Collision(57)

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.”