Dan Simmons - Darwin's Blade

In the animation, the van comes around the corner from Fountain Boulevard again, slows as it approaches the supine figure in the highway, then drives over it and backs up, dragging the body almost half the distance it had been thrown from the initial impact. Finally the body scrapes free, head pointed to the east, toward the van, as the rented vehicle continues to back up onto its own skid marks and finally comes to a stop.

“She had to finish the job,” said Syd.

Dar nodded.

“What did the jury have to say when they saw this animation?” asked the chief investigator.

Dar smiled. “No jury. No trial. I showed this to Detective Ventura as well as to the Accident Investigations people, but no one was interested. By this time, Donald and Gennie had dropped their lawsuit against the owner of the apartment building—I think it was because I confronted them with the light-meter readings—and settled with the van rental people for fifteen thousand dollars.”

Syd shifted in her chair and stared at Dar. “You have absolute proof that these two killed Richard Kodiak and the LAPD dropped it.”

“They said it was just another fag killing, ‘another garden-variety homo cide,’ to quote the venerable Detective Ventura,” said Dar.

“I always thought that Ventura was an ass,” said Syd. “Now I know.”

Dar nodded, chewed his lip, and looked at the animation repeating itself on the screen. The human figure was hit, hurled, the van drove away, returned, drove over it again—dragging it back toward the front vestibule of the building, crushing the skull. The animation began again with two male figures, featureless, emerging from the well-lighted lobby…

“Lawrence’s clients…the rental people…were happy to settle for the fifteen grand,” he began.

“Wait a minute,” said Syd. “Wait a minute.” She went over to her big leather tote bag and pulled a top-of-the-line Apple PowerBook from it.

As she set the computer up on the table next to Dar’s PC equipment, he looked at her dubiously, the way a Lutheran would have regarded a Catholic in the seventeenth century. Apple people and PC people rarely mix well.

Syd brought her computer to life. “Gennie Smiley,” she repeated. “Donald Borden. Richard Kodiak. These names ring a bell…”

Columns of data flowed down her portable screen. She hurriedly typed in a search command. “Ahh,” she said, typed again, watched data whirl by and stop again. “Ahah!” she said.

“I like ‘Ahah!’” said Dar. “What?”

“Did you and Lawrence check into the backgrounds of these three…lovers?” asked Syd.

“Sure we did,” said Dar. “As much as we could without treading on Detective Ventura’s toes. It was his case. We found that the victim—Mr. Richard Kodiak—had three addresses in addition to the Rancho la Bonita residence given on his driver’s license: all in California—one in East L.A., one in Encinitas, and one in Poway. Tracing his social security number, we found his listed employment as CALSURMED with no address. In old telephone listings, Trudy found a California Sure-Med listed in Poway, but the business is no longer in existence and all information regarding it has been purged from city records. Then we checked with the Poway post office and found that the Poway address was the same as that listed for the CALSURMED business—box number 616840. We suggested to the Accident Investigation team and Detective Ventura that they check with the Los Angeles and San Diego counties’ Fictitious Business Filings under both the subject’s name and the CALSURMED and California Sure-Med listings. They never followed up.”

Syd was grinning at her computer screen. “You know those red pins on my map?”

“The fatal swoop-and-squats?” said Dar. “Yeah?”

“California Sure-Med was the health provider for six of the victims. A certain Dr. Richard Karnak was instrumental in testifying in the liability cases.”

“You think Richard Karnak equals Dickie Kodiak?”

“I don’t have to guess,” said Syd. “Do you have a photo of the victim? When he was alive, I mean?”

Dar fumbled through the file and came up with a small passport photo labeled KODIAK, RICHARD R. Syd had tapped keys, and a high-resolution black-and-white photo filled a third of her PowerBook’s screen. It was the same photograph.

“And Donald Borden?” said Dar.

“Alias Daryl Borges, alias Don Blake,” said Syd, calling up a photograph and data column on the other man. “Eight priors—five for fraud, three for assault and battery.” She looked at Dar and her eyes were bright. “Mr. Borges was a member of an East L.A. gang until he was twenty-eight, but now he works for an attorney…a certain Jorgé Murphy Esposito.”

“Shit,” Dar said delightedly. “And Gennie Smiley. That has to be fake.”

“Nope,” said Syd, looking at another column of data. “But it wasn’t her current legal name, either. She was married seven years ago.”

“Gennie Borges?” guessed Dar.

“Sí,” said Syd, and her grin grew broader. “But Smiley was an earlier married name…married briefly to a Mr. Ken Smiley who died in a car accident seven years ago. Can you guess her maiden name?”

Dar looked at Syd for a quiet minute.

“Gennie Esposito,” said Syd at last. “Sister to the ubiquitous attorney.”

Dar looked back at his screen where the van continued hitting the pedestrian, accelerating away out of sight into the night, and then returning to run over the poor man again…and again.

“They know I know this,” muttered Dar. “But for some reason they felt threatened by me.”

“It is murder,” said Syd.

Dar shook his head. “The LAPD had already passed on the whole matter…the rental people settled…Donnie and Gennie moved to San Francisco. No one was interested. It has to be something else.”

“Whatever else it is,” said Syd, “it points directly at our Attorney Esposito. But there’s something even more interesting here.” She tapped at her computer keys.

Dar caught a glimpse of the PowerBook’s screen as the FBI symbol appeared, an asterisk password was typed, and directories, data, and photographs began flashing by.

“You can access the FBI data banks?” said Dar, surprised. Even ex–special agents did not reserve that privilege.

“I’m officially working with the National Insurance Crime Bureau,” said Syd. “You know, Jeanette from Dickweed’s meeting—her group. It merged with the Insurance Crime Prevention Institute in 1992, and to show its support, the FBI gives the NICB full access to its computer files.”

“That must come in handy,” said Dar.

“Right now it does,” said Syd, pointing to the photograph and fingerprint ID of the late Dickie Kodiak, a.k.a. Dr. Richard Karnak, original legal name—Richard Trace.

“Richard Trace?” said Dar.

“Son of Dallas Trace,” said Syd, tapping more keys and looking at more data.

Dar blinked twice. “Dallas Trace? The big-time, good-old-boy lawyer? The guy in the buckskin vest and bolo tie and long hair who has that stupid legal show on CNN?”

“The same,” said Syd. “Next to Johnny Cochran, America’s best-known and most-loved defense attorney.”

“Bullshit,” said Dar. “Dallas Trace is an arrogant twit. He wins trials with the same tricks that Cochran used in the O. J. trial. And he has a book out— How to Convince Anyone of Almost Anything —but he couldn’t convince me to read it in a thousand years.”

“Nonetheless,” said Syd, “it was his son Richard who was run over and killed—murdered—in your Kodiak-Borden-Smiley van accident.”

“We need to get started on this,” said Dar.

“We just did get started,” said Syd. “The murder attempt on you and my investigation into the fraud-business gang wars are now on the same track. Monday we’ll move ahead on it.”