The Heir Hunter by Chris Larsgaard Page B

knew this was wrong, wrong, wrong. He thought of his father and wondered if he could see him right then, see his only son drifting to the other side of the law. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t too certain old Bill Merchant wouldn’t be doing the same damn thing.
    The surrounding houses were silent and dark as Nick approached the front walkway of the Jacobs home. Before second thoughts could surface, he cut to his left and quickly moved up the walkway leading to the front porch. Boards creaked loudly as he gingerly stepped to the door. He crouched down like a soldier in a foxhole, temporarily sheltered from enemy eyes. The bushes adorning the front garden were effective allies; their shadows were covering him like a shroud. He was thankful the old man hadn’t made use of the hedge clippers.
    He grabbed the cold hard steel of the crowbar, feeling the solid weight of it in his hands. Before he could think too much, he turned to the door. He felt the doorknob, and with the full force of his weight, wedged the crowbar firmly between the door frame and the knob. He bent the door outward, knowing he could snap it from its hingequickly, but noise was the concern. He would need to lean against the crowbar and slowly increase the pressure.
    “Dammit—”
    The wood was creaking in protest, flexing to its limits. With an ear-splitting crack, wood fragments exploded outward. The door creaked open. Nick cursed and ducked in quickly, pushing the door shut. With no bolt to hold it, the door swung slightly inward. He reached into the darkness and grabbed what felt like a coffee table, propping it up against the door. He placed the crowbar to the floor gently and peered through the peephole. Another light in the house directly across the street had flickered on. He reached for the radio.
    “Alex . . .”
    The response came instantly.
    “Are you in?”
    “Yes. We’re home free. Watch for cops. I’ll be out as soon as possible.”
    “The house across the street lit up—”
    “I know. Just watch for cops. Toughest part’s over.”
    “Just hurry up, Nick . . .”
    Nick stared into the inky blackness. For better or worse, he was in. He had gained his entrance relatively easily, but that didn’t mean some nosy neighbor wasn’t reaching for a phone. He strained his eyes and glanced around the living room.
    Where to start, dammit, where to start?
    The house was almost completely black. He reached for his penlight and shot a laser beam of light around the room. The beam was weak, but he could still see the lavishness with which the old man had surrounded himself. A dust-coated crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a thick Oriental rug covered the floor. To the left, elegant nineteenth-century gilt chairs with burgundy upholstery surrounded a stately antique dining table. A heavy gold-framed mirror hung directly behind the table, and the walls were covered with imposing works of art with elaborategilded frames. He ran a gloved hand down the surface of one, feeling the rough texture on his fingers. It felt authentic.
    Uncertain where to begin, he turned and promptly slammed his shin on a table. Stifling a curse, he grabbed two books that lay on the table and examined them. One was a biography of Chopin, the other an illustrated translation of Dante’s
Inferno.
Finding nothing between the pages, he placed them aside and scanned the living room with the penlight. A grand piano stood in the corner like a casket.
    Moving through the living room and into the hallway, Nick gazed up a long flight of stairs leading upward. People usually kept their personal mementos hidden away in their bedrooms; it would be a good place to start. He was about to head up when his eye caught a tiny flashing from the hallway. He approached the rapidly flashing light and quickly saw what it was. The answering machine’s message light was flashing like a pinball machine. Odd, he thought—a recluse getting that many calls. He pointed the light on