Collision (13 page)

18

His first morning as a fugitive. Ben was afraid the maid would come early to the room, or that the motel owners would see his face on CNN. This was a new kind of fear; it didn’t pass when you turned on the lights in the darkened room, or reassured yourself the midnight tap at the window was a tree branch, moved only by the wind. This fear stayed with you, it worked on your mind, it made every moment urgent.

At 7 A.M. Friday they left the hotel. Ben drove, heading north toward Dallas. Pilgrim wrote directions down on paper, told Ben, “This is where we go first in Dallas.” The
X
on the map was near the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. Pilgrim dozed fitfully in the back, still in pain, but his color was much better than the night before.

They got a bag of breakfast tacos at a stand in Lorena, south of Waco. Pilgrim woke and ate with a lion’s appetite, drank a giant bottle of juice. Ben swapped the license plates off the stolen Volvo with those of a Subaru parked close to the Baylor University campus in Waco. Ben did the work quickly, using a wrench he’d found in a miniature tool set in the back of the station wagon.

Now I’m a fugitive and a thief,
he thought,
and the day is still young.

“College students are slow to notice things like changed plates,” Pilgrim said. “I find it useful to steal plates from fraternity parking lots on weekends. Not to stereotype, but they’re too drunk.”

“It’s a Baptist school. Baylor kids are not supposed to drink,” Ben said.

“Then I hope they’re distracted by spiritual matters.” Pilgrim closed his eyes and slept again.

The traffic wasn’t heavy until they hit the southern suburbs of Dallas, a long trail of cars heading into downtown, and Pilgrim woke up.

“Questions for you,” Pilgrim said. “About Sam Hector.” He sounded stronger now, more alert. Ready to rumble. “How big’s his operation?”

“One of the biggest. Three thousand employees. Huge training complexes, one an hour east of Dallas, the other in Nevada. Most of his execs are former military, decorated officers. Security, training, software . . . if the government uses it, he sells it.” Ben gave a soft laugh. “Sam joked once about using that as a company motto.”

“And you worked with him for how long?”

“My wife, Emily, worked for Sam. That was how we met. She was an accountant in one of his divisions, he hired me to help him win new contracts. After she died, I left Dallas, I became a consultant and he kept me busy. His revenue’s grown five hundred percent since I’ve been working with him.”

“So you’re just a really good pimp,” Pilgrim said.

“Excuse me?”

“I read about some of those contracts these guys land. The government gets in a hurry—like when we invade Iraq—and they don’t take lots of competing bids.”

“Yeah, sometimes. There are huge time pressures to get the work done.”

“And these contracts, they have profit built in. No matter how bad the contractor screws up or goes over budget.”

“Well, these are often high-risk operations,” Ben said.

“News flash, Ben. Every business is a risk.”

“Not every business can get you killed. For about every four soldiers who die in Iraq, a contractor dies. They don’t get medals or military funerals or army benefits. They don’t get military hospitals. They don’t get a parade when they come home.”

Pilgrim was silent.

Ben couldn’t resist: “And I don’t think it’s bad a business makes a profit.”

“But
guaranteed
profit. How many regular companies are guaranteed a profit? Sort of takes quite a bit of the risk and the responsibility out of the equation.”

Ben returned his gaze to the road.

“I hit a nerve,” Pilgrim said.

“Sure, there are crooked contractors, people taking money for work they can’t or won’t do. But abuses happen any time millions of dollars are dangled.”

“But you’re not part of the problem, right, you’re part of the solution.”

“If you want to insult me, I can stick that bullet back in your shoulder. At high speed.”

“It might be interesting to see you try, Ben.”

“The reason contractors exist now is because of choices made by the governments we’ve elected,” Ben said. “People don’t want a draft. They don’t want a huge military. And they don’t seem to mind that gaps in military infrastructure are being filled by private companies. I don’t see protestors at my clients’ offices very often. These guys are making a good return on investment.”

“I doubt it’s a good investment for America,” Pilgrim said. “What if the fighting gets too tough? The contractors can quit; soldiers can’t.”

“That hasn’t happened.”

“Bullshit. Certain engineering firms pulled out of Iraq because they’re spending way too much on security. If that’s the Army Corps of Engineers doing the work, and the army providing the security, they have to stay. It’s called accountability.”

“Odd the interest in accountability, since you stole my name.”

