Nick began reading the IRS profile from the top.
First, Middle, Last Name: Gerald Raymond Jacobs
Street and Number: 198 Michael
Post Office, State: Hudson, New York
SSN: 087-81-7691
Employment status: Retired—receiving Social Security benefits
Business Address of Present Employer:—
Date of Birth: 1/10/13
Place of Birth: England
Mother’s Full Maiden Name, Living or Dead: Patrice Margaret McIntyre
Sex: Male
Color: White
Give Date You Became an Employee:—
Filing Residency Status: Citizen
“Here we go,” said Nick, snapping his fingers. “Place of birth and Momma’s name.”
“Take a closer look at that name before you start doing cartwheels.”
Nick read the mother’s name again and felt his enthusiasm fade. “McIntyre. Oh boy.”
“In England too,” said Alex, shaking her head. “Good luck. We’d have a better chance finding a Joseph Smith in the States.”
“We don’t even have a city to narrow it down. So much for the IRS.”
Nick placed the paper down and slouched back in his chair. He felt overwhelmingly exhausted. Or was it deflated? They had reviewed several key documents—documents that would normally kick—start a case investigation-and found next to nothing.
Alex rose and walked behind him. She began to massage his shoulders hard.
“I got a chance to go by the County Recorder’s office this afternoon and check the property record at 198 Michael. I was hoping a family member might have signed the note.”
“Good thinking. Anything?”
“Nope. The realtor signed it. Jacobs was a real loner, Nick.”
Nick closed his eyes as she really ground into him. “Not a rousing start,” he said. “That’s okay. The neighbors and Bonnie should have something to say tomorrow morning.”
“They’d better,” said Alex, squeezing his muscles mercilessly. “The guy’s a complete blank so far.”
“Man oh man. You like hurting me, don’t you?”
“You used to be able to take it.” She slapped the side of his head lightly. “I’m turning in. The bed’s all made up for you in the guest room.”
Nick pulled himself up and found the bathroom. He brushed his teeth and washed his face before entering the guest room. The small room had a bed, a dresser, and some neatly placed pictures on the wall. Alex was still a ways from furnishing the place.
He stripped to his shorts and got under the sheets. Fifteen years ago, they would have been in her dorm room, or his apartment, slipping under the blankets together. They had been strictly friends their first year at college, then clouded the relationship by taking it to the bedroom. Their fling had lasted one semester, collapsing upon itself after four months of friction. Nick felt primarily to blame. He knew he could be hard to take, intense almost to the point of being obsessive. Alex’s patience had run its course after sixteen weeks. It had been a mutual decision to cool it.
Nick was thankful that they had remained friends after college. Alex had become one of the few constants in his life, a supportive force through his hiring as a police officer, the death of his father, his struggle to establish himself as an heir finder. When he had made the decision to expand the business, she had been the obvious choice as partner, and the arrangement had worked out well. Although they had experienced some shaky moments back in college, Nick felt the relationship had grown into a friendship they never could have realized while in school. Just maybe they were coming to understand each other after all.
Alex entered the room and pulled a chair next to his bed. She had changed into an oversized T-shirt and shorts. The shirt hung on her a bit lopsidedly, revealing a shiny bronze shoulder.
“So I suppose Doug’s just a little excited about all this,” she commented.
“Who, Doug? Excited about twenty-two million? C’mon—no big deal to him.”
“Yeah, right. He must be running around the office like a chicken with its head cut off.”
“Sounds like me you’re describing.”
She smiled. “My mother says hello, Nick.”
“How is she?”
“Fine. Still in the same dump. Soon as we solve this one, I’m getting her out of there.”
“She kind of likes it there, I thought.”
“That’s a load of crap. She
thinks
she does. I tried to get her to move in here with me, but she’s stubborn. Doesn’t want to impose.” She shook her head. “I guarantee you I’m getting her out of there soon. I don’t care if I’ve got to tie her up and carry her out myself, I’ll do it.”
