“Mr. Gruber, I appreciate this, but I really don’t see what—”
“There he is, my dear,” he said, walking to the screen. He raised his arm and patted a face. “Ludwig Wilhelm Holtzmann, vice president of the German Reichsbank.”
“Vice president of . . .?”
Her voice caught. She leaned forward in her chair and focused on the face of the man whose death had begun the incredible chain of events of the past week. He stood frozen in time, his mouth open, caught in the middle of a shouted salute to history’s most notorious leader. She felt a shiver. This was no simple bureaucrat.
Gruber continued his narration almost triumphantly.
“I apologize for oversimplifying things. Saying that Ludwig Holtzmann was a banker is rather like saying that Lincoln was a politician. Ludwig Wilhelm Holtzmann was a little-known but instrumental figure in Nazi Germany’s economic administration.”
Alex said nothing. Her eyes remained locked on Holtzmann’s face. He was young, bespectacled, with a short, little boy’s haircut. He was dressed in full Nazi regalia.
The old man produced a paper and read from it.
“As I said, Holtzmann was born in Hamburg and educated at the University of Berlin. Joined the Nazi party in 1934. Held the position of Reichsintendant with the Ministry of Economics from 1934 to 1938. Vice president of the Reichsbank from 1938 to 1945 . . .”
Alex leaned her head back and looked at the ceiling.
She needed to focus on something else. Anywhere but that projection screen. She raised her hand to her face and rubbed her eyes.
“In his position,” continued Gruber, relentless now, “he held enormous power. Second only to Walther Funk in the Reichsbank, Holtzmann had ready access to nearly all assets of the German Reich. He could transfer huge sums with a simple signature, and he often did. He periodically authorized checks for millions of marks to Hermann Göring. When Funk learned of the transfers and sought to expel Holtzmann, only Göring’s intervention saved his position.”
Alex finally found her voice. “What happened to him?”
“With the end of the war, Holtzmann went on the run. He was tried in absentia in Nuremberg and—like Rudolf Hess and the others—given life in Spandau prison. He was captured in Italy in 1946 and returned to Germany to serve his sentence. He hanged himself in his cell just three years ago.”
Alex nodded slowly. Three years ago—the same year a Mr. Gerald Raymond Jacobs arrived in Hudson, New York.
“Can I have that paper?” she asked.
“Certainly,” said the old man, handing it to her. “I hope it’s been helpful.”
She rose to her feet slowly. “Do I owe you anything?”
“No,” the man replied, waving his hand. “I don’t mind sharing what I’ve learned.”
Alex bowed her head graciously, then turned to leave. Her brain felt like it was just beginning to work again. She stopped.
“Why exactly did Holtzmann get sentenced to life in prison?”
Gruber looked at her as if the answer were obvious. “My dear, the Reichsbank held the entire assets of the Third Reich, all the plundered treasure, the stolen money, the gold plucked from dead men’s mouths in Auschwitz.
After Funk fell out of favor with Goebbels in 1943, Holtzmann was thereafter almost completely in charge of the ill-gotten treasures. In that sense, he was a knowing accomplice to mass genocide.”
Alex asked her next question very slowly and deliberately. “You said Rudolf Hess was sentenced to life in Spandau?”
“Yes.”
“Did he die there?”
“Yes, he did. Somewhere around 1987, I believe.”
She nodded. That information would come in handy later. She stole a final glance at the fanatical face on the screen, then thanked Gruber and exited down the stairway.
Timothy Von Rohr rose from his prison cell cot and threw a handful of cold water on his face. He grabbed his towel and stared at himself in the tiny mirror over his sink. It was true then. Incredibly, it was true. He smiled at himself and shook his head.
Warden Henshaw had done him a favor. After the investigators had left, the good warden had placed a very enlightening phone call to the State of New York, specifically the county housing in the city of Hudson. The county clerk had given him a quick confirmation of the enormous estate they were currently holding under the name of Gerald Raymond Jacobs.
Tim Von Rohr was ecstatic. He did a rough mental calculation. One-third was 7.4, and 50 percent of that was 3.7. Three point seven million! Not only would he be free in five months, he would be set for life.
