Collision, page 22
“The more calculating murderers often do. But from what we found, he and Emily were very much in love, very happy. They’d met through their work, dated for two years, gotten engaged. Nothing to indicate trouble. No signs of abuse, or infidelity, no money worries. He carried no life insurance policy on her. They’d only been married a week.” He shrugged. “Plus- killing her on their honeymoon? If he didn’t want to marry her, he could have backed out a few days before. Usually people with doubts immediately after a wedding resign themselves to the marriage or start thinking annulment. But…”
“But.”
“They didn’t stay in a hotel. They rented a house in Lahaina. That was a bit unusual, and if he wanted her dead, then it was certainly easier to kill her in a house than in a crowded hotel. But she handled the arrangements; apparently renting the house was her idea-her mother confirmed that with me. Ben and Emily were together most of the time, obviously, it being a honeymoon. Their last morning there, he went to play golf with another honeymooning husband they’d met down on the beach-which gave him a good alibi-but he only played nine holes, not the eighteen he originally told Emily he would. If he planned the shooting and he didn’t want to be there when she was shot, he should have played the whole course.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, he could have taken a gun, gone up the hill, shot her dead. But he has no experience with firearms, and there was zero forensic evidence that he’d handled or fired a gun, or managed to acquire one while on Maui.”
“The police thought it was random.”
“Yes. Windows were shot out in two empty rental houses a half mile away, some empty car windows shot out near the airport. Bullets all matched. The shot into the Forsberg house was the final one. Ben had just left the golf course when the first shots were heard and reported-not enough time to get to the first scene. The timing weighed the inquest in his favor.”
“So several random shots and Emily Forsberg was just unlucky.”
Taggart shrugged. “An idiot kid drinking beer, probably, taking potshots. But damn, the bullet nailed her, square in the forehead.”
“A precise kill.” The kind of shot that a Nicky Lynch could make.
“Or an incredibly unlucky shot.”
“And no trace found of gun or gunman.”
“None.”
“What about Ben’s business? If he was involved in shady dealings, and she found out about it…”
Taggart shrugged. “Too much government contracting is shady-just my opinion-but we found no history of questionable business.”
“She worked for Hector Global.”
“Yes, she was a very senior accountant. Being groomed to be Sam Hector’s chief financial officer.” Taggart tented his fingers over his whiskey-barrel stomach. “Sam Hector delivered a eulogy at her service.” He stopped, opened his mouth again as if to speak, closed his jaw as though reconsidering. He tapped fingers on his chair’s arm.
Vochek raised her eyebrows.
He spoke slowly. “Maybe Ben wasn’t the shady dealer; maybe Sam Hector was.”
“You suspected him?”
“Careful and methodical, remember.” He risked a smile. “He was in Los Angeles and two contractors backed him up. But you know, he has his own plane. A Learjet Delta-5.” He paused again, gave her an enigmatic look. “It has the range to fly to Hawaii.”
“You think Hector could have flown to Maui, killed Emily, and come back? But there would be records of the flight.”
“This is a man who moves hired soldiers and equipment all over the world, sometimes in secret. If he wanted to get to Maui without attracting attention, I believe he could.” Taggart shrugged. “But he had no motive we could discern and he had an alibi.”
“Back to a dead end.”
“Tell me about this hired killer you mentioned.”
She took a photo from her purse and slid it to him. Taggart dug bifocals from his pocket, studied Nicky Lynch’s face.
“He looks like a barkeep.”
“He was a trained sniper.”
Taggart raised an eyebrow. He handed her back the photo of Nicky Lynch. “A sniper. I guess that explains it, then.”
“You don’t think Ben Forsberg hiring a killer is the tidy solution.”
“I…” He stopped and glanced at his watch. “It’s five o’clock somewhere. I would like a small glass of bourbon. Would you care for a drop?”
The sudden shift in his tone surprised her. His ruddy skin paled. She didn’t want one, but she sensed accepting his offer might loosen his tongue as much as the bourbon. “Yes, please, just a finger’s worth.”