Nick nodded and said nothing. He remembered how things were. Alex’s mother still lived in Spanish Harlem and worked long hours in a garment house in downtown Manhattan. He knew Alex still sent her a portion of every check she made.
“I really want this case, Nick.”
“You and me both. But we’re up against the big boys here, Alex. I bet we’re not the only ones who bribed that attorney. We’ve got a shot, but don’t go booking any cruises.”
“Hell with the cruises. I’d love to buy my mom a house, get her out of that hellhole.”
“You can buy her a castle if we solve it.”
“She already lives in a dungeon.” She leaned forward toward him. “You know what’s strange? Why’s a guy who’s worth twenty-two million living in Hudson? There’s no way I’d live there if I had that kind of money.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Nick, sitting up in bed. “Hudson isn’t some well-to-do community, is it?”
“Not really. It’s kind of changing. All these ritzy antique shops have cropped up on the main strip, so you
have all these yuppy types coming in to shop on the weekends. But overall it’s still an old town with a lot of crime and unemployment.”
“It doesn’t add up. Take it a step further, though. Where’d he get all this money? As a glassworker? I don’t think so. Unless we’re talking about fourteen-karat glass. Maybe he was a jewelry broker.”
“Maybe he won the lottery.”
“Can we check?”
She shrugged. “There must be some sort of a state lottery headquarters. I don’t know if they’ll release any information, though.”
“Worth a shot,” said Nick, lying back down. “About the only thing we can conclude about the old man so far is that he was a big-time loner. If he’s got family, none of them seem to care about him very much. Either that or they’ve just lost contact with him.”
Alex failed to stifle a yawn. “So what’s the plan in the morning?”
“I’ll be up at six. I want to see Jacobs’s neighborhood, take a look at his house. How about I go talk to his neighbors and you go visit that woman Bonnie?”
“Sure. I hope my PI’s reliable. He said he would have that address by seven.”
“Call him by seven-fifteen if we don’t hear from him.”
“Yes, master. Anything else?”
“Sure. How about finishing that massage?”
“Your masseuse is worn out.” She mussed his hair with her hand and got up. “Close your eyes and pray for some heirs.”
Nick watched her legs appreciatively as she walked from the room. He clicked the nightstand light off and turned back to the ceiling. An eighty-seven-year-old dead man stared down at him in the dark.
Gerald Raymond Jacobs—who were you?
There was an incongruity here, this pairing of a seemingly
humble immigrant worker and an eight-figure fortune. Something odd was buried in his grave.
Castleton awoke at 5
A.M.
In recent years, he had allowed himself to sleep in until six-thirty, but the appearance of the Jacobs case mandated a return to the old ways. In the office at 6
A.M.
to review the current probates. And today there was only one.
Richard Borg could read it in Castleton’s face. Borg was a former Detroit police officer whose yearnings for private investigation had driven him to General Inquiry some twenty-one years earlier. As Castleton’s chief researcher and senior associate, he was the one Castleton sought out when his brilliant mind was stymied. And today Borg could see the tension. Even during the million-dollar Luchetti case in Italy several years ago, Castleton had remained at his usual ease. The old man had his game face on now.
“What do we have, Richard?” Castleton asked sharply.
Borg hoped his news would loosen him up. “It’s looking like the old guy was never married in the States. We’ve checked the marriage indexes in forty-eight states, as well as Puerto Rico and Guam. Nothing. I’m still waiting for responses from my Delaware and Wyoming people. What I’m really anxious for is a callback from our man in the Federal Immigration Archives.”
“Jacobs was an immigrant?”
“Looks that way. Immigrants from the twenties and thirties who came to America alone and unmarried statistically had very low marriage rates once they were here. This matches with Jacobs. Once we get our hands on the immigration record, we’ll have an English port of departure. Then our people in the UK will do the genealogy.”
Castleton twirled the hairs of his mustache thoughtfully.
“When are Lake and Risso due to arrive in New York?”
“They’re already there. This morning they’re approaching the neighbors.” He reached over his desk and found a paper. “Here’s the obituary.”
Castleton took it and read. “Not much here.”
“That’s good. Merchant must be pretty lost right about now.”