“Given, not stolen. Back to Hector. Background?”

“Longtime military, worked as a liaison to officers of foreign armies, then went into security consulting.”

“Ah. So Mr. Hector lets the military spend a fortune training him, and instead of being a career officer, he takes that investment America made in him and goes private.”

“Being in the army isn’t an automatic lifetime enlistment.”

“But most people don’t profit in the millions when they chuck their dog tags.”

Ben frowned. “When Emily died . . . Sam Hector was a good friend to me. He paid me even when I wasn’t up to working. Steered contracts my way. Gave me my first work when I was ready to get back in the game . . . He’s a man of exceptional loyalty.”

“Loyalty. Then Sam Hector and I have something in common.” Pilgrim pulled a cell phone from his pocket, examined it, turned it on briefly, shut it off. “Barker called a cell phone owned by the hotel you were held at before all hell broke loose. The hotel owner is a company called McKeen. You know them?”

“No.”

“You ever heard of Blarney’s Steakhouse?”

Ben nodded. “There are a few in Dallas.”

“I’m interested in the one in Frisco. You eat there?”

“Once. It’s the original one in the chain.”

“I found a Blarney’s matchbook in the pocket of one of the gunmen. The construction signage indicated that a Blarney’s was going in at the Waterloo Arms.”

Ben tapped fingers on the steering wheel.

“There’s a connection there we need to understand.” Pilgrim tossed Barker’s phone to the floorboard, pulled another one out of his pocket. “This belongs to the lovely Agent Vochek.” He rolled the phone along his fingers. “If I turn the phone on they can trace it.”

Ben had a thought. “When I was arguing with them about the cell phone numbers you bought in my name, Vochek told Kidwell that Adam Reynolds made several phone calls to Dallas yesterday afternoon. She might have tried to call the same number.”

Pilgrim powered on the phone. He switched to the call log. “She called her mommy last. Nice girl.” He thumbed further down, read a number aloud, shut off the phone. “That’s the most recent Dallas phone number. Ah. There are two new voice mails. I bet they’re for me.” He hit the key that played the voice mail, held the phone so they could both hear it.

The first voice mail was a woman, sounding cautious. “Hi, Ms. Vochek . . . this is Delia Moon. You called and left a message for me. So I’m returning your call. You have my number.”

The second voice mail was Vochek asking for her phone back. Pilgrim switched off the phone. “I don’t think I want to call Ms. Vochek today.” He tucked the phone back into his pocket. “We need to know who this Delia Moon woman is. She might know who Adam was working for.”

“A lot of choices. What do we do first?”

Pilgrim considered. “Stick to the plan. We get resources. Then a base of operations.” He leaned down, pulled a wallet from his bag. “Then we go visit my friend Barker’s house and see if we can find out who turned him traitor.”

Pilgrim kept his “resources” in a nondescript, three-story air-conditioned storage facility. They walked under the regular, pulsing roar of departing flights from DFW as they went inside the building. They walked past a couple carrying a case of fine wine out of storage, past a mother and son retrieving a few boxes. Ben faked a sneeze to cover his face as they passed both groups. Pilgrim gave Ben’s attempt at camouflage an amused eye roll.

“Oh, man, that’s brilliant. The Sneeze and Hide. Let me borrow that technique.”

Ben felt his face redden.

Pilgrim, leaning down with a wince, opened the lock, not with a key— he didn’t keep one on him—but with the silvery needle of a lockpick. Ben stood fidgeting behind him, hoping no one would come into the hallway. Pilgrim stepped inside the unit and flicked on the light and Ben followed him, shutting the door behind them.

The unit held metal boxes. Pilgrim opened each one: an assortment of pistols and matching ammunition, a cache of identity papers: drivers’ licenses, passports. A laptop computer of recent manufacture. Thick bricks of American dollars.

Ben gaped at the armaments and the money. “My God. Where did you get all this?”

“Leftovers from Cellar jobs. Teach doesn’t know I have it. I thought it wise to have a stash in case I needed to run and hide someday.” Pilgrim opened and closed each container. “I don’t have a water gun, for you, Ben. Do you prefer a Glock or a Beretta?”

“I don’t want a gun.”

Pilgrim laughed and then winced at the pain in his shoulder. “You understand we’re in pretty goddamned dire straits, Ben. We are going to war with these people.”

