by Dan Simmons
“Yes,” Dar said, and was quiet a moment. “Do you remember when the conspiracy theories began about her death?”
Lawrence laughed. “Yeah…about ten minutes after the first news reports were aired. I remember after you did the kinetic equations, we went onto the Internet to find some more facts and already people were yapping about how the CIA killed them or the British secret service or the Israelis. Morons.”
“Yes,” said Dar. “But our reaction was just one of…what?”
Lawrence frowned at Dar again. “Professional interest,” he said. “Is there a problem with that? It was an interesting accident and the media got the details all wrong, as they usually do. It was fun figuring out what really happened. We were right…right down to the phantom car, the alcohol, and the speed of impact. We didn’t get involved with the orgy of mourning going on everywhere because that was media-hype celebrity-cult bullshit. If I want to weep for the dead, I’ll visit the graveyard in Illinois where my parents are buried. Is there a problem with any of that, Dar? Did we react wrong? Is that what you’re saying?”
Dar shook his head. “No,” he said. And a moment later, he said it again. “No, we didn’t react wrong at all.”
Back at his condo loft that evening, Dar could not concentrate. None of the accidents he and Lawrence had investigated that day would take much reconstruction. The gunshot accidents had been a little out of the ordinary, but not that much. Three weeks earlier, Dar and Lawrence had investigated a claim in which an inner-city teenager had shoved a loaded revolver into his waistband and blown off most of his genitals. The family was suing the school district, even though the ninth-grader had skipped school that day. The mother and live-in boyfriend were arguing in the $2 million claim that the school was responsible for making sure the sixteen-year-old was in school.
Dar had twenty other projects he could work on, but he found himself wandering the apartment, pulling books off the shelves and putting them back, checking his e-mail and updating his chess games. Of the twenty-three games he had going, only two required any real concentration. A mathematics student in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and a mathematician/financial planner in Moscow—financial planner in Moscow!—were giving him real problems. His Moscow friend, Dmitry, had beaten him twice and played him to a stalemate once. Dar looked at the e-mail, went to the physical chess board he kept set up for that game, moved Dmitry’s white knight, and frowned at the result. This would take some thought.
Dar was surprised when Sydney called.
“Hey, I was hoping to catch you home. Would you mind some company?”
Dar hesitated only a fraction of a second. “No… I mean, sure. Where are you?”
“In the hall outside your apartment,” said Syd. “Your police protection didn’t even notice us when we came in the back way…carrying a suspicious package.”
“Us?” said Dar.
“I brought a friend,” said Syd. “Shall I knock?”
“Why don’t I just open the door,” said Dar.
Syd was indeed carrying a suspicious package. Dar guessed that it was a rifle or shotgun wrapped in canvas. Her friend was a strikingly handsome Latino a few years younger than Syd or Dar. The man was only of medium height, but he had the muscular presence of a long-ball hitter. His wavy black hair was brushed straight back, he looked lean and comfortable in khaki pants, a khaki windbreaker, and a gray polo shirt, and although he wore cowboy boots, the effect was natural—as if he belonged in them—exactly the opposite of the costume effect that Dallas Trace’s boots had created. He introduced himself as Tom Santana and his handshake was also the opposite of Dallas Trace’s: where Trace had attempted to impress with his bone-crushing intensity, Santana was obviously a very powerful man with the restraint of a gentleman.
“I’ve heard of you, Dr. Minor,” said Tom. “Your reconstruction work is much admired. I’m surprised we haven’t met before.”
“Dar,” said Dar. “And I don’t get out much. But I do know the name Tom Santana… You started out with the CHP Staged Collision Unit and shifted over to the Fraud Division in ninety-two…working undercover. You were the one who blew open the Cambodian and Vietnamese capper gangs in ninety-five and put those two attorneys in jail.”
