Darwin's Blade (34 page)

Syd still looked puzzled. “But both the CHP investigator and our people knew that Willis wasn't belted in,” she said.

Dar lifted a transcript. “His secretary said in an interview that Willis always belted up. He told her more than once that he'd seen too many cripples and highway KIAs.”

“But he was drunk that night,” said Syd.

“Legally, but certainly not falling-down stupid drunk,” said Trudy. “Not drunk enough to mistake reverse gear for drive, or his accelerator for a brake pedal. Plus, even when you're drunk, you do things out of habit. He would have buckled up even if it took him two or three fumbles.”

Syd rubbed her chin. “But I still don't see the significance of the passenger-seat airbag deploying.”

“There had to be weight on the passenger seat for the airbag sensor to deploy that airbag,” said Lawrence, looking at the photo of the crushed interior and the single deflated airbag.

“During the fall he must have fallen over against that seat,” Syd said, saw the fault in the statement, and immediately added, “No…”

“Right,” said Dar. “During the fall from the cliff, Mr. Willis was in free-fall with the rest of the Camry. He wasn't buckled in, so he was essentially levitating…floating above the seat like a shuttle astronaut in orbit…”

“No weight on the seat, so the sensor doesn't deploy the airbag,” said Lawrence. “Not even during the terrible impact on the boulders.”

“But the airbag
did
deploy,” mused Syd.

“On the passenger side,” said Trudy with a grim smile. “But not during the impact with the sea rocks…”

“The wooden fence,” said Syd, getting the entire picture now. “But if Mr. Willis was in the passenger seat when the Camry hit the flimsy fence doing just thirty-five miles an hour as the CHP analyzed…”

“Why didn't the driver's-side airbag deploy?” Dar finished for her. “Someone had to be driving. Unless…”

“Unless the driver bailed out before the impact with the fence,” said Syd, speaking to herself. “Someone rapped Willis on the head, knowing that the injuries would not be sorted out from the traumas of the fall, propped him on the passenger side, drove the Camry at the little wooden barrier, then jumped out on the grass just before the car hit the fence, knowing that the Camry would keep going to the cliff's edge.”

“So the driver's airbag didn't deploy during the initial impact with the wooden barrier because the sensors knew that there was no one on the driver's seat,” said Lawrence. “The same reason the driver's-side bag didn't deploy during the impact with the rocks below. It's not just because Willis was in free-fall as the other investigators reasoned; he was floating around on the passenger side.”

“But he was ejected through the driver's side of the missing windshield,” said Syd.

Dar nodded. “I'll have to do a computerized graphic reenactment, but the ballistics math looks consistent with the initial impact of the left front of the Camry on the boulder. Because of the principal-direction-of-force vector, the occupant—not belted in, airbag already deflated—would have been launched tangentially across and out, passing over the hood on the driver's side. Whereas if the passenger-side airbag had deployed on impact with the rocks…”

“He probably would have been pinned in the wreckage,” said Syd, seeing the whole thing now.

“Which explains why the Camry's driver-side door hit the rock up above before going over the cliff edge,” said Trudy. “It wasn't Willis trying to get out. The door was just still swinging open after the murderer jumped out on the grassy berm before the impact with the wooden railing.”

Syd was looking at the grisly photos. “Those arrogant bastards. They're so arrogant they're just stupid.”

Syd's cell phone rang. She got up from the table as she answered, listened, then came back to the table. She was sheet white. Even her lips were bloodless. She grasped the table edge and literally dropped into her chair. Her hands were trembling. Dar and Lawrence leaned closer. Trudy hurried out to get a glass of water for the investigator.

“What?” said Dar.

“Tom Santana and the three FBI agents who went undercover with him,” said Syd, forcing out each word. “That was Special Agent Warren. The CHP found…all four bodies…crammed into the trunk of an abandoned Pontiac just half an hour ago.” She took the glass of water from Trudy and sipped it with shaking hands.

“How…” began Dar.

“All four shot twice by a rifle,” said Syd, her voice steadier but her face still pale. “One head shot or one heart shot each—probably medium range.”

“Good Christ,” said Lawrence. “Who in his right mind shoots three FBI agents and a State Fraud Division investigator?”

“No one in his right mind,” said Dar.