“I’ve been thinking . . .”

“I thought I heard a clicking sound.” Pilgrim opened a pistol, eyed its innards.

“We get proof of whoever hired the gunmen, whoever hired Nicky Lynch, we give it to the police and we’re done.”

“You’ll be done. I won’t be.” Pilgrim inspected, cleaned, and oiled the guns, then showed Ben how to load, check, and unload each weapon. “Most important advice. Count your bullets. Always know how many you have in the clip.”

“I don’t plan on using large numbers of bullets. I patched you up, I’m not phoning the cops, I’m telling you what I know. But I’m not shooting anybody. I really don’t like guns very much.”

“I’ll make sure that’s mentioned in your eulogy next week.”

“No, I mean . . . I don’t want to.”

“You pointed a gun at me just last night.”

“I was in shock. I know I can’t shoot another human being.”

“I suspect you have stretches of your soul you’ve never really explored, Ben. Could you kill the person who killed your wife?”

Ben put the gun he was awkwardly holding—a Beretta 92 pistol—back in its case. “I kill him, I’m no better than he is.”

“I would think you’d consider the person who killed your wife to be pretty goddamned bad,” Pilgrim said. “True?”

“Yes.”

“I’d say he was absolute pond scum. But you, Saint Ben, you won’t lean down from your golden saddle on your moral high horse and kill him. News flash: We’re going to be dealing with people who are probably even less scummy but just as dangerous as your wife’s murderer is. I guess you’re planning to spare all the interesting people we’re gonna go meet. Golly fucking jeepers, Beaver, I feel better with you watching my back.”

Ben started to speak, stopped. “That isn’t what I meant.”

Pilgrim shrugged. “It’s what you said. Be honest with yourself, Ben: Do you have a spine? I deserve to know before we get in any deeper.”

Ben picked up the Beretta, set it down. “There are a lot of ways I can help you without being something I’m not.”

Pilgrim took the Beretta from Ben, loaded it, tucked it into his own waistband under his jacket. “We take money and the guns.” He turned away from Ben, and Ben knew he’d failed on a test, that Pilgrim thought him more an anchor than an asset. And that, Ben realized, was a very dangerous position.

19

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” Vochek folded her ID into its wallet. “Please accept my sympathies.”

“Thanks. Kind of you,” Delia Moon said, and the clear anger on her face seemed to retreat behind an expression of neutrality. She opened her front door wide, and Vochek stepped inside the cool of the foyer. The home was big, newly built, in a development in the booming suburb of Frisco. The surrounding lots were either empty, under construction, or had “FOR SALE” signs in their yard.

“I understand my supervisor at Homeland asked you to not speak with the media or discuss Adam’s case . . .”

Delia was taller than Vochek; she wore her thick dark hair pulled back in a hefty ponytail. She wore a batik print blouse of browns and blues and greens, faded jeans, sandals with turquoise stones on the straps. A night of tears had left her eyes puffed and red-lined. She had a gentle face; it wore anger awkwardly. “She so kindly broke news of Adam’s death to me. I barely slept last night. Would you like coffee while I yell at you?”

Vochek silently cursed Margaret Pritchard’s lack of finesse. “You can yell away and coffee sounds wonderful, thank you. Listen, my supervisor—”

“She told me I would be putting national security at risk if I talked to anyone. Not just police or press, but even our friends,” Delia said. The words fairly exploded out of her. “Sympathy and threats. I thought I was in a Mafia movie.” Delia went into a large, bright kitchen, Vochek following her. A warm smell of cinnamon coffee greeted her; a plate with rye toast, uneaten, lay on the black granite countertop.

“Ms. Pritchard didn’t handle this well, and I apologize,” Vochek said. “You have a lovely home.”

“Thanks.”

“I understand you’re a massage therapist.”

Delia poured Vochek her coffee, didn’t look at her. “Adam bought the house for me.”

“I wasn’t asking how you could afford—” Vochek began but then she saw the battle lines drawn in Delia’s eyes. Grief and Pritchard’s clumsy approach during this woman’s horrifying loss had hardened Delia against Vochek. She said: “If we’re going to catch the people responsible for Adam’s death, I need your help.”

“I understand.”

“We’re trying to determine what happened in the hours before his death. He tried to call you four times . . .”

