Darwin's Blade (26 page)

Photos of some of these attorneys and doctors appeared in the pyramidal flowchart. Some of the attorneys were familiar, Esposito and the late Abraham Willis among them, but some of the others—Robert Armann, a former deputy district attorney now known as the most effective and popular member of the Beverly Hills City Council; Hanop Semerdjian, a respected civil rights attorney and spokesman for Southern California's Armenian community; and Harry Elmore, a former U.S.C. football hero who went on to medical school and then to open free clinics in the worst sections of San Diego and L.A.—were faces that everyone stared at in shocked silence.

“Is your task force blowing smoke here, Investigator Olson?” CHP Captain Tom Sutton asked bluntly. “This looks more like a grab for media attention than a serious investigation.”

Syd turned away from the screen and met the big CHP captain's gaze without showing any rancor. “It does seem that way, doesn't it, Tom? But it's real. We've had a grand jury sitting for three months and we're going to get indictments…all the way up to Mr. Dallas Trace.”

“Why are you telling us this now?” asked Frank Hernandez.

Syd turned off the projector and flipped on the overhead lights. She remained standing. “Because our investigation is moving into high gear and it will be on your turf, gentlemen. This is confidential information—”

“There are several ongoing investigations, and not just within the LAPD,” said Lieutenant Barr from Internal Affairs. “Any leaking of this information would be…most unfortunate.”

While the law enforcement officers glared at Lieutenant Barr, Syd said, “This…Alliance…backed up by Yaponchik, Zuker, and other muscle imported from the Russian
Organizatsiya
…is doing to the fraud business what the Colombians brought to drug sales more than twenty years ago in this country—serious organization, huge profits, and an almost unbelievable level of violence.”

“So what do you want from us?” asked Hernandez. “You've got the state resources behind you…as well as the NICB and FBI. What can we peons offer?”

“Liaison,” said Syd. “Communications when necessary. Access to forensic labs and personnel when speed and location demand a local response. Cooperation, so that we don't end up working against one another…or shooting at one another.”

Hernandez pulled a cigarette from a pack in his sport-coat pocket, glowered at the ubiquitous No Smoking sign near the door, and let the unlit cigarette dangle from his lip. “OK. What's your plan?”

“I'm going to be going undercover again,” said Tom Santana. “I'll create a cover story of being an illegal, get into the system via one of the medical centers, and check out the Helpers of the Helpless from the inside.”

Despite himself, Dar said, “Is that wise, Tom? After the publicity on your busts of the Asian gangs a few years ago…”

Santana smiled. His boss, Bob Gauss, said, “That's what I told him, Dr. Minor. But Tom thinks that hoodlums have a short memory. And because he's technically task force commander of FIST, I can't order him not to do it.”

Dar started to speak again but shut up instead. He looked at Sydney. She was looking at Santana and seemed to be worried, but she went on with the end of her briefing. “Tom will infiltrate the Helpers. We're trying to follow the Russian trail through the attempts on Dar Minor's life. Meanwhile, Dr. Minor and Mr. and Mrs. Stewart are going to loan us their expertise to prove that several of these fatal accidents were either staged or actual acts of murder. Their information, analysis, surveillance data, and accident reconstruction will flow through us to the NICB and then to the grand jury.”

A media cart in the corner held a TV monitor and VCR. Now Syd picked up a second remote control and turned on the monitor and rolled a video. She kept the sound muted. It was a tape of a recent airing of Dallas Trace's weekly CNN show,
Objection Sustained.

“Sometimes Trace tapes in New York,” said Sydney Olson, “but usually it's more convenient for him to broadcast from his office in L.A. Before this year is out, I want our people to walk in front of those cameras…while they're live…and arrest that supercilious son of a bitch. I want his TV series to end with him being led away in handcuffs.” She flicked the other remote and the computer projector showed the faces of the dead Gomez children on the screen while Dallas Trace's silent image laughed.