“Those miserable, arrogant fucks,” said Syd, her hand shaking again, the water in the glass spilling. Dar knew that now the shaking was from pure fury. “But now we know who tipped Trace and his shooters,” she said.

“Who?” said Trudy.

There were tears in Sydney Olson's eyes, but she actually attempted a smile. “Come to my task force meeting tomorrow morning at eight,” she said, her voice a whisper. “You'll find out then.”

S
yd's Thursday morning task force gathering was one of the more efficient meetings that Dar could ever remember attending.

She'd insisted on leaving immediately after the call the previous afternoon. Dar had agreed to stay for dinner, but before he ate, he walked the perimeter to make sure they were safe from snipers. He thought that they were. The Stewarts' sprawling home was on a steep hillside above the road, with open pasture and then a dense woods below them to the south. It was more than 800 yards to the tree line, and even from there, the angle was very bad for a shooter. The only way people in the house would be visible to the south would be if they walked far out on the overhanging patio, and the three of them had already discussed the inadvisability of doing that. The house was set lower than the street to the north, but there the houses were tightly packed and heavily landscaped, the traffic brisk on the street outside—and Larry and Trudy had adequate security on their doors and shutters on their north-facing windows—so that offered no opportunity for a sniper.

Still, after dinner, Dar had driven around the neighborhood at twilight, making sure that everything looked and felt right, before heading home.

Nothing looked or felt right during the 8:00
A.M.
task force meeting. Syd herself looked exhausted, and the others all seemed sad or distracted or irritated for being gathered so early.

It was pretty much the same group as in the previous Friday's meeting—Syd, Poulsen, Special Agent Warren and another FBI man, and Bob Gauss, who had once been Santana's boss. Next to Warren sat Lieutenant Barr from LAPD Internal Affairs. Larry and Trudy sat to the right of Dar across the table from this group, Lieutenant Frank Hernandez and the CHP's Captain Sutton sat on Dar's left, and at the far end of the table was a new face—District Attorney William Restanzo. Restanzo looked every inch the blow-dried, white-haired, firm-jawed once and future politician he was.

Syd opened the meeting without preamble.

“You all know that four people working for this task force were murdered yesterday,” she said. “Investigator Tom Santana, Special Agent Don Garcia, Special Agent Bill Sanchez, and Special Agent in Charge Rita Foxworth. All four were lured to a remote place in the county—under pretext of training for swoop-and-squat accident fraud—and shot from concealment by a high-powered rifle.”

Syd paused and took a breath. “The details of the murders are not pertinent to this task force meeting and the investigation is ongoing under the supervision of Special Agent in Charge Warren.”

Detective Hernandez looked around the group. “If the details aren't pertinent, why were we summoned here, Investigator Olson?”

Syd met the officer's stare. “To arrest the person responsible for those murders,” she said.

No one spoke. Dar saw Lawrence shift slightly, and knew he was making his holster more accessible—perhaps unconsciously.

“We knew there was a leak from high up months ago,” continued Syd, “but it was Tom's idea to announce his going undercover to this group. We tapped the phones of most of you…”

Syd waited for protest, but there was just a general clenching of fists, squinting of eyes, and thinning of lips. No one spoke.

“And what did the wiretaps reveal?” Captain Sutton asked, his smoker's voice a rasp this morning.

“Nothing, directly,” said Syd. “The person who had been paid off must have suspected that he or she was under suspicion. There was no illegal activity heard or recorded under the wiretap surveillance authorized.”

“Then how…” began Hernandez.

“The person under surveillance avoided even local pay phones,” continued Syd, “which was wise, because pay phones near this suspect's apartment had been tapped. What the suspect
did
use was a special cell phone purchased by agents of the fraud Alliance and registered under a fictitious name. We believe there were several of these phones given to the suspect, to be used for emergency contacts.”

Syd unbuttoned her blazer and Dar could see the 9mm Sig-Sauer holstered on her belt. Then she turned toward the NICB attorney, Poulsen. “What you didn't think of, Jeanette, is that we wanted this person bad enough to follow all of the major suspects with cell-phone scanners.” Syd stabbed a button down on a tape recorder.

Poulsen's voice could be heard, static-lashed and tinny but quite recognizable: “Santana from Fraud Division and three FBI agents have gone undercover to make contact with your Helpers of the Helpless.”

