The Heir Hunter (34 page)

He glanced over at Jessica. She was leaning forward in her seat, appreciating the sights in spite of herself. Despite the revelations of the flight, he felt the air had been cleared. Her defenses, strangely enough, seemed a bit lowered, and he was hopeful they would get along better now. They had to. Their agenda the next twenty-four hours required it.

The taxi moved along the northern edge of Lake Geneva and entered the city center. For a bustling financial center, it was hardly what Nick had expected. No glass
and chrome towers in sight, just beautifully restored old buildings, Gothic structures with wooden shutters and sharply pointed spires. Fashionably dressed pedestrians filled colorful outdoor cafes lining spotless streets. This was a financial center utterly different from New York City and San Francisco; a business mecca of quiet confidence, of hidden fortunes in underground vaults, of forgotten secrets. Nick was eager to get started.

He consulted his tourist guide. He had used Michael Collier’s line of credit to book them a room at the Beau Rivage, one of the finer hotels in Geneva and a minute’s cab ride from the banks on the Place Bel-Air. Nick scanned the inside of the hotel approvingly as they registered. With its dark wood paneling and tasteful furnishings, it reflected Old World elegance, understated and comfortable. The staff seemed unobtrusive but attentive.

Their room was as nice as he had expected for the money. It was elaborately decorated with a fireplace and a sweeping view of the lakefront. The snow-flecked peaks of the Alps were visible from the window. Jessica lingered by the sill and seemed to be quietly admiring the view.

“It’s three o’clock,” Nick said, finding the phone directory. “We have plenty of time to get to your bank before closing time. First I need to fax something from the hotel lobby, though.”

“What are you sending?”

“I’ve arranged for a local PI to do address checks on some people we may be visiting later today if we have time. I need to get him the list of names I want checked.”

He walked behind her and gazed down at the water. The lake was dark blue and had lost its glare beneath a suddenly overcast sky.

“The hotel is wonderful,” she said, turning back to the room.

“Compared to what we’re used to. Too bad we’re not here to enjoy the sights. You ready?”

Her nod was a bit hesitant.

“Let’s just move along quickly,” Nick said, approaching her. “I prefer if we stick to the side streets, where there’s less foot traffic. The less people we come across, the better. We’re probably safe here, but no sense in taking crazy risks.”

He held the door for her and silently considered the absurdity of his statement. The entire trip was a crazy risk. What was even scarier was the utter lack of a contingency plan. If they walked away from Geneva empty-handed, he couldn’t see anywhere else left to turn.

The weather was not unlike a typical summer day in western San Francisco. A gray-white sky, so thick and choked with clouds that it took an extra moment just to find the sun. The air was a pleasant seventy degrees, but it felt colder because of the breeze coming down from the mountains.

They caught a taxi and were taken over the river to the south side of the lake. Jessica was questioning their latest driver about every monument they passed, and he was more than happy to play tour guide as they crossed the final bridge over the Rhone River. They reached the Rue de Rhone and went east along the river until reaching the Place Bel-Air. Nick paid the driver, and then they were just another two faces among the crowd on the boulevard. The cobblestone street was teeming with pedestrians browsing back and forth between the boutiques and outdoor cafes, and the two of them passed through the crowds, quickly finding the safety of an adjoining side street.

The bank of Hahn and Konauer was actually behind the Place Bel-Air, about three hundred yards from the river. It was a small yet secure looking two-story building sandwiched between an art store and a bakery. The first-floor windows were tinted and allowed no view inside. A gold-plated doorbell button was inlaid into the door
frame. If not for the bronze address number, Nick would have seen no indication at all that this was indeed their bank.

“Here we are,” he said. “I think.”

Jessica backed up several steps into the street and surveyed the building. It looked as if it could house any of a hundred different businesses, and a bank wouldn’t even be on the list. Nick stepped forward and pressed the doorbell. He glanced at her and could see his own tension mirrored in her face.

After a moment, the door swung inward with a shrill buzz. Nick stepped to the side and let Jessica enter first. A man in slacks and a white button-down was waiting. Nick noticed the pistol at his side.