The prison bars slid open. Von Rohr stepped into line as the crew of cons began moving through east wing lock-down. He frowned. The key now was to make sure none of the prison heavies found out about this. The blacks or the Mexicans might make a move on him if they knew about
this bit of good fortune. He certainly wouldn’t be telling anybody about Uncle Gerald. If the guards kept their big traps shut, he would probably be okay.
The line filed into the cafeteria. Von Rohr’s head was reeling. He laughed to himself as he grabbed a tray. From San Quentin to Park Avenue. He had it made.
Tim Von Rohr didn’t see the inmate rise to his feet at the table nearest him. The convict was already a lifer, and he had been paid with a year’s worth of crystal meth and cigarettes. He had smuggled the small wood block out of the workshop and honed it into a blade against the rough concrete of his cell wall. His target’s head was turned as he made his charge. A guard saw him moving, but his shout came far too late to matter. The shank was thrust into Von Rohr’s jugular and twisted down, tearing it. The guards brought the killer down, but by then Timothy Von Rohr was on the ground, his life fluids draining red on the marble floor.
N
ICK AND JESSICA
Von Rohr walked quickly through the terminal of the Albany airport. Alex’s instructions had been firmly stated. Hurry out of the terminal and get to the departures ramp—she would be waiting in a rented van near the United Airlines sign. She would have the newspaper with her.
They exited to the street and Nick saw the van near the end of the terminal. It was dark blue and windowless. The engine was running. He grabbed the side door and slid it open. Alex was at the wheel, her face a greenish hue against the dashboard lights. Nick motioned Jessica into the back, then took the front passenger seat. Nick saw something resembling surprise in Jessica’s face at the sight of Alex. Not the partner she’d envisioned, he thought. Alex glanced at Nick and waited for an introduction.
“Jessica, this is my partner—Alex Moreno. Alex—Jessica Von Rohr . . .”
Alex swiveled around and offered her hand. “I’m the one who met your brother Matt,” she said. “I’m very sorry to hear the news.”
Her hand hung in the air. Nick held his breath. Three unbearably long seconds passed before Jessica took it. They shook hands wordlessly, but their eyes were locked together. Nick spoke quickly.
“Let’s get rolling, Alex.”
Alex turned and took the wheel. Within minutes the scenery was a seventy-mile-per-hour blur. A silence that seemed almost frigid to Nick settled over the inside of the van. He remained quiet and watched the traffic. It was going to be a long drive back to Schenectady.
“Take a look down at your feet, Nick,” said Alex, reaching for the radio.
Nick reached down and found the newspaper, bringing it low to his lap so Jessica couldn’t see it. The FBI had been good on their word. Attempted murder committed in the commission of a burglary. Arminger had gotten one out of two right anyway. But it was the attempted-murder charge that had teeth. Alex had said she had even seen a local newscast about him. He was on television! People were sitting in their living rooms hearing all about Nicholas Merchant, the brutal cop-killer, the burglar of dead men’s homes. And frighteningly enough, this was just the beginning. By now he knew a teletype would have been sent over the national police computer network. If that was the case, there wouldn’t be a city where his name wasn’t known. And if Arminger really meant business, he could make use of his fingerprints at the FBI crime lab in Virginia. Once he had the prints, he could do damn near anything he wanted.
Alex clicked on the radio, filling the van with a soft, generic jazz. The three of them sat and said nothing until they reached Schenectady.
Alex had rented a unit in Towne Villa, a small, tree-dotted apartment complex on Keyes Avenue in the south part of Schenectady. She found parking in the rear in spot number 204.
“We’ll be right up, Alex,” said Nick.
Alex caught the hint and stepped out of the van, leaving the two of them alone. Nick turned back to Jessica. Her head was back on the headrest. She looked drained.
“Pretty quiet back there. You all right?”
She lifted her head and nodded weakly. “Listen,” she said, “what happened with Matt—I realize you couldn’t have known. That’s fair. I’m . . . glad you came out to my place. You probably saved my life. I want you to know I am grateful for that.”
Nick nodded awkwardly and said nothing. Although absolved of blame, he certainly didn’t feel worthy of any gratitude.
“You said you were going to come up with a plan during the flight,” she said. “Any luck with that?”
