Dan Simmons - Darwin's Blade

“Darwin’s Fifth Law,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Any organism’s intelligence decreases in direct proportion to the number of heads it has,” said Dar.

Syd finished her coffee, set the mug carefully on the mat, nodded, and said, “Is this Charles Darwin’s law or Dr. Darwin Minor’s law?”

“I don’t think that Charles ever had to sit on a committee or report to a task force,” said Dar. “He just sailed around on the Beagle, getting a tan while ogling finches and tortoises.”

“What are the rest of your laws?”

“We’ll probably stumble across them as we go along,” said Dar.

“Are we going to be going along?”

Dar opened his hands. “I’m just trying to find this movie’s plot. So far it’s fairly formulaic. You’re setting me up as bait, hoping that the Alliance will sic more mafia killers on me. But you have to protect me. That must mean you’ll be staying within sight twenty-four hours a day. Good plot.” He looked around his living room and in toward the dining area. “Not sure where you’ll sleep, but we’ll think of something.”

Syd rubbed her brow. “In your dreams. Darwin. The San Diego PD will be sending extra patrols by at night. I was supposed to take a look at your living arrangements and give a…quote… security-wise sitrep …end quote, to Dickweed.”

“And?” said Dar.

Syd smiled again. “I can happily report that you live in an almost abandoned warehouse where only a few units have been converted to condos or lofts. There’s no security on the stairways…unless you count sleeping migrant winos as guards. There’s little light and zero security on the ground floor where you park your Sherman tank of a sport utility vehicle. Your door’s all right—reinforced, with three good locks and a police bar—but these windows are a nightmare. A blind sniper using a rusted Springfield without a scope could take you out. No drapes. No shades. No curtains. Are you a closet exhibitionist, Dar?”

“I like good views.” He stood and looked out the kitchen window. “From up here you can see the bay, the airport, Point Loma, Sea World…” He trailed off, realizing how unconvincing he sounded.

Sydney joined him at the window. He caught a faint whiff of some scent she was wearing. It was nice—more like the woodsy smell of the forest near his cabin after a rain than heavy perfume.

“It is a beautiful view,” she said. “I need to call a cab and get back to the Hyatt so I can make some phone calls.”

“I’ll drive you…”

“The hell you will,” said Syd. “If this is going to be a buddies movie, you’ve got to shelve the chivalry right up front.” She used the kitchen phone to call a cab.

“I thought you weren’t going to be protecting me twenty-four hours a day,” said Dar. “How can it be a buddies movie?”

Syd patted him consolingly on the shoulder. “If the snipers don’t get you and the Russian mafia doesn’t cut your throat in that killing ground you call a parking area and the crackheads don’t kill you just for the hell of it, then phone me the next time Stewart Investigations calls you out on an interesting case. Officially we’ll be looking for patterns of collision and accident insurance fraud.”

“Unofficially?” said Dar.

“Well, I guess there is no ‘unofficially,’” said Syd, hitching up her heavy purse and walking to the door. “Dickweed’s given me some office space in the courthouse. I’d officially appreciate it if you’d drop in there tomorrow morning so we can decide how we’re going to check through your case files.” She jotted her number on a card. “And maybe I’ll get a glimpse of something that will explain why our late friends in the former Mercedes thought you were worth taking out.”

“They probably confused me with some other guy who owns an NSX and didn’t pay his gambling debts at the MGM Grand,” said Dar.

“Probably,” said Syd, turning back toward him and the apartment as they got to the door. He unlatched it. “How many books do you have in here, Dr. Minor?”

Dar shrugged. “I quit counting after six thousand.”

“I probably owned that many once,” said Syd. “But I gave them all away when I became a chief investigator. Travel light, that’s my motto.” She stepped into the hallway and pointed a finger at him. “I’m serious about you dropping in at the office tomorrow and then calling me as soon as you get a good case call.” She handed him one of her cards with her Sacramento office number written on it and her pager number. The San Diego courthouse office number was penciled in.

“Sure,” said Dar, studying her card. It was an expensive one but did not give a home phone number. “But remember, you asked for it.” He looked up. She had already walked away and disappeared out of sight around the bend in the corridor, heading for the freight elevator. Her soft-soled shoes had made almost no noise on the concrete floor.

“You asked for it,” Dar said again and went back into his loft.

“Olson here,” answered her sleepy, almost drugged-sounding voice after the fifth ring.

“Rise and shine, Chief Investigator,” said Dar.

“Who is this?” Sydney’s sleepy voice ran the last two syllables together.

“How soon we forget,” said Dar. “It’s one forty-nine A.M. You said you wanted to come the next time I was called out on a case. I’m dressed and ready to go. I’ll give you five whole minutes before I pick you up in front of the Hyatt.”

There was a pause. Dar could hear her breathing softly. “Dar…you remember that I said an interesting insurance case. If this is some jackknifed eighteen-wheeler out on I-5—”

“Well, you know, Chief Investigator Olson,” said Dar, “you never really know if something’s interesting until you go look and see. But Larry’s going, too, and he rarely asks me to meet him at a site.”

“Okay, okay,” mumbled Syd. “I’ll be outside in five minutes.”

“Four minutes now,” Dar said, and hung up.

The highways were relatively empty as Dar took surface streets over to the 5 and then north past La Jolla.

“Have you heard of La Jolla Joya?” said Dar as the washes of light from the sodium vapor highway lights moved across his windshield and both their faces.

“Sounds like a stripper’s stage name,” said Syd, still rubbing her cheeks to wake up.

“Yes,” said Dar, “but actually it’s the San Diego area’s newest rock concert venue. It’s in the hills west of the highway up here…actually it’s closer to Del Mar, but I guess the Del Mar Joya didn’t have quite the same ring.”

“It doesn’t have much of a ring as it is,” said Syd. Her voice carried the fatigue of someone who had been working eighteen-hour days.

“True. But that’s where we’re headed. Concert’s probably over by now, but there’s at least one dead body there.”

“Stabbing?” said Syd. “Some Hell’s Angels thing like Altamont? Or just someone crushed when the herd stampeded?”

Dar grinned despite himself. “We wouldn’t get called for either of those. See, the city ordinances kept cracking down on rock concerts at their usual stadiums and venues—especially the heavy-metal ones—and—”

“Who’s headlining tonight?” she interrupted.

“Metallica,” said Dar.

“Oh, goody,” said Syd with precisely the same enthusiasm as someone who’s just been told he has to take a barium enema.

“Anyway,” continued Dar, “a would-be superpromoter bought these hundred and sixty-two acres of scrub gully and fenced it all in. It’s sort of an arroyo, plenty of room for parking out front, stage on the flat area, and a gentle hill running up until it’s just trees and cliffs. He put in lights, stage, sound towers, and three thousand seats, and there’s a nice grassy hillside for umpty-thousand others who want to sit on blankets or whatever. They added a lower fence to keep people off the back twenty acres or so, the woods, after their first concert. Some older patrons complained of fornication going on back in the darkness.”