Darwin's Blade

11 “K is for Strike Out”

It was nearly noon when Sydney Olson’s Ford Taurus turned off the Avenue of the Stars in Century City and rolled down the steep ramp toward the underground parking garage.

“So are you going to tell me now what all this is about?” asked Dar, sipping the last of his 7-Eleven coffee and trying not to spill it as Syd took the ticket and drove quickly down the curving concrete ramp that seemed to be leading them to the parking lot for Hell.

“Not quite yet,” said Syd. She noticed an empty slot next to a scarred concrete pillar and swung the Taurus in expertly.

Dar grunted.

Dar hated rising early, and he hated driving into L.A. during Monday rush-hour traffic even more. This morning he had done both. Syd had picked him up at seven-thirty for this lunch-hour meeting with…Dar had no idea with whom. The traffic had been as bad as he had ever seen it, but Syd had driven calmly, resting her thin wrist on the steering wheel and becoming lost in thought when the miles of packed vehicles came to a total stop. They had spoken little during the long commute.

At least the press was gone. There had been no TV vultures skulking outside Dar’s warehouse condo when he had returned on Sunday evening, and none this morning. Last week’s “road rage killing” was evidently old news and all the Insta-Cams and satellite trucks were off covering this week’s top story—a sex scandal involving someone high up in the mayor’s office and a well-known lobbyist. The fact that both the principals were attractive women did not make the press’s appetite any less voracious.

In the elevator from the basement parking garage, Syd said, “You sure you’ve got the video?” Dar hefted his old briefcase.

They passed the floor where Robert Shapiro had leased his office space during the O. J. trial. Dallas Trace’s office suite was on the penthouse floor.

Dar was surprised by how spacious and busy the suite was. Once beyond the foyer, receptionist, and plainclothes security guard, they passed through a large area bustling with at least a dozen secretaries. Dar could see five smaller offices, undoubtedly staffed by Trace’s young legal associates, before they reached the main man’s corner office. The door was open and Dallas Trace looked up, grinned, and leaped out of his leather executive chair, gesturing them in and grinning as if they were old friends.

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.”

Syd nodded again. “What is your reaction to this video, Mr. Trace?”

“I would have been outraged by it,” Trace said easily, “except for the fact, of course, that I’ve seen it before. Several times.”

Dar had to blink at this news.

“You have?” said Syd. “May I ask where?”

“Detective Ventura showed it to me during the course of the investigation of the accident,” said Trace.

“Lieutenant Robert Ventura,” said Syd, “of the Los Angeles Police Department’s homicide unit.”

“That’s correct,” said Trace. “But both Lieutenant Ventura and Captain Fairchild assured me…assured me, Ms. Olson…that this…video ‘reenactment’ was based on faulty data and completely unreliable.”

Dar cleared his throat. “Mr. Trace, you seem confident that the video is not showing you the murder of your son. May I ask why you’re so confident?”

Dallas Trace fixed Dar with his cold stare. “Of course, Dr. Minor. First of all, I respect the professionalism of the detectives in question—”

“Ventura and Fairchild of LAPD homicide,” interrupted Syd.

Trace’s gaze never left Dar. “Yes, Detectives Ventura and Fairchild. They spent hundreds of hours on the case and ruled out foul play.”

“Did you speak to anyone in the LAPD Traffic Investigation Unit?” asked Dar. “Sergeant Rote, perhaps? Or Captain Kapshaw?”

The attorney shrugged. “I spoke to many people involved, Dr. Minor. I probably spoke to those men. Certainly I spoke with Officer Lentile—who wrote the accident report—as well as with Officer Clancey, Officer Berry, Sergeant McKay, and the others who were there that night.” The strong muscles around Trace’s thin lips quirked upward again, but the resulting smile did not reach his eyes. “I am not without my own slight abilities of interrogation and cross-examination.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Syd, drawing the attorney’s gaze back to her, “but did you speak to the claimants—the other two people directly involved in the accident—Mr. Borden and Ms. Smiley?”

Trace shook his head. “I read their depositions. I had no interest in speaking with them.”

“They were reported to have moved to San Francisco,” said Syd, “but the San Francisco police cannot locate them at the present time.”