“I have some ideas,” he said, pushing the door open. “Let’s head upstairs first. My partner needs to be a part of this.”
The apartment was nearly empty. No couch, no tables besides the one in the kitchen. A television sat on the floor, looking small and pitiful all by itself on the living room carpet.
“Can I talk to you in here for a second, Nick?” Alex immediately asked, stepping past them.
Nick excused himself awkwardly and followed his partner into the bedroom. Alex closed the door partially and faced him, her arms folded in front of her.
“Think you know what I’m mad about?”
“Probably,” answered Nick. “I’m not sure I want to hear it right now, though.”
“Tough. Why is she here, Nick?”
“You already know the answer to that. Someone’s trying to kill her and she wants to know what the hell’s going on.”
“She can go to the police.”
“They can’t do a damn thing for her and you know it. You know I’m right, Alex. They’re not going to take her in and protect her.”
“Oh, and you will? We’re having enough problems watching ourselves without having to worry about someone who isn’t even a
client
, for god’s sake.”
“What do you want me to do—dump her off on the side of the road? She’s in this as much as her brother was.”
“Her brother was our client, Nick; she isn’t. That’s an important distinction, I’d say.”
Nick raised a finger to his lips. The discussion was one or two choice words from disintegrating into a shouting match. If not for the guest in the other room, he would almost have welcomed it.
“We need all the allies we can get at this point. She has a certificate to a bank box in Switzerland that may hold something important.”
Alex approached him, her lips tight with frustration. “Fine, but she should do us a favor first. She should sign that contract, Nick. If you’re making an effort to protect her, I think it’s the least she can do.”
“She isn’t here for protection. She’s here to help us find out what’s going on. Alex, I’m slightly more concerned right now with clearing myself than I am about that contract. You should be concerned with the same thing. It’s probably only a matter of time before your face is posted right next to mine.”
“And just how are we going to clear ourselves?” she asked. “What are we going to find that’s going to make these charges just go away? This isn’t the Hardy Boys, Nick—it’s
real.
It’s time to move forward with plan B.”
“Is there a plan A?”
“It’s the same plan. We get her to sign, take our passports, and go on a permanent vacation. I intend to get out. Forget getting rich—I’m going to need that money to make it abroad, and when you finally figure out that these charges aren’t going away, you’ll suddenly realize you need it too.”
Nick frowned and turned away. Taking flight as a fugitive was a last-ditch option. It was an alternative with a frightening permanence, and yes, it would require money to be feasible. His personal savings might last him six months, and that was only if the FBI didn’t get to them first.
“Do you think I want to go through this crap and
not
earn a fee?” he asked. “You need to understand the immediate problem here: she’s lost her brother. He’s been murdered, remember? This is not the time to be shoving contracts in her face. We need to give her more time. She’s too angry and full of distrust right now.”
“We don’t
have
a lot of time. We can’t sneak around in the shadows forever.”
“I know we can’t. Doug’s scheduled a hearing for her brother on Friday. We’ll sign her before then and present her to the court as the heir in Matthew’s place. For the next couple of days, though, we need to leave it alone.”
Alex walked over to a sleeping bag in the corner and sat down. “She’s mad at us, isn’t she?”
Nick shrugged and looked at the carpet. “She was at first.”
“Do you feel guilty about this? About Matt and Rose?”
“How am I supposed to feel? I certainly don’t feel good about it. About any of it. I’m very confused right now, to tell the truth.”
“We can’t take full blame for what happened to Matt, Nick. I can understand her anger, but she can’t possibly believe that we could’ve known any of this would happen.”
“She knows that. Look, we’ll just give her time, okay? It’s the smartest thing for now.”
“What about the charges? We can’t tell her about them, can we?”
Nick frowned. He had already pledged his total honesty, but telling Jessica that he was wanted for attempted murder would shatter any last hope for a trusting relationship. And yet he couldn’t risk her finding it out on her own.
“I’ll have to eventually,” he said. “I need to win her over a bit more first.”
“She’ll find out one way or another.”
He rubbed his forehead in frustration. There were too many variables, too many things to keep account of. “I’ll deal with it. When the opportunity arises, I’ll tell her.”