After the meeting, Dar wanted to talk to Syd, but she had a scheduled meeting with Poulsen and Warren, so he walked into the old courthouse part of the Justice Center with Lawrence and Trudy. Lawrence was still testifying at a liability claims trial that was starting in a few minutes, and Trudy needed to get back to the office in Escondido.

Before they parted ways, Dar said, “Are you guys sure you want to be part of this task force?”

“We already are,” said Lawrence. “We were involved in both the Esposito and Richard Kodiak investigations; we might as well keep going.”

“Plus the NICB is putting us on retainer,” Trudy said again.

“I'm surprised you changed your mind, though, Dar,” said Lawrence. “You've seen dead kids at accident scenes before.”

“More than I could count,” said Dar. “But that was no accident, and I can't just walk away from a multiple murder after I've seen the victims being set up.”

“I was talking to Tom Sutton,” said Trudy. “We're going to depose the truck driver of the car carrier later today, but they've already interviewed him pretty extensively. There were three swoop cars involved, but the driver didn't really get a look at any of the drivers or license tags. He was too busy trying to avoid the Gomez car ahead of him.”

“Three swoop cars?” said Dar. Rarely were there more than one or two swoop cars.

Trudy nodded. “Two to box in the truck. One to brake hard in front of the Gomezes. All the truck driver could remember about the cars blocking him was that they were American-made, possibly a Chevy to his right, that he thinks they were driven by white guys, and that the cars were at least ten years old.”

“They're almost certainly abandoned or chopped by now,” said Dar. “But if white guys were driving, it could be our Russians and not just the cappers or their stooges.”

“We'll give you a call later,” said Lawrence, and the three went their different ways.

Dar had things he had to do, but he found himself wandering the hallways of the Old Courthouse for a while, and considered “catching up on his soaps.” Syd would be free by 10:00
A.M.
Just then, he saw W.D.D. Du Bois, Stewart Investigations's attorney, coming quickly down the hall toward him. The man walked with a cane, but his stride was still brisk.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Dr. Minor,” said Du Bois. “You're precisely the man I wanted to see. We need to talk in private.” Du Bois led Dar to an empty witness waiting room and locked the door.

The lawyer sat at the end of the table and made a small ceremony of setting his cane, battered briefcase, and hat in place. Dar took a seat on Du Bois's left. “Am I in some sort of legal trouble?” asked Dar.

“Well, other than Dickweed still wanting to prosecute you on vehicular manslaughter, not that I know of,” said W.D.D. Du Bois. “But you are in danger, my friend.”

Dar waited.

“Before you join Investigator Olson's task force,” continued Du Bois, “I have to counsel you, Darwin—not only as your attorney but as your friend—that this is very dangerous business. Very dangerous.”

Dar tried not to show his surprise. Syd's meeting had not been over for more than twenty minutes—had word spread so quickly? So much for Internal Affairs Lieutenant Barr's dire warnings to everyone. Aloud Dar said, “The bastards have tried to kill me twice. What more can they do?”

“Succeed,” said Attorney Du Bois. The lawyer's heavily lined face usually showed merriment, or at least bemused irony, but the lines were grimly set today.

“Do you know something about this conspiracy that would help the task force?” asked Dar.

Du Bois slowly shook his head. “Remember, Darwin, I am also an agent of the court. If I knew specifics, I would have already approached the FBI or Ms. Olson. All I hear are rumors. But they are very persistent and ugly rumors.”

“And what do they say?” said Dar.

Du Bois locked his anxious brown-eyed gaze on Dar's. “They say that this is very, very serious and that these new cappers are deadly. They say that getting in their way is like crossing the old Colombian drug lords. They say that it is a new era in fraud in this country, and that the small businessman is being pushed out as sure as new Wal-Marts in an area will shut down the mom-and-pop hardware and dry-goods stores.”

“Shut down the way Attorney Esposito was shut down?” asked Dar.

