Darwin's Blade (8 page)

“All right,” the deputy DA said, and clicked off the TV image.

“That would confirm the Bureau's identification of the two men,” said the handsome man in the FBI haircut. “The Mercedes was stolen in Las Vegas two days ago. We have identified the two deceased occupants of the stolen vehicle as Russian nationals. The driver, Vasily Plavinksy, has been in the country for three months on a temporary visa. The other man—”

“The one who tried to kill my client with an automatic weapon,” interjected Attorney Du Bois smoothly.

The FBI man frowned. “The other man, also Russian, entered the country through New York just five days ago. His name is Kliment Ritko.”

“That might be an alias,” said Dar.

“Why do you say that?” asked the FBI special agent, his voice tinged with condescension. “In your deposition, you claimed you had never seen these two men before. Are you now saying that you have some personal knowledge of the identity of these two…ah…victims?”

“Would-be murderers,” said W.D.D. Du Bois instantly. “Hired killers.”

Dar said, “I just suggest it might be an alias because there was an infamous Russian painter named Kliment Ritko. His 1924 painting
Uprising
foretold Stalin's reign of terror. He even painted Lenin, Stalin, Trotsky, Bukharin, and the rest of the Bolshevik leaders against a blood-red background, surrounded by troops shooting defenseless people in the street.”

There was a full thirty seconds of silence—an embarrassed silence—as if Dar's display of pedantry had been equal to him jumping up and peeing on the table. Dar resolved to keep his mouth shut through the rest of the proceedings unless asked a direct question. He turned his head slightly and saw Sydney, whoever she was, give him a frank stare of appraisal.

“Let me introduce everyone at the table,” said the deputy DA quickly, trying to take control of the meeting again.

“Most of you know Special Agent James Warren, agent in charge of the San Diego branch of the Bureau. Captain Bill Reinhardt is LAPD, their liaison with Operation SouthCal Clean Sweep. Captain Frank Hernandez is from our own San Diego Police Department. Next to Captain Hernandez…and thanks for coming in today, Tom, on such short notice, I know you had a conference to attend in Vegas…is Captain Tom Sutton of the California Highway Patrol. Next to Tom is Sheriff Paul Fields from Riverside County, whose cooperation has been fantastic in this operation. Most of us know Sheriff Buzz McCall from right here in San Diego County. And at the end there…hi, Marlena…is Sheriff Marlena Schultz from Orange County.”

Deputy DA Weid took a breath and turned to his left.

“Some of you have met Robert…Bob, isn't it?…Bob Gauss from the State Division of Insurance Fraud. Welcome, Bob. Next to Bob is Washington-based attorney Jeanette Poulsen from the National Insurance Crime Bureau. To Ms. Poulsen's left is Bill Whitney from the California Department of Insurance. And beyond Bill is…ah…” Deputy DA Weid had to glance at his notes. It had been a flawless performance up to that point.

“Lester Greenspan,” said the rumpled, bureaucratic-looking man. “Chief attorney for the citizen's group Coalition Against Insurance Fraud. Also out of Washington, officially liaising with your Operation SouthCal Clean Sweep.”

Dar winced.
Liaising.

“Next to Mr. Greenspan is someone whom we all know and love,” said Deputy DA Weid, obviously intending to inject some energy and bonhomie into the sagging proceedings. “Our deservedly renowned and very lucky Los Angeles–based defense counselor W.D.D. Du Bois.”

“Thank you, Dickweed,” said Du Bois with a wide smile.

Weid blinked as if he had not heard correctly, and smiled back. “Ah…next to W.D.D.… most of you law enforcement people know these two…are Trudy and Larry Stewart of Stewart Investigations out of Escondido.”

“Lawrence,” said Lawrence.

“And beyond Larry there,” continued the Deputy DA, “is someone else whom a lot of us have met in the line of business, Mr. Darwin Minor, one of the best accident reconstruction specialists in the country and the driver of the black NSX we saw on the videotape. And at the end of the table—”

“Just a minute please, Dick,” said Riverside County's Sheriff Fields. He was an older man with gunslinger eyes, and when he turned his gaze on Dar, the effect was obviously meant to be both freezing and wilting. “That was the most reprehensible and cold-blooded example of vehicular homicide that I have ever seen.”