A man's deep voice said something unintelligible.

“No, I don't know the agents' names,” came Poulsen's voice, “but it's two men and a woman and they should be coming into the country via the same coyote and contacting the Helpers at the same time Santana does. That's all I can tell you now.”

The man's voice rattled again, but this time the words “money” and “transfer” and “usual amount” could be heard.

Attorney Poulsen shot up out of her chair as if propelled by a huge spring. Her face was deep red and the cords stood out on her pretty neck. “I don't have to listen to this shit. This is nonsense. You can't get any real information to your fucking grand jury after six months, so now you're framing me with this…” She started striding past Syd toward the door. “You'll have to reach me through my attorney.”

Syd grabbed the taller woman by the arm, spun her around, and slammed Poulsen's upper body down onto the conference table while she pinned both arms behind her. Syd swept a pair of cuffs off her belt and had the woman handcuffed before Poulsen could lift her head from the table.

“You have the right to remain silent—” began Syd.

“Fuck you—” began Poulsen, but Syd grabbed a hank of her hair and slammed her face back onto the tabletop.

“Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law,” continued Syd in a calm voice. “You have the right to an attorney…” She pulled Poulsen's handcuffed wrists high above and behind her, causing the woman to gasp and shut up.

“We'll take over here, Chief Investigator,” said Warren. He and the FBI man next to him each took the now-weeping Poulsen by an arm and led her out of the room, still reading the NICB attorney her rights.

When the door was closed behind them, Syd wiped her hands on her linen slacks as if they were dirty. “We've traced one hundred and fifteen thousand dollars transferred to a secret account that Attorney Poulsen set up eight months ago,” she said.

Syd's voice had stayed steady during all of this, but now she paused long enough to draw a breath. “Our regular task force meeting will be held a week from tomorrow. District Attorney Restanzo has agreed to join the task force and will be present at our next meeting. I hope to be able to announce some real developments by then.”

Syd looked around the table. “Some of you knew Investigator Santana—I've known him and been close friends with him, his wife, Mary, and their two children for four years. Tom's funeral will be held tomorrow, ten
A.M.
, in Los Angeles, at the Trinity Catholic Church in Northridge, just off Reseda Boulevard near the State University campus. We'll let you know about the arrangements for Special Agents Garcia, Sanchez, and Foxworth.”

During Santana's funeral, Dar realized that he had not been in a Catholic church since the funeral for David and Barbara.

Afterward, people milled in the sunlight outside the church for a while. There would be a private graveside ceremony, and Syd asked if she could talk to Dar afterward. Dar nodded, seeing his dark suit and glinting sunglasses reflected in her dark glasses. She had not cried during the funeral, nor when she'd hugged and spoken to Mary Santana and the two children.

“Name a place and time,” said Dar.

“Lawrence and Trudy want us at the Esposito accident site by four for a demonstration,” said Syd. “After that? Your condo?”

“I'll be there.”

Lawrence's cell phone rang as Dar and the adjuster drove back to San Diego in the newly repaired NSX. “Bingo,” said Lawrence.

“One of the photos?” said Dar.

“Yep. I showed them to the few guys who were working the construction site that Sunday—not Vargas, the foreman, he didn't want to cooperate, but to the other guys—and two of them made a positive ID. They each saw this guy walking around with a hard hat. They hadn't recognized him, but figured he must be some contract laborer for that weekend.”

“One of the Russians?” asked Dar.

“No. The New Jersey ex-mafia guy, Tony Constanza.”

“Will they testify in court?”

“Who knows?” said Lawrence. “I didn't tell them that this was a murder case with ex-mafia hit men involved, I just showed them the pictures. If I knew what it was all about,
I
wouldn't testify.”

District Attorney Restanzo was standing on the construction site with three of his underlings, and none of them seemed very happy about getting their wing tips muddy. Two uniformed police officers had cordoned off the area around the scissors lift and were standing guard, holding the curious construction workers at bay, while Lieutenant Hernandez stood with arms folded. Trudy had the video cam set on a sturdy tripod. Lawrence was standing under the raised scissors lift precisely where Jorgé Murphy Esposito had been standing when he was killed. As during the original accident, there was a quarter ton of lumber on the massive lift bed thirty-six feet up.

