The Heir Hunter (23 page)

“Your boys really fucked up, Kragen. What happened?”

Kragen felt the blood rise to his cheeks. Money or not, he didn’t need this loafer-wearing pansy chewing him out. He smiled and blew a cloud of smoke out of the side of his mouth.

“Good morning to you too.”

“You killed an innocent woman.”

“Accidents happen, junior. I lost someone too.”

“You can’t be involving innocent people, Kragen. It’s unacceptable.”

“It was his damn secretary. How innocent could she have been?”

“It can’t happen again. You’re getting paid too much not to be perfect.”

Kragen looked across the river and smiled slightly. All mistakes were forgivable. “I get the picture, okay? I assume you didn’t drive down here to lecture me.”

Cimko looked around. The wind was picking up and his GQ hairstyle was now a flailing mop. “Can I sit in there?”

Kragen gave an ambiguous head toss and reached for another smoke. He would have the punk gagging. Cimko entered and immediately coughed.

“Change of plans, effective today. I have two more to add to your list.”

“Same money?”

“Same money. These should be very simple for you.”

“More PI’s?”

“Don’t worry about who they are. We’ll have you all the information you need by tonight. It needs to be done quickly. How soon can you mobilize your people?”

“How quick can you pay for ’em?”

“Instantly upon completion. You have any experience tracking down missing people?”

Kragen frowned. “Can’t say I do. Doesn’t mean I can’t learn fast. Is Merchant still the one you want to focus on?”

“He’s one of them. After last night he’s probably gone underground, but he’ll slip up eventually. You have to find him when he does.”

“Do my best.”

“Don’t do your best, Kragen—do your job. You have to find him.”

“Listen, junior, this guy’s a PI, and now he’s wise to the fact somebody’s after him. Probably knows all the tricks about hiding. I guarantee he’s not sitting around waiting for a bullet like those stupid bankers were.”

Cimko was enraged. “Don’t ever bring them up again.
Not ever.”
He took a long second to calm himself. “You’ve
got to find Merchant by Wednesday. If you’re as good as you claim, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Kragen crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and licked the residue from his teeth. “So what about those two bigwigs in L.A.?”

“Nothing’s changed there. You should have plenty of motivation with what we’re paying, Kragen. Do you still have people in San Francisco?”

“Yep.”

“Keep them there until we reach you later today. We’re going to have them travel up north in a few hours.”

“Where up north?”

“You’ll know in a while. Just make sure they’re ready to move.”

A
FLOWING TIDE OF
fog engulfed the upper segments of both towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. Penetrating winds billowed in from the outer reaches of the Pacific. Under the southern end of the bridge, a blue Buick rented by Michael Dean Collier rolled past Fort Point and to the edge of the bay.

Nick stared at the foam-tipped waters, his mind still numb from his discussion with the FBI. He had wondered what had happened when the cops had walked in on the gunman in Jacobs’s house. Now he had his answer. Their simple little break-in had become a nightmare.

He looked up at the fort, the century-old sentinel at the mouth of the ocean. It had been twenty-two years since he had ventured down there, a thirteen-year-old on the seventh-grade field trip, the only boy in class without a paper bag lunch or a mother to pack it. Bleak, lonely days, mornings when he would wake up in the empty little house in the avenues to find a few dollar bills on the kitchen table and a scribbled note from a father who would already be off on his beat. His dad had done the best he could.

A quick toot of a horn shook him from his thoughts. A car rolled slowly into the spot next to him. Doug’s cheeks were pale and unshaven. Nick stepped from his car and joined him in the Jaguar.

“Your property manager called me this morning,” his attorney said softly. “The entire office is gutted. Ashes. Even Matt Von Rohr’s contract.”

“I thought you had that.”

“After I filed the papers, I brought it over and put it in the fire safe. Seemed like a good idea.”

Nick rubbed his eyes and exhaled. The amount of pending business in the office was staggering. Every contract and crucial court filing they had was now gone. The Wallace case alone had thirty-nine signed contracts.

“How did you rent the car?” asked Doug.

“Michael Collier did,” replied Nick. “Thank God I got that ID a couple years ago.”