He stood and fetched them each a measure of bourbon, handed her one of the crystal glasses, and sat back down in the recliner. “We’re miles off the record. You tell anyone I said this, and I’ll deny it.”
She allowed herself a tiny sip of bourbon. “Sure.”
He took a long, savoring sip of his drink. “Have you met Sam Hector yet?”
She shook her head.
He stood up and splashed more bourbon in his glass. “This is the part I won’t repeat. When I started digging at Sam Hector, I got leaned on hard. Avalanche hard. By my supervisor and by a suit from Washington. I was told Sam Hector was not a suspect, could not be a suspect, and did not merit further scrutiny. I asked why, because I do not like getting leaned on and I thought, he’s got big government connections, he’s just throwing his dic-pardon, his weight around. I mean, could you do something that looked more guilty?” He touched the fresh bourbon to his lips. “I got into police work for two reasons. My dad was a cop and I admired him more than anyone I ever knew. Second was, I have a basic problem with unfairness. I know that sounds naive but it’s the way God made me.”
She offered him an awkward smile. “I’m the same way.” She thought of the dead Afghan kids, cut down in their pajamas. She understood Taggart and thought he understood her. He would have made a far better partner in work than Kidwell. “But we live in an inherently unfair world.”
He shrugged. “I felt Sam Hector wasn’t making my corner of the world more fair. So I dug a bit and found that the suit from Washington who warned me off was a senior CIA official.”
She set down her glass. “Why would the CIA care about Sam Hector?”
“At first, I thought, well, maybe the CIA’s a big client of Hector’s, he seems to do work for every government agency. But the CIA protecting him is an inverse in the power relationship. If he’s in trouble because of a crime he committed, and they’ve hired him, they’re going to cut him loose.”
“But instead they back him.”
“So they warned me off, and I let myself be warned off. But I always wondered, why did the CIA not want me to dig at Hector? Why would the CIA be shielding him?”
She drove from Cedar Hill back into the heart of Dallas, headed north on Central Expressway, cut across Plano to the private air park, and let herself into the safe house. The pilot who’d flown her up from Austin had thoughtfully stocked the refrigerator with basics, and she made herself a salad and a sandwich. She hadn’t realized until the bourbon inched into her stomach that she was starving.
The phone rang. “Vochek,” she said.
“Delia Moon is dead,” Pritchard said.
The words hit like a hammer to her chest. “What? How?”
“A man matching Ben Forsberg’s description was seen driving at high speed from her neighborhood. A man in a Mercedes who was either chasing him or fleeing with him shot at a police officer who responded to a report of shots fired. A woman was checking out a house being built down the street and heard the shots and called the police.”
“Ben… killed Delia?”
“We don’t know yet. What the hell is going on, Vochek?”
She didn’t like the chiding tone in Pritchard’s voice. “This software that Adam Reynolds was developing, about searching financial databases-what has the team found on it?”
“Why do you ask?”
It was not the response she expected. “Because Delia was dodgy about a project he was working on, said it was a prototype. She didn’t want to describe it to me. She was worried we wouldn’t return his property.”
Silence for a moment. “He was working on a way to identify and track people using false identities via combining information from lots of different databases. At least that’s what an encoded prototype on the system appears to be. But he didn’t save any queries or results from the program-I’m not sure this program would even work. And we can’t test it, we don’t have access to all those different databases.”
Vochek said, “False identity. One you invent, or one you steal.” The competing charges on Ben’s credit card made more sense to her now- especially if someone had stolen Ben’s identity. “I want to know why you told me to stay away from Sam Hector.”
“He’s just a contractor. We’re under the gun to produce results here, Joanna. He has nothing to do with-”
“He knows Ben Forsberg. He might be of help in finding him.”
“He’s not going to give shelter or help to a fugitive. It would be career suicide.”
