facing the gray waves of the East River. Across the expanse, the outline of Brooklyn Heights. His
favorite home had been purchased there with cash two years ago. The others were in Florida and Aspen, but he was partial to New York and always considered it his home base. It was where most of his work was, and work had never been better these last few months.
Kragen checked his watch and waited. His role in the Jacobs situation had been permanently expanded, and he was pleased with the particulars. The compensation was right, and the resources were available to earn it without too much difficulty. For the kind of money being offered, he would have actually considered coming out of retirement himself were it a physical option. But he was forty-nine years of age, with a disfigured hand and half a dozen metal fragments inches from his heart, courtesy of a VC booby trap. He was keenly aware of his limitations. But that was the beauty of having others do the work for him.
After ten minutes, the limo appeared from behind a warehouse and pulled alongside him. The back door opened before the tires came to rest. Philip Cimko was in his suit pants, white button-down, and burgundy wingtips. No tie. Kragen hated the thought of taking orders from the arrogant little punk. He lowered his window and lit a cigarette as Cimko approached.