“Thanks,” said Dar, returning the sheriff's electric stare amp for amp. “Only
they
tried to kill me in cold blood. My blood was very, very warm when I drove them off the road—”

“Just a minute!” commanded Deputy DA Weid. “Let me finish. And at the end of the table, I'd like to introduce Ms. Sydney Olson, chief investigator for the state's attorney's office and currently the leader of the Organized Crime and Racketeering Task Force's Operation SouthCal Clean Sweep. Syd…you have the floor.”

“Thank you, Richard,” the chief investigator said, and smiled again.

Stockard Channing,
thought Dar.

“As most of you know,” said the chief investigator, “for the last three months, the state has been carrying out a major investigation—Operation SouthCal Clean Sweep—in an attempt to crack down on the startling rise in insurance fraud claims in this part of the state. We estimate that insurance fraud this year alone is costing Californians about seven point eight billion dollars—”

Several of the sheriffs whistled respectfully.

“—and is driving up insurance rates at least by twenty-five percent.”

“More like forty percent,” interjected Lester Greenspan from the Coalition Against Insurance Fraud.

Sydney Olson nodded. “I agree. I think the state's estimates are far too conservative. Especially after the last six months or so.”

Special Agent James Warren cleared his throat. “It should be noted that Operation SouthCal Clean Sweep is modeled after the Bureau's very successful 1995 Operation Clean Sweep in which we made more than one thousand arrests.”

And probably four convictions,
thought Dar.

“Thank you, Jim,” said Chief Investigator Olson. “You're right, of course. We're also basing our operation on Florida's probe, Crash for Cash, where state officials arrested one hundred and seventy-four suspects, many of whom were found working in a single ring linked to fake accidents.”

“Mostly slip-and-falls?” asked Trudy Stewart. “Or heavier stuff?”

“A lot of the suspects were repeat offenders on slip-and-falls,” said Sydney. “But the big catch was a Miami attorney and his son who headed up an organized ring. They staged more than one hundred and fifty auto crashes, paying low-income individuals to collide with each other on the Florida highways and then filing spurious claims against the insurers through collaborating chiropractors or their own law firms.”

“Nothin' new about that in Southern California,” said Riverside County's Sheriff Fields in his gunslinger drawl. “Deal with that almost every damned day. 'Bout one out of every eight or ten of the accidents on I-15 through our county is staged. Not a damned thing new.”

Chief Investigator Sydney Olson nodded in agreement. “Except for the fact that in the last few months there's been some sort of turf battle for control of organized insurance fraud.”

“Groups?” said Sheriff Fields, squinting suspiciously.

Deputy DA Weid spoke. “In Dade County, Florida, they discovered that it was largely the Colombians—the former drug runners—who were organizing the insurance fraud. We're running into the same thing with some of the organized Mexican or Mexican-American gangs in East L.A. and elsewhere.”

“Figures,” grumbled Sheriff Fields.

Captain Sutton of the CHP shook his head. “The majority of staged crashes aren't being headed up by our Latino gangs,” he said quietly. “They tried to get into the action and got their butts kicked. Quite a few top
hommes
in body bags.”

Sheriff Schultz from Orange County cleared her throat. “We've seen the same thing with organized Vietnamese crime. They want to dominate, but someone is muscling them out.”

Special Agent Warren said, “And whoever it is that's been most successful in this turf war is bringing in Russian and Chechnyan mafia enforcers…all along the West Coast, but especially down here.”

All eyes turned back toward Dar and those seated near him.

Lawrence made a coughing noise that usually preceded a longer statement from him. “Our company's hired Dar…Mr. Minor…Dr. Minor…to reconstruct several accidents that were obviously staged. He's been an expert witness in half a dozen cases and so have I.”

Trudy was shaking her head. “But we haven't seen any sign of a highly organized ring in these fraudulent claims,” she said. “It's just the usual assortment of losers and second- or third-generation insurance-claim parasites. They depend on it the way welfare addicts used to depend on their checks.”

Deputy DA Weid looked at Dar. “There's no doubt that these two men in the Mercedes were not only Russian mafia imported as part of this turf battle, but that they were tasked to kill you, Mr. Minor.”

Dar winced slightly at the use of the noun
task
as a verb. Aloud he said, “Why would they want to kill me?”

