Alex took the sheet and placed a check next to the woman’s name. “Let’s try another.”
Roth examined the list and typed in the name. “Here we are. Albert Saul Mamin, born June 1885, Krakow, Poland.” He ran his finger down the screen. “Died in 1942. Auschwitz concentration camp.”
Alex marked the sheet again, then looked for the next name. “How about Frances Gerta Rosen?”
Roth typed the name and waited. “This may not be a match. No—there she is. Frances G. Rosen, born 1926, Mannheim, Germany. Died 1945 in Auschwitz.” Roth looked at Alex. “All these long shots of yours seem to be coming in.”
Alex scooted her chair forward. “Do you have fifteen or twenty minutes to make a run down this entire list?”
“I can give you twenty minutes or so.”
“Mira Ana Birowicz . . .”
Back in the car, Alex counted the checkmarks. Of the fifty-two names, forty-seven had been marked and traced to the death camps. That afternoon she had hoped to
find information on two or three. She folded the paper up and stuffed it in her pocket. Nick had told her that Jacobs had seven full boxes of the letters in his garage. The two hundred or so taken that night, then, were barely a fraction of the total. The partners had speculated about Jacobs’s past, and now they knew massive numbers of Swiss bank accounts were involved. It seemed likely that their Nazi theory was not theory but fact.
She frowned as she stopped at a red light. As heir finders, they had trained themselves not to care about the sources of assets. The fact that assets existed was the only point that was supposed to matter. But this was simply too chilling to ignore. If the FBI was so panicked to keep Jacobs a secret, then his past must be something truly awful. She saw no other conclusion to be drawn.
She drove back to the apartment, purchasing a newspaper from a street rack and glancing at the headlines casually. The President’s latest whipping boy was tobacco, and Yeltsin had just checked back into the hospital. Liver problems, undoubtedly.
She entered her unit and put the paper aside. World events could wait until much later. She clicked the laptop on. She needed to put her findings down in some sort of orderly fashion. She took the mouse and created a file, naming it Jacobs 1.
Her phone suddenly rang. Nick checking in, most likely.
“Hello?”
“Hello, I would like to speak with Debra Holtzmann.”
Alex paused. The female voice had a thick French accent and sounded very distant.
“This is Debra Holtzmann,” she replied.
“My name is Simone Giron. I am with the Alban-Witz bank in Geneva.”
Alex blanked for a moment, then remembered that she had left her phone number with one of the banks she had
called that morning. She grabbed a pen and paper and took a seat.
“Oh, yes—yes, Miss Giron. Thank you for calling me back.”
“Our director wishes to speak with you regarding your inquiries.”
“Uh, sure . . .”
Alex waited anxiously, half expecting to be berated. To her surprise, the voice that came on the line was exceedingly pleasant.
“Hello, Miss Holtzmann. My name is Victor Chagnon. I am managing director with Alban-Witz.”
“Yes, Mr. Chagnon.”
“Ms. Giron passed your name along to me. I understand you were inquiring into certain bank accounts?”
“Yes, I was.” She decided to go with the old standby story again. “Let me explain. My uncle recently passed away here in the United States, and my brother and I have found some letters of authorization to several accounts in your bank. We’re hoping to make a claim on these accounts very soon. I was hoping to obtain some basic information regarding them before we proceed.”
“Certainly. I’m happy to help with that. Give me the number of the account your uncle held so I can pull the account information.”
“There are several, actually.” She read from one of the letters. “The first is ZA283-676752. I’d first simply like to know if this account is even open anymore.”
“One moment, please.”
Alex smiled at her luck as she waited. She had at least found one banker who wasn’t a nut about confidentiality.
“Here it is,” said Chagnon. “Your uncle was Ludwig Holtzmann, correct?”
“That’s him. The account is open?”
“Yes, it is. And showing a rather sizable balance.”
“Really. What does it show?”
“It shows your uncle has approximately three million
Swiss francs. Or roughly one and a half million American dollars.”
Alex’s jaw dropped. She had chosen this account randomly. A lucky pick or were all the accounts just as large?