“I turned my phone off,” Delia said, and emotion cracked the anger in her face. “I’d gone to the library, forgot to turn it back on.” Regret tinged her voice and Vochek wanted to say,
It didn’t matter, it wouldn’t have saved him if he’d managed to reach you.
But she couldn’t share details yet, even ones that might comfort, with this woman.

“We accessed his voice mail—he left you a message saying he might have to vanish for a few days. Do you know why?”

“No.” Delia refilled her own cup.

“But I take it if he bought you this house . . . ,” Vochek began, “you would be close.”

Delia set her coffee down, crossed her arms. “We met through friends here in Dallas. Adam does—did—most of his work in Austin, but he came to Dallas a lot. He grew up here, his mom’s in a nursing home here.” She cleared her throat. “Adam and me . . . it’s complicated. My life was a train wreck. I was in really heavy debt from school, I lost my job . . . he always made fantastic money, contracting for the government. He wanted to take care of me.”

“So you were a couple.”

“No, he wanted that . . . but I wasn’t ready.”

You were ready enough to let him buy you this very nice house,
Vochek thought.

Delia crossed her arms. “I loved Adam. He was my best friend. He said he was going to buy a house in Dallas as an investment, I could live here till I was ready to move to Austin. I just needed more time . . . to know that I loved him, more than a friend.” The words came in a spill.

Or to string him along,
Vochek thought. She felt sorry for Adam Reynolds, a guy who loved a girl who apparently didn’t love him back, at least enough, and kept his scant hopes alive. “Tell me what you know about his work.”

“You think a dumb charity case like me understands his work?” Delia raised an eyebrow.

Vochek thought:
I’ve got to refine my poker face.
“I’m sure you do. I’m equally sure your well-placed anger toward my boss won’t get in the way of your desire to see justice done for Adam.”

“Trust me, my only concern is justice for Adam,” she said, but a bitter undercurrent made Vochek believe she had a different view of justice. “He wrote lots of software for government agencies. Mostly about financial analysis. Detecting spending patterns, trends, tracing payments back to specific budgets, boring stuff.” Delia started wiping the spotless counter with a dishrag.

“Could he have found financial evidence of a crime? Is that why he said he’d have to vanish?”

“He never told me anything specific. I know he was working on a new project—something to do with querying financial information across multiple databases.”

Maybe he found a financial trail that led back to the secret group,
Vochek thought. “Was he doing this work for a government agency?”

Delia narrowed her gaze. “No, on his own. He wanted to make it into a product, sell it to the government. He thought the government would pay him millions for it. I don’t know what will happen to it now.” Her voice rose slightly on the last word.

“I suppose the ownership of it will pass to his heirs.”

“Heirs,” Delia said. “Adam doesn’t have any kids. His dad died when he was thirteen. His mom’s in a rest home, early-onset Alzheimer’s. It’s bad. I take care of her for him, make sure the home’s being good to her.” She pressed her palm to her forehead. “He never mentioned he had a will.”

“Did Adam ever mention a man named Ben Forsberg?”

“That’s the guy the cops are looking for. I saw his picture on TV.”

“Yes.”

“Adam mentioned a couple of days ago he was talking with a consultant named Forsberg who might help him get investors to start his new company. Was this guy working with the people that killed Adam?”

“I’m trying to find out.”

“Listen, I don’t care about the money Adam’s software might make . . . I just don’t want Adam’s work to be stopped. I mean, he was killed by a
sniper,
what the hell is that? He and the project must have been a threat to somebody powerful. Maybe someone in the government.”

“Tell me more about this new project. Because I haven’t heard of any notes, or software found on his system, that would be dangerous.” But then, she thought, she hadn’t gone through Adam’s stuff. Pritchard had had everything in Adam’s office seized and put under her control.

“Homeland Security has his project data, his prototype of the software,” Delia said slowly. “You’ve got the goods. You don’t need to ask me.”

“I can assure you his property won’t be stolen or misused.”

“I’m wondering if that’s why your boss put a choke hold on me. Because you’ve got his software and it’s valuable to Homeland?” Delia’s voice rose.

“Of course not. Our technical people will go through all the programs and files on his system, to see if we can find who might have targeted him, but nothing will be misappropriated. Really, Delia, do you think we’re robbers?”

“I don’t know what to think. Who to trust.”

