“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.
20
Ben and Pilgrim found a chain motel, one so new the landscaping wasn’t finished. It sat near the LBJ Freeway that cut across the northern stretches of the city. Pilgrim paid cash for the room. He left the money and the rest of the gear, except for one cloth bag, in the back of the Volvo.
Pilgrim looked pale as they headed up the stairs.
“Are you all right?”
“My bandages. I might need you to rewrap them.”
“Okay,” Ben said. They went inside the room; it was clean and neat. Ben turned on the television and started hunting for a news channel; Pilgrim tossed the bag onto one of the twin beds. Pilgrim went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Ben found CNN. The deaths in Austin remained the lead story, his face still on the news, still being sought as a “person of interest.” But then a photo of Emily appeared on the screen, and his throat plummeted into his chest.
The reporter, with a perfectly arched eyebrow, said: “Forsberg’s past includes an unsolved murder-that of his