“Keep using it. Don’t even think of putting your real name on anything.”

“As if you need to tell me that.”

They both sat and listened to the breakers slam against the shore. The wind carried a fine mist to the car windshield, and the blare of the foghorns rose and died in the wet air.

“What I don’t get,” said Nick, “is why they burned down the office if they expected me to be dead. Why bother?”

“It’s GI, Nick. This is all about Jacobs. They’re trying to wipe us out completely so we can’t make a claim.”

“Why do all this
after
I’ve found heirs? If they really wanted to screw us, they would have done it before we found them. Besides, do you really think they would resort to murder?”

“It’s a lot of money, Nick. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Nick studied his friend. In the gloomy shadow of the bridge, Doug looked old and tired. They sat in silence and watched a barge ease out into the open sea.

“I’m not sure what to do,” Nick finally said. “Home’s gone, work’s gone. Where do I start with this?”

“First thing you need to do is get a gun, Nick. You know where you can get one?”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“What about the FBI? You called them yet?”

Nick told him about the conversation he had shared with Arminger. Doug looked worse now.

“Jesus Christ. You think they actually have something on you for shooting that cop?”

“Whether they do or don’t, they’re perfectly capable of coming up with something. If they want to keep this Jacobs thing quiet badly enough, they’ll dig up whatever they can to build a case against me.”

“Why didn’t you just tell them you were gonna leave it alone?”

“Because I have the feeling that they’re coming after me regardless.”

“Dammit,” said Doug, rubbing his forehead. “Fuck! What are you gonna do?”

“Do I have a choice? I’ve got to investigate this Jacobs guy. I need to know what I’m up against. After what’s happened to Rose, I can’t just go slinking off. There’s nowhere for me to go anyway.”

“But what—”

“Look, buddy,” said Nick, swiveling to him, “I’m going to need you. I have to know if you’re in or out. No hard feelings if you’re not. What’s it going to be?”

Doug stared at him momentarily, then gave him a disgusted look. “What am I, some scumbag attorney? I’ve known you forever, Nick. I was right there when your dad started the business. You
know
I’m in.”

“Just checking.”

“I’m just not sure what ‘being in’ means now.”

“It means being there if I need your help. That’s all. If I call you at three in the morning, you’ll be there for me.”

“Hell, yeah, I’ll be there,” Doug said.

Nick gave a weak smile. “Look, I’m sorry for being so punchy.”

“Understandable after the night you’ve had.”

Nick reached into his pocket and removed a scrap of paper.

“I’ve got something I need you to do. The cops said they found a body in my place. A man’s body. I called a contact of mine at SFPD this morning and got the dead guy’s name.”

He handed it to Doug, who read out loud.

“‘William David Brecker.’ You think he—”

“Damn right I do. Son of a bitch was planting the bomb when Rose walked in. You want to know something? I bet you and I were being watched at the restaurant last night. They knew where I was and thought they had plenty of time—”

“But Rose shows up and takes it instead,” said Doug, looking pale. “Jesus Christ, Nick . . .”

A carload of tourists drove by them slowly. Nick watched them until they were out of sight.

“I want you to run every possible background check you can on this guy. I want to know exactly who this piece of garbage was.”

“I’m on it,” said Doug, putting the paper in his wallet. “What are you gonna do in the meantime?”

Nick frowned and drew a deep breath. “Let me tell you my plan. . ..”

It had been six years of unabashed glory. By most measures, the promises of a revitalized America, a reenergized economy, and a return to the sacred tradition of solid family values had been fulfilled. President Robert Marshall now enjoyed record approval ratings, the press likening his administration to a kind of modern-day Camelot. The youthful fifty-seven-year-old sparkplug who had taken the country’s reins six years before was a PR man’s dream, a squeaky-clean leader adored by both young and old.

This day, the great leader was in his usual upbeat mood.
Arthur Gordon was always impressed by the constant optimism of his commander in chief.

Gordon took a seat in front of the President and crossed his legs. He personally didn’t buy into the popular perceptions of Marshall’s divinity, but his duty was to serve whomever the American people chose as their leader. Only four more years with this one—if he was reelected.