“Miss Holtzmann?”
“Yes,” she said, snapping back. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Of course,” Chagnon replied, as friendly as could be. “Congratulations. You say you hold the original authorization letter to this account?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Perhaps you and your brother are planning to visit Geneva and make your claim then?”
“Yes, we are,” Alex said, still a bit dumbfounded by that balance.
“I would be happy to meet with you and settle this matter. And might I ask, Miss Holtzmann, your brother’s first name?”
She paused, considering the relevance. “Nicholas,” she finally replied.
“Ah yes,” said Chagnon. “And I wonder what would you say to me if I called you a filthy liar?”
Alex paused, temporarily thrown by the question. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me quite clearly. You’re lying to me. You have no brother, and your name isn’t Holtzmann, is it?” The voice had taken on a decidedly vicious tone.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” said Alex.
“I am not mistaken,” replied Chagnon. “Nor am I a fool. Who are you? Who do you work for?”
“Mr. Chagnon, I really don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t play games with me!” he shouted. “I want to know who you are! Are you a friend of the pig Holtzmann?”
“I really don’t—”
“No,” snarled the voice.
“You
listen. I want to know
who you are and who you work for. Talk! Give me the truth.”
“Mr. Chagnon, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
She heard Chagnon exhale into the phone.
“An accomplished liar,” he said. “Very well. Tell Taylor his plan will fail. I’ve taken precautions. The end is coming soon for him.”
The line clicked. He was gone.
Alex leaned back in front of the window, her eyes closed. The shades were drawn open, revealing dark city streets. She stayed that way for ten minutes and thought.
Finally she sat in front of the laptop and cradled her chin in her hand. She brought her hands to the keyboard and began to type. . ..
Tell Taylor his plan will fail. I’ve taken precautions. The end is coming soon for him.
She leaned back and stared at the words. So important, yet so utterly meaningless. Taylor. He had become ubiquitous. They had caught him now on an answering machine tape, in PI photos, and in an unexpected call from an irate Swiss banker. The name was springing up everywhere.
Alex reached for the bank letter from which she had given Chagnon the account number. Scrawled neatly at the bottom was a signature—Charles Chagnon, Managing Director. She did a double take. Victor had said he was managing director.
Alex cleared the surface of the kitchen table and brought her head down. Her temples were starting to throb. She felt as if she had reached mental saturation. She reached for the newspaper again.
This time she immediately saw the headline.
She bolted to her feet and gasped. The article was at the bottom of the front page, off to the right and highlighted in modest type. Its title was smaller and almost
matter-of-fact—a local-interest story. She read it again. The
Albany Times Union
declared it like a death sentence:
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR SOUGHT IN SHOOTING OF POLICE OFFICER
.
The cab maneuvered its way through the crush of evening traffic and reached its destination at Twenty-second and Tenth. The man named Malloy paid his fare and immediately entered the corner restaurant. His boss was seated facing the doorway. A pickle and a splotch of ketchup were all that remained of dinner. Malloy slid into a booth and nodded at him, receiving a frigid stare in return. Thick black eyebrows, black beard and mustache, dark eyes. Add an eye patch and a Jolly Roger hat and Malloy realized he would be looking at the perfect Halloween mask.
Kragen eyed his guest steadily as he drained the remainder of an iced tea. “Regnier just told me what happened. This whole thing’s a bad joke.”
Malloy wanted to look away but couldn’t. The stare was withering him. He had hoped the anger had passed, but apparently a full stomach wasn’t helping matters. “It’s a joke,” he agreed.
“Only I’m not laughing, Malloy. These numbskulls are costing me a lot of money.”
The diner was still full with the Saturday evening dinner crowd, the noise level rising proportionately. Kragen slapped down fifteen dollars and slid from the booth.
“Outside.”
They took seats at one of the tiny round tables on the street. Kragen found his tinted glasses.
“Next time something like this happens, I wish these idiots would have sense enough to lie to me. Tell me they went there and nobody was home. That way I don’t have to think about all the money I should have in my pocket right now. What’s the matter with those guys?”