Castleton walked silently to the third-floor windows, his arms folded behind his back. “So are we certain no other companies are on this?”
“I know that Hogue and McClain aren’t. If they don’t know about it, I doubt anybody else would. I checked up on Merchant’s office. His secretary says he’s out of town.”
“He’s in New York already.”
“He’s in way over his head, Lawrence. Jacobs is looking like one tough nut. No wife, no children, no family stepping forward. I guarantee Merchant isn’t finding much.”
Castleton had his chin buried in his hand as he paced in front of Borg. “Sounds like we’re dealing with an alias.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. We’ll know soon.”
“Omar Morales was an alias. Somehow Merchant found that out before we did.” He stopped and looked at Borg for a response.
“I don’t see any parallels besides that. Lawrence, Merchant doesn’t have some special knack for uncovering fake identities. You said yourself he got damn lucky with Morales. I can think of at least a dozen other cases involving aliases which we landed. Where was he for those?”
“He can’t get that lucky again.”
“He doesn’t have people in England. That’s where this is going.”
Castleton rubbed his chin and looked thoroughly sour. “Once Lake and Risso talk to the neighbors, I want one of them to follow Merchant. We need to know what he’s up to.”
“Follow
him? Jesus, Lawrence—”
“Don’t fight me, Richard. I’m not taking any chances here. We know where his partner Moreno lives in Albany, right? I want a tail on that son of a bitch today.”
Borg nodded and reached for the phone.
Blue sky had suddenly torn a hole in the gray morning clouds of Albany. A thick-bearded, middle-aged man sat in Washington Park with his hands deep in his coat pockets. He smoked a cigarette and watched disapprovingly as an old woman tossed handfuls of seeds to an army of pigeons. He couldn’t stand the flying rats, and he hated people who treated them like pets. He was angry that he had to sit and watch this disgusting display, but he had agreed upon the arrangement.
His name was Kragen, and he had driven all the way from his home in Brooklyn Heights for this special early morning meeting. His contact had told him to be at the park at 6
A.M.
and to wait on the bench nearest the lake. He thought the cloak-and-dagger stuff was unnecessary, but it amused him in an irritating kind of way, and as long as money factored into the equation he would of course play along.
At ten minutes past the hour, a figure holding a briefcase walked casually toward him along the paved walkway by the lake. Kragen straightened up a bit on the bench and purposely looked away from the approaching stranger. Just an innocent early morning stroller, he thought—to anyone else’s eyes. He flicked his burning cigarette butt away and waited. He wasn’t particularly nervous, but something about this group always made him feel strangely tense. His gun was in his coat. You never knew.
The visitor reached him and sat on the opposite side of the wooden bench. Several seconds passed before the new arrival spoke.
“We have something else for you.”
Kragen nodded and looked at his shoes. The two of
them watched the pigeon woman dump the remains of her paper bag at her feet as a hundred gray wings flapped about her. She stood muttering in the center of the mess, watching her babies eat.
“What is it?” asked Kragen. He knew the man was getting to that, but he was tiring of the dramatic pauses.
“Within the next day or so, the house in Hudson will be emptied. Everything will be loaded up and taken away. We want you to simply watch the house for a day or two until it’s cleared out. Send the same two men as before. Can you have them there by noon?”
“No problem. All you want them to do is watch the place?”
“That’s all.”
“Are you expecting anything unusual to happen?”
“No. It’s just a precaution. Just make sure it stays secure at all times.”
“No problem.”
The man reached for the briefcase and opened it on his lap. He found a thick manila envelope and handed it to Kragen without looking. “As agreed upon. That’s for Hudson and the city job.”
Kragen didn’t bother to count it. As weird as these characters were, they had always been reliable when it came to payday.
The man stood. Kragen looked up at him and studied the spectacled, bland face. He wasn’t intimidated, but something about these people was just plain spooky.
“Have them there by noon.”
“You got it, buddy.”
The man nodded stiffly and walked away down the concrete. When he disappeared from sight, Kragen got up and walked back through the silent trees to his car.