Hernandez was explaining. “There's been controversy over whether this was an accident or should be added to the wrongful-death files already involved in this Alliance case. Mr. Stewart has the answer.” He gestured toward Lawrence, who nodded at Trudy. The red light on the camera came on.

Lawrence cleared his throat. “All right. We all know that autopsy evidence and circumstantial evidence surrounding the death of Attorney Esposito suggest that he could not have pulled the hydraulic screw loose on the pillar there and died as he did, in under two seconds, without the front of his torso being sprayed by hydraulic fluid. The coroner's photographs show clearly that only the cuffs of Mr. Esposito's trousers and the soles of his shoes were sprayed with the fluid. Several workers on the site here have identified photographs of a man they say was present on the Sunday Mr. Esposito died. That man is a certain Tony Constanza, a former mafia informer now in the employ of Attorney Dallas Trace.”

“I don't like the term ‘mafia,'” said District Attorney Restanzo. “Mafia equates with Italian and Sicilian and is a slur on a specific ethnic group. Everyone knows that the so-called Syndicate has long since moved away from dominance by any single ethnic group. We prefer the term ‘organized crime.' ”

“All right,” said Lawrence. “For the record, Mr. Tony Constanza used to be a member of that wing of the multiethnic, multiracial, equal-opportunity organized crime syndicate which, even today, is composed primarily of Sicilian- and Italian-Americans and is commonly known as the mafia.

“All right,” continued Lawrence, looking at the district attorney, “if you're going to prosecute this, you need proof that it was murder, not an accident. I'd like to show you that proof. I'm currently standing where Mr. Esposito was two seconds before this scissors lift lost all hydraulic pressure and collapsed on him, crushing him in the scissors' mechanism. Would anyone like to join me here while we reenact the accident?”

For a minute no one moved. Then Dar stepped under the platform next to Lawrence. He had no idea what his friend was up to, but he trusted his professionalism. Dar's black Bally shoes and the cuffs of his Armani suit trousers were getting splattered with mud, but that did not bother him. He knew how to spit-shine shoes.

“Mr. District Attorney, would you like to loosen and remove the hydraulic adjustment screw?” said Lawrence. The huge platform loomed thirty feet above his head…and above Dar's.

“It's muddy over there,” said Restanzo, who was obviously still pissed off at the mafia thing.

“I'll do it,” said Lieutenant Hernandez. He squished through the mud to a spot just outside the shadow of the platform, next to the main hydraulic post.

Lawrence paused as Syd Olson crossed the lot in a quick walk. “Sorry I'm late,” she said, a bit out of breath.

“We were just going to show how this works,” said Lawrence. “Lieutenant, would you please unscrew and remove the hydraulic adjustment screw?”

Dar flicked a glance at Lawrence. The two men were standing casually enough, arms folded, the mass of platform weight a palpable presence above them, but Dar was mentally figuring if he would have time to grab Larry and throw both of them out from under the falling scissors lift in time. It was a simple equation with a simple answer. No.

Hernandez shrugged and began turning the massive screw counterclockwise. It moved, there was a gurgle of hydraulic fluid, and the platform shifted six inches downward.

“Oh, shit,” said Hernandez, jumping away.

“All the way out, please,” said Lawrence.

The homicide lieutenant approached the post as if it were a live rattlesnake. Ever so gingerly he put his arm around it and touched the screw. He turned it another half notch. The platform seemed to quiver in anticipation of its massive collapse.

“All the way out, please,” repeated Lawrence.

The screw stopped turning. Hernandez leaned on the massive lug nut, changed hands, tried harder. Then he tried both hands.

“The fucking thing…excuse me, Mr. Restanzo…the thing won't budge.”

Lawrence walked over to the post and Dar followed, happy to be out of the death zone. Lawrence put his hand on the massive bolt and screw and waited for Trudy to zoom in.

“Mr. District Attorney, Chief Investigator Olson, Lieutenant Hernandez, gentlemen…this screw is in its regular setting, just as it was on the day that Attorney Jorgé Murphy Esposito died. There is no chance that Counselor Esposito removed the hydraulic screw by accident. As you've seen, the screw was designed to be adjusted slightly by hand, but beyond two turns, it requires at least a medium-sized wrench to be turned further. Basic engineering.”