Du Bois opened his lined and gnarled hands in an expressive gesture. “All the old rules no longer apply,” he said. “Or at least this is what I hear on the street.”

“All the more reason to nail these bastards,” said Dar.

Du Bois sighed, gathered his cane and briefcase, set his fedora on his head, and clamped his hand firmly on Dar's shoulder as the two stood. “Be very careful, Darwin. Very careful.”

Dar returned to Syd's main office just as her meeting with Poulsen and Warren was breaking up.

“Just the man we wanted to see,” said the FBI agent.

Dar was getting leery of this greeting.

“We were talking to Captain Hernandez earlier,” said Syd. “He was bitching about the San Diego police overtime involved in watching you twenty-four hours a day, and we were bitching about how poor the protection has been.”

Dar waited for the punch line.

“So the Bureau will be taking over the protective duties,” said Special Agent Warren, softly, but with authority. “We'll have at least a dozen people assigned to you full-time, so the protection will be both more intense yet much more subtle.”

“No,” said Dar. Syd, Jeanette Poulsen, and Jim Warren looked at him.

“The only condition for my continued involvement in this project,” said Dar, speaking directly to Sydney, “is that we drop the twenty-four-hour protection stuff. I want you to call off all the bodyguards. Agreed?”

“You didn't say that there would be conditions to your joining the task force,” said Syd.

“There are now. Just that one,” said Dar. “Nonnegotiable.”

Warren shook his head. “You're going to have to trust us on this, Dr. Minor. We're experts at witness protection and—”

“No,” said Dar. “I'm serious about this. If we're going to work together, I need as much freedom as the rest of you. Besides, we all know that no number of bodyguards can protect against a talented sniper or someone willing to trade his life for the kill.”

There was a silence. Finally Syd said, “We'll have to honor that…demand, Dar. But only because we realize that what you say is essentially true. Who was it—President Kennedy, wasn't it—who said, ‘If the twentieth century has taught us anything, it's that anyone can be killed.' ”

“Not Kennedy…” said Jim Warren.

“Michael Corleone…” continued Dar.

“In
Godfather Two,
” finished the FBI man.

“God, you men and the
Godfather
movies,” said Jeanette Poulsen. “That movie a few years ago…whatchamacallit…with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks was right. You guys think everything in the universe can be summed up by dialogue from the three
Godfather
movies.”

“Just the first two,” said Dar.

“The third one was a mess,” said Warren.

“Didn't count,” said Dar.

“We pretend it was never made,” said Warren.

“Are you two finished?” asked Syd. “Or do you have any other pertinent dialogue from the first two
Godfather
s for this situation?”

Dar ran his hand through his short hair so it spiked up a bit and put on his best, husky Al Pacino voice and arm gestures. “Just when I thought I was
out,
they pull me back
in.
”

“Hey,” said the NICB woman, “no fair. That's from
Godfather III.
”

“That line is exempt from the rule,” said Special Agent Warren.

“Good-bye, boys,” said Syd.

“Notice how they can call us boys but it's literally a federal offense if we call them girls?” Dar asked the FBI man.

Warren sighed. “I just make it a practice never to call a female wearing a Sig nine-millimeter semiauto on her hip ‘girl.'” He glanced at his watch. “You want to catch some lunch together, Dr. Minor? I hear there's a great Kansas City–type barbecue place near here.”

“There is and I would,” said Dar. He waved good-bye to the two women standing there like elementary teachers with their arms crossed in mature disapproval.

“Hey,” said the perfectly groomed, soft-spoken Special Agent Warren in a good imitation of Fat Clemenza's voice. “Leave the gun—bring the cannoli.”

D
owntown San Diego was already emptying out in a lemming rush for the suburbs by the time Dar finished his lunch with the FBI man.

At one point, Warren said, “The Bureau will do anything it can to help you.”