“May I help you?” he asked, his French accent thick.

Nick answered, “We’d like to view the contents of a security box held here.”

The man studied the two of them briefly before turning to a desk behind him. He picked up a phone and continued to watch them.

Nick glanced around. This still looked nothing like a bank. It was one room with a desk and a narrow carpeted corridor leading to another door. The walls were white and completely bare. The property looked vacant.

The guard replaced the phone. “Do you have the certificate to the box?”

Jessica handed the letter of authorization to him. He scrutinized it closely, holding it up to the light to check for watermarks. He handed it back to her with a frown.

“Come with me.”

He led them down a corridor to a heavy metal door and slid a card through a sensor. Through the door a carpeted stairway ascended to what Nick assumed was the main floor, a larger room equipped with four heavy oak desks sporting computer monitors. Several impressive paintings hung on the walls, and some large potted plants added a touch of life.

They were directed to a black leather couch and barely had time to sit before a young woman in a fashionable business suit emerged from a rear office. Nick guessed she was no older than her mid-twenties.

“Hello,” she said, extending her hand to them. “I am Bernadine Konauer, acting director.” She looked them both over. “You wish to view the contents of a vault box?”

“Yes, we do,” replied Jessica, extending the letter and her identification.

“But I’ve a question first,” said Nick, guiding Jessica’s hand down.

The woman gave him a curious look, as if he had just breached some unspoken rule of etiquette. “A question?”

“Right.” He took the paper from Jessica and handed it to the banker. “This certificate was signed by Eric Konauer—”

“My father, yes. He is cofounder of the bank.”

“I’d like to ask him some questions regarding the account.”

“My father is out of the country,” she replied, somewhat sharply. “What exactly would you like to know?” She read the owner’s name from the certificate. “Monica Von Rohr is the owner. Her personal account information would be confidential.”

“Can you tell us when the account was opened?”

“That I can allow,” she said, taking several steps toward a desk.

“One other thing, Ms. Konauer,” said Nick, removing a small piece of paper from his wallet. “We’ve come to Geneva on behalf of my uncle who’s just passed away in the United States. We’re aware that he very recently had a number of accounts with your bank. We’d like to gain ownership through right of inheritance. The only problem here is that we don’t know if the accounts still exist. Could you please check these account numbers and tell me?”

“If these accounts aren’t under your name, I can tell you very little. We maintain full customer confidentiality.”

“And I respect that,” replied Nick patiently. “But please try and see our problem. We’re about to open a very time-consuming court procedure back in the United States that we wouldn’t even have to bother with if we knew that the accounts were gone. All we want to know is if they still exist. I have the numbers here with me.”

She took the paper, her frown widening. “Eight accounts your uncle had with us.”

“Yes, he did. Uncle Ludwig always felt his money was safe here.”

She studied Nick’s face to detect sarcasm but found only a smile. She was suspicious, and Nick knew he needed to be careful. This wasn’t like the American banks, where a customer tantrum would ensure a sympathetic talk with the manager. Getting upset here might get them thrown out, and that couldn’t be allowed to happen.

“Give me a moment,” she finally said, turning back to the desk.

Nick clasped his hands together and waited. From the assortment taken from Jacob’s garage, he and Alex had actually counted nineteen accounts with Hahn and Konauer. He hoped these eight would provide an indicative sampling of the total.

Jessica had returned to the couch. Nick gave her a look of reassurance as he listened to Bernadine Konauer’s fingers skim over the keyboard. He wished he had brought more account numbers.

He took a seat on the edge of the couch, clasping his hands together. Konauer was frowning at the monitor screen as her fingers pecked at the keys. Nick licked a finger and rubbed out a scuff on the tip of his shoe. He glanced back up as Konauer suddenly muttered something to herself. The banker’s eyes were wide, an expression of surprise spreading on her face.

“Find anything?” Nick asked, rising from the couch.

“I’ll need to access your uncle’s records from my office,” Konauer stammered, walking to a rear suite and abruptly shutting the door behind her.

Nick turned and gave Jessica a puzzled look. “Did I miss something?”

“She seemed a little . . . funny,” commented Jessica.

