Jeff Abbott - Collision

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.

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 wife, Emily Forsberg, two years ago.” Ben grabbed the remote and switched off the TV. No.

He missed Emily with a grief that made his body ache. Fragments of the past spun into his mind: glancing up the green spill of hill that backed to their rental house, seeing no one, in the moments after Emily died; the Hawaiian police telling him someone had shot out windows at four nearby properties that morning, so this was probably a random shooting, his life destroyed for no reason; Sam Hector speaking at Emily’s memorial, of her grace and her remarkable work ethic and her dignity; Ben finally leaving their home in Dallas, knowing he could not stay, crowded by memories of her, and yet believing that abandoning the house they’d shared would be a final betrayal.

Pilgrim came out of the bathroom, stopped in the doorway. “I need you to check the bandages.”

“Sure,” Ben said. He stepped inside the bathroom and a bracelet of plastic closed around his wrist.

“What the hell…” He struggled and fought, but Pilgrim shoved him hard to the tiles and had already closed the other side of the plastic restraint around the pipe on the bottom of the toilet.

“Sorry, Ben, it’s better this way.” Pilgrim stepped back, breathing hard.

“You son of a bitch.” Ben yanked hard; the pipe didn’t give. Panic surged in his chest. “You would be dead if I hadn’t helped you.”

“I’m protecting you. I don’t know what I’m going to find at Barker’s house. And it’s best that you stay out of the way.”

“Fine, I’ll stay here, just take the cuff off.”

“Ben… I can’t have you slowing me down. Or me not being able to count on you. I’m sorry. I’m sure your name will be cleared.”

Ben lashed a kick out at him and Pilgrim dodged. “You bastard, I need you to tell people you stole my name.”

“You’re safer in jail than you are with me.”

Ben yanked hard on the plastic handcuff. “Let me go.”

“Ben. Listen, you don’t want to go into the world I live in. It’s not an adventure, it’s a giant pain in the ass. It’s not for you. I’ll find out who set us up and I’ll make sure they pay. You’ll get bail. You’re an upright citizen.”

“You think I’m a coward? Well, you are.”