Dan Simmons - Darwin's Blade

“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 haven’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 ninemillimeter 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…”