“Then I’ll trust you. Adam contacted us about a serious threat. Maybe terrorism. That might be why he wanted to disappear for a while. Is there a place where he would go if he was in trouble? Maybe he kept details about this threat in a safe place.”

“He would come here.” She gestured at the lovely, mostly empty house.

“But if he wanted to keep you out of danger . . .”

“He never went anywhere. He lived for his work. He . . .” She stopped. “We drove to New Orleans a few times when we first met, with friends, and we love it. The people, the food, the music. Then this week he made an odd comment about it. We haven’t been since Katrina hit and he said he didn’t want to go anywhere near New Orleans, not anytime soon.”

Vochek frowned. “But he didn’t say why?”

“No.”

Vochek hesitated. Pritchard had warned her to stay clear of Hector Global, but there was no harm in a question, especially since Hector’s name had come up more than once. And Adam was a government contractor, too. “Did Adam ever mention a man named Sam Hector?”

Delia took a long sip of her coffee. “Sam Hector. Not a familiar name.”

“He owns a huge private security firm. Multimillion-dollar government contracts.”

Delia shrugged. “I’m sorry I’m not being of help. Adam didn’t tell me much about his work. It was technical, and I’m not . . . I’m afraid Adam knew computer theory was about a thousand feet above my head.” Her voice went raw.

“Did Adam say anything else unusual?”

“No. He was excited about how his work was progressing. I . . .” Delia stopped abruptly, like a weight had dropped on her. “I’ll call you if there’s anything else I can remember. I have your number from when you called yesterday.”

“I lost my cell phone.” Vochek wrote down her new number on a note-pad sitting on the kitchen counter.

“Can I tell his mother that he’s dead? She may not understand. But I can’t not tell her.”

“Of course. If there’s anything else you can tell me . . .”

“I don’t think so.” Delia folded Vochek’s note in half. “And I’d appreciate knowing when Adam’s body’s going to be released. I have a funeral to plan.”

She knows something,
Vochek thought.
But if you press her, she’ll just clam up more.

Find out the body’s disposition, that would earn a point. Vochek headed back to her car. Delia Moon, far from being the grieving girlfriend eager to help the investigation, was going to be a problem; Vochek was going to need warrants to find out more about Delia. She called Margaret Pritchard, left a message asking to be updated on what the computer team found on Adam’s computers and also when the body would be released for burial. She tried to call her stolen cell phone again. No response.

She paged through her file and found the name she wanted next. Bob Taggart, the police detective who had assisted the Maui police in investigating Emily Forsberg’s murder. He’d checked into Emily and Ben’s life in Dallas to see if a motive could be uncovered for Ben to kill his new wife. He lived south of Dallas, in the town of Cedar Hill. She called, explained why she wanted to talk to him, and Taggart told her she was welcome to visit him.

She pulled her car away from the curb and in the rearview mirror she saw Delia Moon watching her from a window. Then the curtain fell and Delia was gone.

Delia Moon stepped away from the front window. The day was cool and clear and the wind, gusting, sighed against the glass. The house felt like it was closing in on her, a crushing fist. Every corner seemed full of Adam, and she shuddered with grief. Delia could imagine what Agent Vochek thought of her, the flicker of dislike that the woman had tried to hide and failed, for the briefest moment.

Well, high-and-mighty Agent Vochek was wrong. She didn’t care that she might not be Adam’s heir. She wished she had loved him more, or at least loved him better. She did not have a copy of his software designs, but she knew he was nearly finished with a project that might be worth millions, and now Homeland Security had seized his intellectual property. Computer files could be copied and stolen. His project could be hijacked. Even if she never saw a cent, that money was rightfully Adam’s, and money that could help his mother with her exorbitant health care costs.

He’d bought Delia this house, helped her straighten out her chaotic life; she’d protect his interests now. Resolve filled her, like water flowing into a bottle.

Please tell me about his project,
Miss Judgmental had said. Not very likely, Delia thought; she wasn’t going to give away his trade secrets. If someone had killed Adam, he’d found someone he wasn’t supposed to find. Which meant his ideas worked.

She might need a lawyer to pry free his laptop, his papers, and his electronic files from Homeland Security.

She knew who to call. Because, yes, Adam had mentioned Sam Hector to her, as a man who was going to give him money to help develop his product. She found his name in Adam’s address book on the computer they shared when he was here in town, and found a number for Hector marked “direct private line.”

Delia Moon reached for the phone.