Santana grinned. He had the smile of a movie star but none of the self-consciousness. “And before that, the Hungarians who literally wrote the book on capping in California,” he said with a laugh. “As long as the Hungarians and the Vietnamese and the Cambodians stayed within their own ethnic group, we couldn’t get to them. But once they started recruiting Mexicans as el toros y la vacas—then I could go undercover.”
“But you’re not undercover anymore,” said Dar.
Tom shook his head. “Too well known for that now. Last couple of years I’ve been heading up FIST… The last year, I’ve been working on and off with Syd here.”
Dar knew that FIST was a Fraud Division acronymic cuteness standing for Fraud Intelligence Specialist Team. And the way this man and Syd acted around each other…just stood so easily together…sat so comfortably on his leather couch next to one another, not too close, not too far apart… Dar did not know what the hell it meant, but he was irritated at himself for feeling some pang about it. How long had he known Chief Investigator Olson anyway? Five days? Did he expect her not to have a life before that? Before what?
“Drink?” said Dar, walking to the antique dry sink he used as a bar.
Both shook their heads. “We’re still on duty,” said Tom.
Dar nodded and poured himself a bit of single-malt Scotch, then sat in the Eames chair across from them. The last of the evening sunlight came through the tall windows and fell across them in slowly moving trapezoids of gold light. Dar sipped his Scotch, looked at the canvas-wrapped package, and said, “Is that for me?”
“Yes,” said Syd. “And don’t say no until you hear us out.”
“No,” said Dar.
“Goddamn it,” Syd said. “You are one stubborn man, Dar Minor.”
Dar sipped Scotch and waited.
“Will you hear us out at least?” asked Syd.
“Sure.”
The chief investigator sighed and said, “I’m going to get a drink, on duty or not… No, don’t get up, Dar. I know where the Scotch is. Go ahead, Tom.”
Tom Santana used his hands for emphasis when he spoke. “Syd tells me that you feel like you were being used, Dr. Minor…”
“Dar.”
“Dar,” continued Tom, “and in a way, you were. We both apologize for that. But when the Russians made their move against you, it was the biggest break we’ve had in the Alliance case.”
Syd came back to the couch with her glass of Scotch and settled back into the cushions. “We’ve been watching about a dozen top lawyers around the country… I mean top lawyers, famous men…about half of them here in California, the rest in places like Phoenix, Miami, Boston, New York.”
“Including Dallas Trace,” said Dar.
“We think so,” said Tom.
Dar took a drink of single-malt again before speaking. The light made the amber whiskey glow in its glass. “Why would these lawyers—presumably if they’re at or near Trace’s level of success—take such a risk when they already make millions of dollars legitimately?”
Tom’s hands stabbed out like an infielder getting ready to handle a hot grounder. “At first we couldn’t believe it either. Some of it may be personal…like Esposito’s involvement in the death of Dallas Trace’s son, Richard…but most is just business. You know how many billions are hauled in every year through injury mills and fraudulent claims. This… Alliance…of big-time lawyers appears to be taking out the middlemen.”
“Literally taking them out?” said Dar. “As in murdering them?”
“Sometimes,” said Syd. She looked tired. The last of the evening light on her face showed wrinkles that Dar had not noticed before. “Gennie Smiley and Donald Borden, for instance… We haven’t found them in San Francisco or Oakland. We have
n’t found them anywhere.”
Dar nodded. “You might try the bay itself.” He glared at Syd without meaning to. “So when the Russians took their shots at me, you got me into this because you hoped I’d trip Dallas Trace’s hand somehow? Why? Because you knew that I’d made the videotape reconstructions?”
Syd leaned forward quickly, a look of concern or pain on her face. “No, Dar, I swear. I knew that Dallas Trace had seen evidence that his son had been killed—we interviewed Detectives Fairchild and Ventura because it was strange that the homicide unit had taken over the investigation from the accident unit—but I swear, I promise you that I didn’t know that you’d done that reconstruction tape until you showed it to me at the cabin.” Tom remained silent, looking from one to the other of them as if trying to understand the tension that suddenly filled the room.
