Dan Simmons - Darwin's Blade

Again, Dar was surprised by the sumptuousness of the office. He could see the hills to the north—and because yesterday’s storm had blown away most of the smog for the time being, Dar knew that if he looked out the west window wall, he could make out Bundy Drive in Brentwood, about three miles west, where Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman had been murdered years before by someone cleverly disguised in the DNA of O. J. Simpson.

Dar was surprised by the size of the staff and the elegance of the office because most defense attorneys of his acquaintance—even the very successful and somewhat famous ones—tended to run a lean, mean business operation, often paying office expenses, including their lone secretaries and one or two young legal associates, with their own personal checks each week. It was—as legal writer Jeffrey Toobin once said—the famous criminal attorney’s dilemma: successful though one may be, repeat business is rare.

Dallas Trace showed no signs of financial anxiety. The man was taller and thinner than he looked on television—at least six three, Dar thought—with a chiseled and manly face, a Marlboro Man face. His smile was easy and emphasized the laugh lines around his eyes and the muscles around his thin-lipped mouth. Trace wore his long, gray hair tied back with a leather thong. His eyebrows were deep black, which emphasized his light gray eyes and made them all the more startling and photogenic in the tanned, lined face. Trace was wearing his trademark denim shirt and bolo tie—although Dar noticed that the shirt was blue silk rather than actual denim—and a leather western vest. This one looked as if it had been tanned from the hide of a stegosaurus—an old stegosaurus—and probably cost several thousand dollars. The bolo was held in place by the de rigueur jade-and-silver piece of jewelry, and there was a small diamond in the cowboy attorney’s left ear. Dar always realized how old he was when he reacted negatively to jewelry on men: sometimes, alone on a summer night, he would yell at his TV when a ballplayer was thrown out at first—“You would’ve made it, you jerk, if you weren’t carrying ten pounds of gold chain!” Dar recognized it as age, intolerance, and possibly the onset of Alzheimer’s in him, but he did not change his opinion. Dallas Trace wore six rings. His suede Lucchese cowboy boots looked as if they were as soft as butter.

Trace shook Sydney’s hand first and then Dar’s. As Dar had expected, the big attorney, although slim, was a bone-crusher.

“Investigator Olson, Dr. Minor, take a seat, take a seat.” Trace moved back around to his huge leather chair with real speed. Dar guessed that the man was in his early sixties, but he was buff as a twenty-five-year-old athlete. Dar had seen Dallas Trace’s twenty-five-year-old wife on TV, and guessed he had good reason to stay in shape.

Dar glanced around the office. Dallas Trace’s desk was at the nexus of the two window walls, the attorney’s back to the view as if he did not have time for such things. But other walls and shelves and bookcases were covered with photographs of Trace with celebrities and power brokers, including the last four U.S. presidents.

Trace lounged back in his luxurious chair, steepled his fingers, propped his butter-soft Luccheses on the edge of his desk, and asked in his familiar gravelly tenor, “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Chief Investigator? Doctor?”

“You may have heard about the attempt on Dr. Minor’s life last week,” said Syd.

Trace smiled, picked up a pencil, and tapped at his perfectly white teeth. “Ah, yes, the famous Road Rage Killer. Are you seeking counsel, perhaps, Dr. Minor?”

“No,” said Dar.

“There have been no charges filed,” said Syd. “There probably won’t be. The two men who opened fire on Dr. Minor were Russian mafia hit men.”

Even though this had been reported on the television news ad nauseum, Dallas Trace managed to look surprised and raised one dark eyebrow. “So if you’re not here about representation…” He let the question hang.

“When I called for the appointment, counselor, you seemed to know who we each were,” said Syd.

Dallas Trace’s smile expanded and he tossed the pencil expertly back into its leather cup holder. “Of course, I do, Chief Investigator Olson. I’ve taken great interest in the state’s attorney’s efforts to rein in insurance fraud and its teamwork with the FBI and the NICB. Your investigative work in California the past year or so has been excellent, Ms. Olson.”

“Thank you,” said Syd.

“And everyone interested in expert accident reconstruction knows about Dr. Darwin Minor,” continued the attorney.

Dar said nothing. Beyond Trace’s silhouette in the tall chair, traffic moved through Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and Brentwood. Beyond, Dar could see the dark smudge of the sea.

“Dr. Minor has a videotape that you should see, Mr. Trace,” said Syd. “Do you have media equipment handy?”

Trace tapped a button on the speakerphone console. A minute later, a young man wheeled in a cart carrying a thirty-six-inch monitor and a stack of VCR and DVD players of every religious denomination. “Is there anything I should know, Ms. Olson, Dr. Minor, before I play this tape? Anything incriminating or which would put us in a lawyer-client relationship?” said Trace, the amusement now absent from his gravelly rasp.

“No,” said Syd.

Dallas Trace popped the tape in, closed the office door, returned to his chair, and activated the half-inch VCR with a credit-card-size remote. They watched the video in silence. Actually, Dar noticed, he and Dallas Trace were watching the video; Syd was watching Dallas Trace.

The video showed only the three-dimensional computer animation of the accident: two men coming out of a building, one pushing the other in front of a skidding van, the van circling around to hit him again. Trace remained completely impassive during the presentation.

“Do you recognize the accident depicted in this visual reenactment, counselor?” said Syd.

“Of course I do,” said Dallas Trace. “It’s a mixed-up computer representation of the accident that killed my son.”

“Your son, Richard Kodiak,” said Syd.

Trace’s cool, gray gaze stayed on the chief investigator for a moment before he replied. “Yes.”

“Counselor, can you tell me why your son had a different last name than yourself?” Syd’s voice was low, conversational.

“Am I being interrogated, Chief Investigator?”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Good,” said Trace, leaning back in his chair again and propping his boots on the edge of the desk. “For a minute I was afraid I might need my lawyer present.”

Syd waited.

“My son, Richard, chose to take his stepfather’s name…Kodiak,” said Trace eventually. “Richard is…was…my child by my first wife, Elaine. We were divorced in 1981 and she has since remarried.”

Syd nodded and continued to wait.

Dallas Trace quirked his lips into a curve that was equal parts sadness and smile. “It is no secret, Ms. Olson, that my son and I had a serious falling out some years ago. He legally took his stepfather’s name—I can only surmise—at least in part to hurt me.”

“Was that falling out related to your son’s…ah…lifestyle?” said Syd.

Trace’s smile became thinner. “That, of course, is none of your business, Investigator Olson. But in the spirit of goodwill, I’ll answer the question—as invasive and presumptuous as it is. The answer is no. Richard’s discovery of his sexual orientation had nothing to do with our disagreement. If you know anything about me, Ms. Olson, you must know of my support for gay and lesbian rights. Richard is…was…a headstrong youth. Perhaps you could say that there was only room for one bull in the family herd.”