Vochek couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. “You’re the second government agency to be shielding Hector during a criminal investigation. Why?”
“I am hardly shielding him; I am keeping you focused on what matters, Joanna.”
“I want you to find out for me if Sam Hector is ex-CIA.”
“You want.”
“Please.”
“Well, he’s not. There’s an extensive government file on him. He’s ex-army. Not CIA.”
“Never mind what his file says.” She tempered her tone.
“Joanna. Leave it alone. Just find Randall Choate. That’s all that matters. Don’t get distracted.”
“If Hector is ex-CIA, don’t you think we should know that little fact?”
“Sleeping dogs,” Pritchard said. “But I can tell you won’t give this up, so fine. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Thank you, Margaret.” Vochek hung up. She had a sinking feeling that she’d opened a box best left sealed. Sam Hector was a powerful and respected man, but too many of the threads seemed to loop back toward him.
Vochek clicked on the television, found a twenty-four-hour Texas news channel, waited for an account of Delia’s murder to run.
Dead. Adam Reynolds, who had called Kidwell for help. Kidwell and the guards. Now Delia. The same awful sense of helplessness that she’d felt seeing the dead Afghan boys, cut down by a covert group, clenched her chest. No more, no more, no more.
She dug through the phone book and called Hector Global, argued her way up the chain to Sam Hector’s assistant.
“I’m very sorry, Agent Vochek,” the assistant said, “he’s not in today, and I doubt he’ll be in this weekend. We’ve had a real tragedy here…”
“I know. Tell him I was at the hotel when his men were killed. Ask Mr. Hector to call me at this number. I need to talk to him about Ben Forsberg.” She thanked the assistant for his help.
She went back to her unfinished dinner, ate the rest of the food without tasting it.
Leave it alone. Just find Randall Choate.
She was suddenly afraid of what else she might find.
26
Pilgrim pulled the stolen Volvo, now on its third set of license plates, into the parking lot of the apartment complex in east Dallas. In the backseat were two sacks of groceries. Food and sleep sounded like heaven.
He got out of the car. He had been careful in approaching the lot, trying to make sure he wasn’t being followed, making sure no hunter lurked in a car. No one in the Cellar knew about the apartment, the same as no one knew about the storage unit he’d loaded with guns and cash. It was his escape hatch, his hideaway. He spent most of his time in the wonderful constant anonymity of New York City, but this dump was his secret base for any job that brought him to the Southwest or Mexico or beyond. He paid for the apartment once a year, sent cash for the utilities. The complex was seedy and the landlord was only too happy to have a unit that he didn’t need to worry about dunning for rent.
He had not been here in months. Another large apartment complex next door had been razed, a bigger shopping center rising in its wake, just the shell of the building-steel beams and concrete floors-in place so far.
Pilgrim headed up the stairs. Sitting in front of his door was Ben. He held a gun between his raised knees, loosely, not aimed at Pilgrim. On his wrist Pilgrim could see the remnant of the plastic cuff. He was pale, shivering in pain, and Pilgrim saw dried blood on his hand. He could probably take him in three steps, knock the gun from his hand. But he wanted to hear what Ben had to say.
“Hello,” Pilgrim said. “I’m really surprised.”
“I’ll take that as an insult.”
Pilgrim shifted the bags in his grip.
“I do what I put my mind to,” Ben said.
“You didn’t bring the police with you.”
“Are you scared that I’m here?” A challenge rose in his voice.
“Scared. Of you.” Pilgrim set down the grocery bags. “How did you find me, Ben?”
“I got shot in the arm. You patch me up and I’ll tell you how I found you. And I’ll tell you exactly how Adam found you.”
“I’m suspicious you would trust me again.”
“I don’t trust you for a second. You screw me over, you screw yourself over.” A hard edge touched Ben’s gaze. “When Emily died, I was so frozen… it took me two minutes to call the police. Because her being dead couldn’t be true. I refused to see what was right before my eyes.”
“It’s called shock.”