“I'd like to have copies of all the dossiers available on Pavel Zuker and Gregor Yaponchik,” said Dar. “Not just FBI files, but CIA, NSA, Interpol, Mossad, NDA—any that are out there.”

Warren looked dubious. “I doubt if I could get clearance to show you even the Bureau's limited files. What makes you think we could come up with Israeli documents?”

Dar answered him with silence and a poker face.

“Why would a civilian need this stuff?” asked Warren.

“The only civilian who would need it is the civilian who's been attacked twice by these two Russian gentlemen,” Dar said softly. “That information might keep the aforementioned civilian alive, rather than dead.”

The special agent looked like he had swallowed an olive pit, but he eventually nodded. “All right,” he said. “I'll try to get you copies of whatever is available.”

“Great,” said Dar.

“Anything else you'd like?” said Warren lightly. “A helicopter, perhaps…or access to some of the different agencies' spy satellites?”

“Sure,” said Dar, “but what I really want is the loan of a McMillan M1987R.”

Special Agent Warren laughed good-naturedly before realizing that Dar was serious. “It's impossible.”

“It's important,” said Dar.

“It's illegal for a civilian even to own one,” said Warren.

“I don't want to
own
one,” Dar said patiently. “Just borrow one.”

They ended the lunch with Warren still shaking his head. “I'll try for the files, but the McMillan…”

“Or its equivalent,” said Dar.

“No chance of that whatsoever,” said Warren.

Dar shrugged. He gave the special agent his card with all of his phone, fax, and e-mail numbers on it; he even scribbled in the cabin number that he had given to no one but Larry and Syd. “Let me know about the files as soon as possible,” he said. He did not offer to pick up the check.

Leaving the metro area in his Land Cruiser, Dar called Trudy. “What's the most recent word on the Esposito investigation?”

“Thanks to you and the ME, it's being listed as a probable homicide,” she said. “I interviewed the architect—the one who was talking to the foreman, Vargas?—and he's willing to testify that he and Vargas were very focused on referring to blueprints for several minutes right at the time of the accident…or murder.”

“So someone had time to keep Esposito under the lift—probably at gunpoint—and pull the hydraulic plug without being seen,” said Dar. “Interesting.”

“Both the LAPD and San Diego detectives are hunting for Paulie Satchel…the claimant who was supposed to have been meeting Esposito there.”

“Good,” said Dar. “I hope they find him before this string of accidents continues in his direction.”

“You don't think that Paulie was the one who killed Esposito?”

“Nope,” said Dar, relaxing as the traffic stopped completely. He checked in his mirror. The same car had been following him since he left the Justice Center. He would have been alarmed, but he recognized Syd's Taurus and her mop of blonde-brown hair. For a chief investigator, she did a lousy job of covert surveillance. “I know Paulie,” said Dar. “He's a small-time liability claimant…he's had more disability claims than most people have had head colds. He's not the hit man.”

“If you say so,” replied Trudy. “I'll keep you informed. Is your phone going to be on?”

“Later,” said Dar. “Right now I'm going shopping.”

Dar's shopping was more efficient than Syd's surreptitious tailing. He stopped at a downtown Sears and bought an inexpensive but rugged sewing machine. He drove to an army surplus store that catered to hunters and bought three old two-piece sets of camouflage fatigues and a wide-brimmed boonie hat. He also found a mosquito-netting rig for his head and shoulders—“strong enough to keep out Alaskan 'skeeters,” said the clerk, a one-eyed Vietnam vet, “but fine-mesh enough to keep out the fucking black flies.” He had to try two more outdoors stores before finding the larger netting he needed in the quantity he required.

Dar had to go to several fabric stores and another outdoor store before finding all the tough canvas and hessian and burlap fabric he wanted in the colors he needed. He had the last fabric store he visited cut the canvas into patch-sized segments, and the rolls of dun-colored fabric into literally hundreds of irregular strips and bits. At one point he had four clerks and the manager cutting and ripping and slicing. The woman who ran the store looked at him as if he were crazy, but she took his money.