“More than a little,” said Nick, walking around to view the desk Konauer had just vacated. She had cleared the monitor screen. He was tempted to tap in some numbers himself but didn’t want to push his luck.

Jessica stood. “Is something wrong?”

Nick strode around the office and glanced down the stairs. From what he could see, Konauer and the guard were the only employees present. He took a slow breath and told himself to relax. He was in Geneva, not San Francisco. The Swiss were known for unconventional banking. Relax.

He returned to the couch and motioned for Jessica to sit.

Ten minutes passed slowly.

The sudden buzzing at the front door was so loud Nick felt it through the soles of his shoes. Konauer’s door instantly opened, and the banker took a single hesitant step out into view. Coming up the stairs, the dull thud of footsteps on carpet.

The policeman was short and rather slight, but there was a confidence in his stride. He said a quick word in French to Konauer, who responded with a nod.

“I am inspector Philippe Bourdier,” he said, approaching Nick. “And you are?”

“Michael Collier,” replied Nick.

“Your name?” asked the policeman, turning to Jessica.

“Jessica Von Rohr.”

The policeman gestured to Konauer’s suite. “May we speak in private?”

Nick paused, then arched an eyebrow at Jessica. Now
this, he knew, was
not
normal, even for the Swiss. He noticed the armed guard who had gained them entrance downstairs was now standing watchfully at the top of the stairs.

He followed Jessica inside the office. The inspector shut the door and waited for them to take seats before speaking.

“You are here on behalf of your uncle?” he said to Nick.

“That’s correct.”

“Your mother is the named owner of an account here?” he asked Jessica.

“Yes, she is,” confirmed Jessica. “She’s deceased.”

“Is this the only account she held with this bank?”

Nick had tired of the interrogation. “Is there a problem here?”

“Yes,” replied Bourdier succinctly. He crossed his arms on his chest and began to pace slowly in front of them. “I have been notified by the bank proprietor of your inquiries into these accounts. The accounts to which you make a claim appear on a list the police have built over the last several months.”

“What kind of list?”

“A list of marked accounts.” He stopped pacing and faced them. “Your bank accounts, as well as a number of other accounts, are being used as evidence in a vast fraud investigation now being conducted by the Swiss police.”

The policeman purposely paused to read both of their faces, looking for a telltale twitch or quiver of guilt. Nick kept his face calm, knowing well the techniques of police interviews.

“Fraud,” he replied thoughtfully. “Have you spoken with the bank owner?”

“Monsieur Konauer has left the country under—shall I say—suspicious circumstances.”

“You should probably speak with his daughter, then.”

“She has been cooperative,” Bourdier replied ambiguously.

“We just want to see the contents of a bank box,” said Jessica. “We don’t know about any fraud.”

Bourdier leaned against the wall and crossed his arms on his chest. “The accounts you’ve asked about have all been illegally emptied. Every one of them.” He looked casually at his fingernails. “Are either of you familiar with someone named Otto Kranzhoffer?”

Nick swallowed. Bourdier was laying a trap now, and he wasn’t about to place his head in its jaws.

“No, I’m not,” he replied, rather innocently.

The inspector looked to Jessica.

“I’ve never heard of him,” she said.

Bourdier locked eyes with Nick. He let the room simmer for a moment before pushing away from the wall and opening the office door.

“Please wait in the lobby.”

Nick nodded at Jessica, and they stepped outside. Bourdier motioned both Konauer and the guard over, and the three of them entered the suite to speak in private.

Nick immediately moved for Jessica. Their opportunity wouldn’t last long.

“Come on,” he whispered, taking her hand and pulling her along.

They quickly padded down the stairs. Nick was relieved to see that another guard hadn’t assumed front door duty. He pushed the door bar and looked out into sunlight. Another police officer, probably Bourdier’s partner, was happily chatting with a citizen.

“Walk,” said Nick, tugging Jessica along in the opposite direction. “Casually.”

They reached the end of the alley in seconds. Nick whisked her around the corner and looked about the avenue. Plenty of people to lose themselves in, but luckily a cab was parked just down the street. They ran up to it and slid in.