“So why did you bring me along to face Dallas Trace?” asked Dar after a moment.
Syd set her Scotch down on the rough-planked coffee table. “Because the tape was so good,” she said. “No rational man could look at that and not believe that his son had been murdered. I was willing to give Dallas Trace the benefit of the doubt until yesterday. But once he looked at that reconstruction video and then threw us out, I knew he was into all this up to his neck.”
Dar sighed. “So what the hell do you want me to do?”
“Help us,” said Tom Santana. “Keep working with Syd. Use your reconstruction skills to get to the bottom of this Alliance conspiracy.”
Dar did not respond.
Syd turned to Tom Santana. “Dar doesn’t believe in conspiracies.”
“I didn’t say that,” snapped Dar. “I said I don’t believe in successful conspiracies. After a while, they collapse from their own weight of ignorance or because the people involved are too stupid to keep their mouths shut. That Helpers of the Helpless crap…”
“It’s not crap,” Tom said. “Things are changing. Things are getting deadly. Instead of swoop-and-squats on surface streets, you’re seeing these fatalities on the freeways…”
“And at the construction sites,” said Syd.
“People are getting recruited for the usual stuff—fender benders, whiplash claims,” said Tom. “But they’re dying instead, and guys like Esposito and Dallas Trace are making more money off of them than ever before.”
“Esposito’s not making any more money for anyone,” muttered Dar.
Syd leaned forward, her hands clasped. “Will you join us, Dar? Will you help us on this project?”
Dar looked at the two of them sitting there on his couch, so comfortable with one another. “No,” he said.
“But—” began Tom.
“If he says no, he means no,” interrupted Syd. She pulled a semiautomatic pistol from her belt under her loose vest. It looked like her own nine-millimeter pistol, but chambered for a heavier round. “Are you familiar with one of these, Dar?”
“A handgun?” said Dar. “I saw one in a dead man’s hand this afternoon.”
Syd ignored his sarcasm. “This kind of Sig Pro, I mean.”
Dar looked down at the small semiautomatic with obvious distaste.
“I know you’ve seen Sig-Sauers,” said Syd. “This is the new SIGARMS polymer design. Very small, very light.” She set the pistol on the table. “Go ahead…heft it, try it.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Dar.
“Look, Dar,” Syd began, and stopped as if fighting to keep her voice under control. “We didn’t get you into this. When those LAPD detectives—and we think they’re both on the take—showed Trace the video reconstruction you’d given the accident unit, well…that’s when the Russians were sent after you.”
“We’re certain the Alliance has brought in some top Russian mafia figures to enforce their takeover of major fraud,” said Tom Santana softly, slowly. “We have evidence that Dallas Trace himself has hired an ex-KGB agent as his primary enforcer—a member of the Organizatsiya, Russia’s organized-crime syndicate. This enforcer is bringing in more Russian mafia as the need arises.”
“And you think this little polymer Sig Pro is going to make a difference?”
“It could make all the difference,” said Syd, her voice angry now. “You saw how easily Tom and I got into your condo building. There’s a single San Diego PD unmarked car parked across the street, but those guys are on overtime and they’re probably both half asleep by now.” She dropped the magazine out of the pistol and set it aside, racking the semiautomatic to show that there was no bullet in the chamber. “This is my personal weapon, Dar. This type of Sig Pro fires .40-caliber Smith and Wesson ammo and it’s about the most accurate semiauto on the market. The U.S. Secret Service likes these weapons…the Sig Pro comes up well on target and puts the rounds right where they’re pointed.”
“At another human being,” said Dar.
Syd ignored him. She took the canvas off the long package. “The pistol would be for personal protection when you’re out alone,” she went on. “I’ve got a permit in the works for you, but you won’t be arrested for carrying it no matter what. And for the apartment and the cabin…”
“A shotgun,” said Dar.
“I know you were in the Marines,” said Syd. “I know you were trained in the use of weapons…”
“More than a quarter of a century ago,” said Dar.