Malloy remained silent. What was he supposed to say?
There was no answer that was going to make it all better.
He
wasn’t the one who had hired them.
“You’re not gonna make excuses. Smart man.” Kragen looked to the pedestrians. “I knew I should have sent you and Regnier down there.”
“Where is Regnier anyway?”
“Los Angeles. At least we won’t have to worry about that business.”
The waitress came by. Kragen shook his head sourly. Malloy was dying for a cocktail but chose a mineral water instead.
“So tell me about these plates,” said Kragen.
Malloy leaned forward on his elbows, relieved to be moving on to a new subject. “Seven cars on the street, not counting the ones in neighbors’ driveways. Six owner owned, one with rental stickers. They checked the six with a contact at the state Office of Vehicle Registration in Iowa—all six were registered to people living there on that street. That leaves the rental. They went to the rental office at the airport but some girl at the counter was giving them lip about confidential information and all this other crap. They couldn’t get her talking because the place was crawling with people.”
Kragen’s eyes widened behind the dark lenses. “Back up. Why didn’t they just break into the car, for Christ’s sake? The damn rental papers were probably sitting right there on the dash.”
“Said they didn’t have time. The cops showed.”
“You’re telling me they had time to copy down seven plates, but they couldn’t find time to smash into one of ’em and check the glove box?”
Malloy raised his hands a bit and shrugged. “I don’t know, okay? They said people were coming out of houses.”
“Oh boy. Chased off by a bunch of hick housewives. That’s great.”
“Not to worry, though. They’ll be flashing badges at the
car rental place first thing in the morning. It had to have been his car. He’s using a fake ID and credit card.”
Kragen shook his head. “Yeah, and he’s probably got ten of ’em. What if he paid cash and signed the papers John Smith. Then what, Malloy?”
“He’s still got to show some sort of ID. We’re gonna know first thing in the morning.”
“We better. If we don’t pull this off in four days, the deal’s off.”
“Four days? Why so soon?”
“Something big is supposed to happen by the end of the week. They’re not telling me what it is or what it’s all about, but this all comes to a head on Friday. We got ninety hours to do our thing or they’re yanking their offer.”
“We’ll do it. I got a good feeling about it.”
“Better be right. From here on, anybody who fucks up is out of the action for good. Pass that on to those idiots in Iowa.” Kragen got up and brushed at his jacket. “Call me the second you hear on this plate. We’ll need to move quick.”
Malloy nodded, then watched his boss disappear into the crowd.
T
HE TAXI TRAVELED
east over the Des Moines River, just north of the U.S. district courthouse and the police station. The driver stopped in the middle of a strip of faded motels and thrift shops and waited for his two passengers to exit the vehicle.
They rented a room in a plainly furnished, nondescript motel. Nick sat on one of the double beds and stared at the television screen. Jessica Von Rohr was on the other bed, sitting curled up, her head down. Her nylons were shredded, her skirt spotted with dirt. She hadn’t spoken for nearly half an hour, and out of desperation Nick had turned to the television. He wasn’t watching or hearing it, though; he was just sitting numbly, trying to think.
“We have to go to the police.”
Nick looked up at her. She was standing at the foot of his bed.
“The police can’t do much,” he replied evenly. “They’ll write us up a neat little report and send us on our way. You need to stop and think about this for a second.”
She had the phone in her hand. “Yes, I need a taxi at . . .” She covered the receiver. “What was the address of this place?”
Nick reached over to the phone base and disconnected her. “Will you just wait a second?”
“Let go of that.”
“No. Listen to me for a minute.”
She glared at him before tossing the phone down and walking away. He spoke to her back.
“The police are not going to be able to help us, Jessica. Believe me—this is far, far beyond anything they’ve ever dealt with. If anyone should be involved here, it’s the FBI, and frankly, I don’t think they’re very inclined to help us on this.”
“Us,”
she said, crossing her arms on her chest. “You keep saying us. I think these people are much more interested in
you
than me. They blew up your apartment and now they followed you here.”
“They didn’t come out to your doorstep looking for me.”