Carrying the huge bags of fabric fragments back to his truck, Dar paused when Syd got out of her car, parked in the same lot, and walked over to him. “I give up,” she said. “I don't have the faintest, foggiest, fucking idea what you're doing.”

“Good,” said Dar.

“Will you tell me?”

“Sure,” said Dar, unlocking his truck and dropping the bags in. “I'm making a ghillie suit.”

Syd shook her head. “What's that?”

“You'll have to look it up, Investigator. Are you going to keep following me?”

Syd bit her lip. “Dar, I know you don't like it, but I feel responsible for—”

“Fuck ‘responsible,' ” said Dar softly. “You've got a job to do and so do I. Neither one of us is going to get it done if you're following me all the time.”

Syd hesitated. Dar touched her bare forearm. “Let's not work against one another,” he said. “My best bet for staying alive is if you succeed in putting Dallas Trace and his shooters away quickly. Let's do that.”

Syd nodded but said, “Will you answer one question for me?”

“Sure,” said Dar, “if you'll give me an honest response to a question in return.”

“All right,” said Syd. “Where are you going to be tonight…this weekend?”

“I'm driving up to the cabin from here,” said Dar, “but not staying the night. I'll drive back to the condo late. As for this weekend…well, I may go camping on Sunday and take a day or two off.”

“Camping,” Syd said dubiously.

“Sort of,” said Dar.

“Will your phone be on while you're…camping?”

“No,” said Dar. “But I promise you one thing, Investigator. I'll be someplace where neither Dallas Trace nor any of his minions would think to hunt for me.”

“Minions,” said Syd softly. “All right. I'll get off your tail. For now.”

“My turn,” said Dar. He looked around. They were alone in the parking lot. The evening shadows were getting longer. “What was that charade of a meeting this morning?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You know damned well what I mean,” said Dar, with no anger in his voice. He leaned against his Land Cruiser and waited.

“There have been serious leaks,” said Syd, “during the past month. We're certain that Trace and the others in the Alliance are getting our plans even before we put them in motion.”

“The grand jury?” said Dar.

Syd shook her head. “This is operational stuff. It's being passed along by someone in the task force or someone privy to much of our information. So I had today's meeting and we'll be instigating some phone taps.”

“On Hernandez or Sutton?” said Dar, surprised. “Unless you suspect Lawrence and Trudy and me and are going to tap our phones as well.”

“Nope,” said Syd. “This stuff was being leaked long before you and the Stewarts got involved.”

“Are you tapping Special Agent Warren's lines as well?”

Syd made a face. “The Bureau's doing the tapping, moron.”

“Typical,” said Dar. Then, in a more serious voice, “I can't believe that your friend Santana's going back undercover and that you both let the information out when you
know
there's a leak.”

Syd frowned. “My ‘friend' Santana knows what he's doing, Dar. We mentioned it deliberately. He knows that there's a good chance of his being made even if there weren't a leak. The official story is that he'll be operating alone, but actually there will be three Latino agents going in as illegals at the same time.”

“Fraud Division?” asked Dar.

“FBI,” said Syd. “We're into the major leagues now. Tom knows exactly what he's doing and he'll make sure that his back is covered. Why does your voice get funny every time you talk about Santana?”

Dar said nothing.

The traffic was very heavy on Interstate 8 headed east, San Diego breathing out its week's worth of tired day workers. Dar kept the windows closed, the air-conditioning on, and played a CD of Bernstein's Berlin recording of the
“Freiheit”
Ninth while he relaxed. The traffic was much less dense on Highway 79 headed north and no one had exited the interstate behind him. He had not seen Syd's Taurus during the commute, and as far as he could tell, no one else was following.

The shadows were growing longer and merging as he drove up to his cabin. He checked his usual little telltales to make sure that no one had come through the front door since he had last left, and then he let himself in and locked the door behind him.