Sydney Olson turned sideways in her chair and looked Dar in the eye. “That's what we hoped you'd tell us. What happened yesterday represents the best lead we've had in several months of investigation.”

Dar could only shake his head. “I don't even know how they could have
found
me. The whole day was crazy…” He quickly and concisely told of his 4:00
A.M.
JATO-unit wakeup call, the meeting with Larry, and the interview with Henry at the Shady Rest Senior Mobile Home Park. “I mean…
none
of that day was planned. No one could have known that I'd be coming south on I-15 at that time of day.”

Captain Sutton of the CHP said, “We found a cell-phone frequency scanner in the wreck of their Mercedes. They must have monitored your calls.”

Dar shook his head again. “I didn't make or receive any cell phone calls after my meeting with Larry.”

Trudy said, “Lawrence called in after he'd gotten the photographs of the stolen-car ring to say that you were covering the mobile home park interview.”

Dar shook his head again. “Are you suggesting that the stupid JATO thing or the seventy-eight-year-old man falling from his Pard is part of a massive insurance-fraud conspiracy? And that someone would import Russians to kill me over it?”

Again Captain Sutton of the CHP spoke. For such a big man—he was at least six five—his voice was very soft. “The JATO thing, we cleared. The human remains in the wreckage—teeth—were ID'd as nineteen-year-old Purvis Nelson from Borrego Springs, who lives with his uncle Leroy. Leroy buys metal in job lots from the Air Force. Evidently someone at the Air Force base didn't notice that those two JATO units hadn't been used. Purvis did, though. He left his uncle a note…”

“A suicide note?” someone asked.

The Highway Patrol captain shook his head. “Just a note dated eleven
P.M.
that night saying that he was going to break the land speed record and that he'd see his uncle at breakfast.”

“In other words, a suicide note,” muttered San Diego County's Sheriff McCall. The sheriff looked at Lawrence. “The deposition mentions that when you and Mr. Minor met just before the shooting, you were on your way to document a stolen-vehicle transaction. A car-theft ring targeting Avis vehicles. Could this have been the cause of the attack on Mr. Minor?”

Lawrence laughed softly. “Sorry, Sheriff, but the Avis-theft thing was a strictly hillbilly family operation. You know, one of those good-old-boy Southern families where the family tree doesn't have any branches?”

None of the sheriffs, police captains, nor the FBI man smiled.

Lawrence cleared his throat. “Anyway, no, this bunch I was following wouldn't have any dealings with the Russian mafia. They probably don't even know Russia
has
a mafia. It was an inside job. Brother Billy Joe worked at Avis and, as part of the usual checkout procedure, got the address where the car renters were staying locally. Then brother Chuckie would take one of the agency's duplicate keys out and steal the vehicle—they liked sport utilities—that night. They'd meet in the desert with cousin Floyd, cleverly repaint the vehicle at a shop they had out there, and Floyd would drive it up to Oregon as soon as it was dry and resell it at a lot they legally owned up there. They'd change the license tags, but not the registration numbers on the vehicles. They were morons. I turned the photographs and notes over to Avis yesterday and they've given the info to local and Oregon police authorities.”

Chief Investigator Olson raised her voice slightly to bring the conversation back on track. “Which means that none of yesterday's incidents were connected to the attempt on your life, Dr. Minor.”

“Call me Dar,” muttered Dar.

“Dar,” Sydney Olson said, and made eye contact again.

Dar was struck again by how she blended professional seriousness with that hint of amusement.
Is it the sparkle in her eyes, or in the way she moves her mouth?
he wondered, and then shook his head to clear it. He had not slept well the night before.

“You've done
something,
Dar,” she continued, “that's convinced the Alliance that you're on to them.”

“Alliance?” said Dar.

Chief Investigator Olson nodded. “It's what we've been calling this fraud ring. It seems to be very extensive and well connected.”

Sheriff Fields pushed back from the table and flexed his cheek and jaw muscles as if he were looking for a spittoon. “Extensive fraud ring. Operation Clean Sweep. Missy, you've got a bunch of the usual losers out there on the highway deliberately fender-bending other people's cars and then screaming whiplash. Nothing new. All this task force stuff is a waste of the taxpayers' money.”