“I understand this witness protection thing has become a real pain in the ass for you, Arthur.”

“It’s been a frustrating few days,” agreed Gordon.

The President sat behind the great desk of the Oval Office and joined his hands thoughtfully in front of his chin. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray in front of him—a habit very few people knew about.

“We need to reach a resolution here,” said Marshall. “It’s very troubling how things have gotten to this point.”

“I agree,” replied Gordon patiently. “It would be helpful if I knew exactly what I was dealing with here, Mr. President.”

“And you will, Arthur. I didn’t realize you were in the dark on this. I’ve invited someone to join us who can explain Jacobs a bit better than I can.”

A knocking came from behind as the President rose to his feet.

“Perfect timing,” he said with a smile.

The double doors opened, and in stepped a Secret Service agent along with a guest Gordon knew immediately. The unexpected visitor was an imposing six foot three, with salt-and-pepper hair, intense gray eyes, and a solid chin. Unmistakable.

The President made the obligatory introduction. “Arthur, of course you know Senator Newland.”

New York State senator Thomas Newland—war hero, friend to business, and probable presidential successor—flashed his toothiest smile. He purposefully approached the old man in charge of the FBI and extended his hand. “How are you, Mr. Gordon?”

The director clenched the powerful hand and nodded, confused. The three of them sat. Gordon decided to adjust his preplanned strategy until the senator’s appearance explained itself.

“You don’t mind if the senator joins us, do you, Arthur?” Marshall asked.

Gordon gave a slight gesture, more of a shrug than anything. He wasn’t sure if he minded or not, but he would see where this all went.

The President turned to Senator Newland. “I’m hoping to get this resolved here and now, Tom. I’m stepping in because I know it’s important to you and that committee of yours. Get me up to speed here. What was the old fellow’s name again?”

“Jacobs,” replied Newland. “Gerald Jacobs.”

“Right,” said Marshall. “Director Gordon is naturally concerned being that the Bureau has been Mr. Jacobs’s caretaker these last few years. He would appreciate if you could fill him in on some of the background of the situation.”

Newland frowned sympathetically and turned to Gordon. “I’m happy to do that,” he said. “I regret not getting the opportunity to brief you on this earlier, Mr. Gordon. Hopefully I can clear up the confusion you must be feeling.”

Be my guest
, thought Gordon, nodding at the senator to continue.

“For the last four years,” said Newland, “I’ve been chairman of a very special committee, a group of which I’m very, very proud to be a part. It’s a special investigative body set up to work in conjunction with a large number of Swiss banks, the purpose of which is to determine the location and rightful ownership of lost assets. I’m sure you’ve read about some of the settlements achieved in recent months with a number of Swiss banks. Much of this is due to the efforts of my committee. And those of Mr. Schmidt . . .”

Gordon waited. He had been aware of the senator’s committee, but he needed to hear more before he said anything.

“As you’re aware of, Gerald Jacobs was actually a person by the name of Martin Schmidt. Mr. Schmidt was quite a valuable find for us, a Swiss citizen with banking experience dating back to World War II. He provided us with an amazing amount of information—account owners, numbers, dormancy periods, contents of security boxes. Schmidt basically laid out the complete holdings of a major Swiss bank for us and also versed us in exactly how things are done over there. We’re nearing significant settlements with a number of Swiss banks because of his insider’s knowledge.”

“So why exactly was he brought to us?” asked Gordon, cutting to the chase.

“I’m surprised that isn’t in your file,” replied Newland. “Mr. Gordon, if I had known Director Dalton had neglected to share this information with you, I would have made a point to seek you out and personally explain things. I’m glad to do that now, however tardy I may be.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The information Schmidt was passing us is extremely sensitive. We believed there was a reasonable possibility that he was in serious jeopardy because of it. Swiss bankers are a tightly knit community. Their clientele is very wealthy and powerful. They do not appreciate their trade secrets being passed about or their names being sullied. As a stipulation for his help, Schmidt actually
insisted
on protection. For what he provided us, we were happy to oblige.”