“It’s like riding a bike,” said Tom Santana, no sarcasm in his words.
“You had a .410 Savage over-and-under at some point,” said Syd. “You probably recognize this shotgun. It’s a classic.”
“A Remington Model 870 pump-action twelve-gauge,” said Dar flatly. “Yeah, I’ve seen them.”
Syd reached into her big bag and then set two boxes of cartridges on the coffee table. Dar could see that one box held Smith & Wesson .40-caliber bullets, the other a yellow box of 00 buckshot shells.
The chief investigator nodded toward Dar’s front door. “Somebody you don’t like comes through that door, Dar, a single pull on this trigger releases nine .33-caliber lead pellets at muzzle velocities ranging from eleven hundred to thirteen hundred feet per second. That means as much lead in the air as eight rounds from a nine-millimeter semiautomatic.”
“Close-range firepower,” said Tom Santana, “with quick-velocity drop-off and less risk of overpenetration than most firearms. It’s why police prefer them for close-in situations. And under…say, twenty-five yards…it’s almost impossible to miss.”
Dar said nothing. The three sat in silence for several minutes. The sunlight had gone.
“Dar,” said Syd at last, leaning over the table to touch his knee, “if you’re not going to work with us, or let me be around you, then you need some extra protection.”
Dar shook his head. “No on the pistol. That’s final. I’ll keep the shotgun under the bed.”
Chief Investigator Olson and Inspector Santana looked at one another. Then Syd took the Sig Pro and its ammunition and put them away in her bag. “Thank you for keeping the shotgun at least, Dar. The magazine holds five shells, and the pump-action—”
“I’ve fired a Remington 870 before,” interrupted Dar. “It’s like riding a bike.” He stood. “Anything else?”
Both Syd and Tom shook his hand at the door, but neither said anything until Tom handed Dar his card. “I can be reached at the last number at any time, day or night,” said the FIST investigator.
Dar slid the card in his jeans pocket, but said, “I’ve already got Syd’s card somewhere.”
For an hour after they left, Dar just paced the apartment, not even turning on the lights. He slid the shotgun and the shells under his bed and came back out into the main living area, restless. He poured another glass of Scotch and stared out at the lights of the city below and at the slow movement of boats in the bay. Aircraft landed and took off from Lindbergh Field, suggesting a purposefulness and energy that Dar did not share.
Finishing his drink, he went into his bedroom cubicle again. In the bathroom he turned on the shower and
stood under the hot spray for several minutes, letting the water pound some of the whiskey fuzziness out of his head.
He came out into the dark bedroom carrying the towel and drying his short hair. He turned on a light. The bedroom was merely an enclosure created by built-in bookcases, but his closet was fully enclosed and its door had come with a full-length mirror that he had meant to take down. Now he blinked at his own reflection.
Is there anything sadder-looking than a naked middle-aged man? thought Dar. He started toward the closet door, as much to get the mirror out of view by opening the door as to find his pajamas, when the first shot was fired. The mirror shattered. Broken glass cut Dar’s face and chest. He stumbled backward, knocking the lamp off the low dresser.
The second shot was fired into darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“M IS FOR MIST”
THERE WERE SO many cops in Dar’s apartment that it looked like a donut shop during graveyard watch.
A ballistics team worked on re-creating the precise angle of the two bullets from where they shattered the high windows on the north side to their point of impact. Sheets and painter’s canvas had been hastily nailed up over the other windows. There were half a dozen uniformed officers in the room and more plainclothes people. Special Agent Jim Warren was there representing the FBI, with his assistant, a short, intense woman. Captain Hernandez from the San Diego Police Department was there with six or eight of his usual entourage, as was Captain Tom Sutton of the CHP. Syd Olson and Tom Santana were also there, sitting on the leather couch and staring at the rifle on the coffee table.
“I’ve never seen a rifle like that before,” said one of the CHP officers. The man was sipping coffee from one of Dar’s white mugs.
