After another minute, the truck’s engine roared to life, moved forward out of the bay.
Escape was escape. But this was humiliation, running, losing to a nobody like Ben Forsberg. As he bounced in the darkness, he imagined Ben’s face gaping in terror, dying slow on his knife’s point, screaming like the cowards in the Belfast basement. The bloodied smile seemed tattooed on Jackie’s face.
25
Bob Taggart’s den appeared to be a bizarre hybrid of a gun show and a used bookstore. Tall bookshelves covered one wall, jammed full with tattered paperbacks and battered hardcovers. Another wall featured a collection of antique firearms mixed in with newer guns. Bright yellow squares of Post-it notes lay beneath several of the mounted guns. Vochek could see notes penciled on the squares of color. The handwriting was as precise as the characters of a typewriter. Stacks of books towered from the floor, volumes on history and weaponry and guns.
“I’m working on a book on firearms,” Bob Taggart said. “I’m on the ninth draft of my outline. I’m being very methodical in how I approach my work.”
“I admire that,” she said. She leaned closer, looked at the guns. A French pistol from 1878. A German revolver from 1915. A police special from Prohibition-era Chicago.
“If they could talk,” he said. “Other than spitting bullets.”
“We’d be out of our jobs.”
He laughed, a rich, warm sound. Taggart was a short man, heavyset, with a silver burr of hair cut into a retro flattop. He had a warm and ingratiating smile. He had his hands behind his back and he rocked on the balls of his feet, beaming at his guns. Vochek gave his fingers a quick inspection as he pointed out the beauty of an antique firearm from Prussia: no wedding ring. She wondered if maybe Mom would like Taggart, wondered if he ever made his way to Houston.
“You truly have quite a collection,” Vochek said.
“I’m mindful about my purchases. I research them. I’m careful and methodical.”
She wondered if he was preemptively defending his work on the Emily Forsberg case before she asked a single question. He offered her iced tea, she accepted, and he got them their drinks. He settled into a recliner; she sat on the couch across from him.
“I’m not sure how I can help you,” he said. “The lead investigators were in Maui. I only did questioning here of people in Dallas in support of the Hawaiian investigation. Everything on the murder was in the file. The case remains open.”
“But cold.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re the closest, so I’m talking to you first, but I’m sure we’ll be talking with the investigators in Maui as well. I read the file. You were, indeed, very methodical and careful.”
Taggart shrugged. “Not that I made much of a difference for Emily Forsberg.”
She heard bitterness under his words. “I’d just like your impressions on the case. You can get so much more from talking to an investigating officer than simply reading the file.”
“You get all my prejudices and theories.” He smiled.
“I’ll take those,” she said.
“And this is because you want to find Ben Forsberg.”
“Yes. We found a link between Forsberg and a known hired killer. I want to find out how strong the link is and how long ago it was forged.”
“You mean, did he use a hired killer to get rid of his wife?”
“Yes.”
Taggart frowned. “I suppose anything is possible.”
“What did you think of Ben?”
“As a suspect or a person?”
“Both.”
“I did not talk with him until he returned to Dallas. So, you understand, I did not see him in the immediate aftermath of his wife’s death, which is when you can learn the most about a suspect’s emotional reaction to the crime. He’d had a few days to compose himself, to deal with the shock of her death. He was… There’s a phrase I used in my career. Devastated but dignified.”
“He does have a reserve about him,” she said.
“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.”