“It’s called how I live. I saw a woman-completely innocent-die today. I can’t see that again, not after my wife. I can’t keep running. I want to take the fight back to these people. Whatever it takes.”
Pilgrim picked up the bags. “Come in and let’s get you cleaned up.”
Pilgrim disinfected and bandaged Ben’s arm as Ben gritted his teeth. “An expert shot Jackie made, to wound you.”
“Don’t compliment him.” Ben dry-swallowed four ibuprofen tablets. He sat still and then started to shake, the adrenaline easing out of him.
“So, Sherlock. How did you find me?”
“Bugs you, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t like security holes.”
“Your storage unit-slash-army depot. I figured if you had a storage unit near a major airport hub, you might also have an apartment close by. In case you needed to hide before you got on a plane, or you wanted to vanish for a few days without having to travel. It made sense to be close to your resources, as you call them. You didn’t want me to know about any residence you had since you were planning to dump me as soon as you were recovered enough from your injuries. So I went back to the storage facility office and they remembered I’d been there this morning, moving out boxes with you. I was asking about renting a unit myself, prices and such, and the very nice clerk was looking up units on their system to see what was available. She got a phone call, and when she turned to take it, I snuck a peek at their computer screen and typed in your unit number. It gave this address.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t recognize you from TV.”
“I wore a cap and I talked in a thick fake Boston accent. I didn’t even use the Sneeze and Hide.”
Pilgrim went into the narrow, compact kitchen. “Tell me how Adam found the Cellar.”
“No,” Ben said. “First you tell me what you found at Barker’s.”
“Ben, in your case, ignorance truly is bliss.”
“Wrong. Because if I know too much, you can’t abandon me again. Which means you’d have to kill me, and you won’t.”
“I killed seven people yesterday. I killed two more today. You’d make it an even number.” But he gave a crooked smile.
Ben pulled the small black sketchbook from his pocket. He tossed it to Pilgrim, who caught it one-handed and tucked it close to his chest. He then slid the sketchbook into his pocket.
“Thanks.” He turned back to the counter, started emptying the grocery sacks, heating the oven for frozen pizzas.
“You didn’t realize you’d lost your sketches.”
“I hope you like pepperoni.” Pilgrim checked the oven setting he’d fiddled with twenty seconds earlier.
“You dropped it when we fought in the bathroom.”
“I said thank you.”
“Who’s the kid in the drawings?” Ben asked.
Pilgrim slid two frozen pizzas into the oven.
“I know what it is to lose someone, Pilgrim. My wife was funny, and sharp-tongued, and brilliant, and loving, and hardworking. She drove me crazy, both good and bad. I’ve never been the same since she died. Not for a second.”
“Don’t give me that ‘she completed you’ shit.” Pilgrim slammed the oven door shut.
“Completed me? No. She would have laughed at sentimentality. But she made me a better man, in every way. And when she died… I can’t be better again. I don’t even know how to start. No one can fix it; I have to figure it out on my own.”
Pilgrim stood away from the oven; for a moment he thought of a little girl’s voice on a tinny cell phone call in a Jakarta bank, urging him home for her birthday. “You said you knew how Adam found the Cellar.”
“I said you first.”
Pilgrim told him about the attack at Barker’s house; that his own colleagues were now hunting him. He described Teach’s kidnapper, using the vague terms that De La Pena had provided. That Teach was being held in a house but that he did not know where the house was. That Barker had last called a hotel in New Orleans. “I spent this afternoon trying to track De La Pena and Green back to where they came from. There wasn’t a GPS in their rental car I could use to see where they’d come from. The rental car was in Green’s name, paid for by Sparta-”
“Your front company.”
“Yes. So it was paid for with Cellar funds. I made no headway. Does his description of the guy who’s giving Teach orders sound familiar?”
“He sounds like any number of guys who might be in this line of work,” Ben said slowly. The man did sound vaguely like Sam Hector-but fit older men would be a description for practically every suspect with a military background.