From the outside, there was no hint that the cabin had a basement: no basement windows, no outside entrance. But it did. Dar rolled back the red Persian rug on the far side of his bed, found the faint seam in the floor, opened it, and used another key to unlatch the trapdoor. The basement light went on automatically as the door was lifted and latched in place.

Dar went down the steep ladder and shivered slightly in the cave-coolness of the narrow corridor. There was nothing in this cement-block hallway except the steel door at the end. This required two keys to open and Dar fumbled for the second one.

The room beyond was only a third the size of the huge living space upstairs, but it was large enough for Dar's purposes. He had to snap on the lights here, but once they were on, there were no shadows in the neatly arranged stacks of boxes, crates, shelves, and drawers. The temperature in this room was regulated and the air dehumidified. The cinder-block walls were lined on the inside by a contained-asbestos layer and a thin wall of aluminum. The room was essentially a large safe-deposit box, safe from fire, tornado, or distant nuclear blast. Dar smiled at the irony of how much this rarely visited room had cost him.

On the far wall was a padlocked grille that opened to an oversized air shaft. It ran 122 feet to the abandoned mine shaft of a gold mine more than a century old; the mine shaft itself ran another 208 feet to its small opening in the steep gully. The shaft ended more than a hundred meters east of the sheep wagon. This air shaft—padlocked on both ends—had cost Dar almost as much to dig and install as it had to build the entire rest of the house.

He walked the narrow path between the storage boxes. As always, he glanced at his “go bag”—the black suitcase that had always been packed and ready when he worked for the NTSB. As always, without his thinking about it, his hand passed over the large green crate that held all of Barbara's clothes, all of their photographs from that time, and David's baby clothes. As always, Dar did not open the crate.

There was an unconcealed wall safe at the rear of the room, and Dar turned the dial quickly. He knew it was foolish to use David's birth-date numerals as his combination, but anyone who had come this far wouldn't be deterred by a mere combination lock.

It was a large safe, deep, with several metal shelves holding documents and computer disks and photographs. Dar ignored these and pulled out a walnut box with a carrying handle.

He closed the safe, set the thin walnut box on top of a crate, and clicked it open. Inside, laid carefully in green felt with sections packed in Cosmoline-filled plastic wrap, was a disassembled M40 Sniper Rifle—a military version of the classic, bolt-action Remington 700 sporting rifle.

Dar ran his fingers over the wooden stock of the rifle and then removed the 3–9 variable-power Redfield Accu-Range telescopic sight from its creche. He glanced once through the sight and then set it back in its place. He was clicking shut the locks on the carrying case when he heard a distant but loud banging from upstairs.

Dar took the gun case with him as he left, locked the storeroom, and climbed the steep ladder. Someone was banging loudly at the front door. Dar secured the trapdoor and the carpet, considered assembling the rifle as the banging at the door became a pounding, but kept the gun case closed as he peered out the front window.

Dar sighed, slid the gun case onto a lower shelf of books, and went to open the door.

“Are you all right?” asked Syd. She was holding her nine-millimeter Sig Pro in her right hand. All that banging on the door had been with just her left hand. Her knuckles on that hand were red.

“Sure,” said Dar, standing aside so she could come in.

“Then why didn't you answer the door?”

“I was in the bathroom,” said Dar.

“No you weren't,” said Syd. “I walked around and peeked in that window. I couldn't see you anywhere.”

Dar knew that the trapdoor, even locked open, was out of the line of sight of any of the windows. “Two hours ago you said you wouldn't follow me,” said Dar. “Now you're peeking in my bathroom window.”

Syd's face was flushed. It grew redder as she reholstered the semi-automatic and pulled her linen jacket closed. “I didn't follow you. I tried to call your cell phone, but it wasn't on. I tried to call your cabin number, but you didn't answer.”

“I just got here a few minutes ago,” said Dar. “What's happened? Is something wrong?”