Trace said nothing. Without actually glancing at his watch, he made it obvious that they were wasting his expensive time. Dar could only look at Syd. When had she tracked down this information?

“Did you know that your son had an alias, Mr. Trace? That he had identity papers under the name of Dr. Richard Karnak and worked at a medical clinic called California Sure-Med?”

“Yes,” said Trace, “I became aware of that.”

“Was your son a doctor, Mr. Trace?”

“No,” said the attorney. His voice seemed to hold no tension or defensive tone. “My son was a perpetual student…He was in his thirties and still attending graduate classes, never finishing any. He spent one year in medical school.”

“How did you become aware of your son’s alias and involvement with the Sure-Med clinic, Mr. Trace?” said Syd. “Through Detectives Ventura or Fairchild?”

Trace shook his head slowly. “Nope. I hired my own private investigator.”

“And you’re aware that the California Sure-Med clinic was an injury mill—a source for fraudulent insurance claims—and that your son had violated state and federal laws by posing as a doctor and sending in false injury reports,” Syd said.

“I am aware of that now, Investigator Olson,” Trace said, voice flat. “Do you intend to indict my son?”

Syd did not break away from the lawyer’s eagle gaze.

Trace sighed and dropped his feet to the floor. He ran his hands over his combed-back gray hair and adjusted the leather thong holding his ponytail in place. “Investigator, I’m afraid I’m ahead of you here. What the police didn’t turn up, my private investigator did. I discovered and acknowledge now, on the record, that my son was part of—what did you call it?—an injury mill. A fraudulent-claims network run by what the fraud business calls a ‘capper’?”

“Yes.”

“A capper named Jorgé Murphy Esposito.” Dallas Trace said the last three words as if they tasted of pure bile.

“Who died this weekend,” said Syd.

“Yes,” said Dallas Trace. He smiled. “Would you like to hear my alibi for the time of the accident, Investigator?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Trace,” said Syd. “I know that you were at a charity auction in Beverly Hills on Sunday afternoon. You bought a Picasso drawing for sixty-four thousand two hundred and eighty dollars.”

Trace’s smile eroded. “Jesus Christ, woman,” he said, “you actually do suspect me in all this petty shit?”

Syd shook her head. “I really am trying to gather information about one of the most profitable injury mills in Southern California,” she said. “Your son, who was involved in it, died under mysterious circumstances—”

“I disagree,” Trace said sharply. “My son died in an accident while skipping out on his rent with his friends, two petty thieves, one of whom could not drive a van worth shit. A senseless ending to a largely useless life.”

“Dr. Minor’s video reconstruction of the event—” began Syd.

The lawyer turned his gaze back to Dar, without a hint of a smile. “Dr. Minor, a few years ago I went to see this popular movie about a great big ship that sank almost ninety years ago…”

“Titanic,” Dar said.

“Yes, sir,” continued the lawyer, his West Texas accent becoming more pronounced. “And in that movie, I saw with my own two eyes that big ship sinking—standin’ on end, breakin’ in two—people fallin’ like frogs out of a bucket. But you know somethin’, Dr. Minor?”

Dar waited.

“None of it was true. It was special effects. It was digital.” Dallas Trace spat the words out.

Dar said nothing.

“If I had you on the witness stand, Doctor Minor, you on the stand and your precious video in the machine playin’ right in front of the jury, it would take me thirty seconds…shit, no, twenty seconds…to show them how in this digital-computer-special-effects age we live in, we can trust nothing on tape anymore.”

“Esposito is dead,” interrupted Syd. “Donald Borden and Gennie Smiley—actually the former Gennie Esposito, as I’m sure your PI informed you—are missing. And you still don’t find that suspicious?”

He swiveled his raptor gaze toward her. “I find everything suspicious about it, Ms. Olson. I was suspicious of everything Richard did…every friend he had…every mess he wanted me to bail him out of. Well, finally he got into a mess that no one could bail him out of. I’m convinced it was an accident, Ms. Olson…but I’m also convinced it just doesn’t matter a good goddamn. If he hadn’t died that night on Marlboro Avenue, he’d probably be in jail now. My son was a poor, confused, weak, and manipulative little shit bird, Ms. Olson, and it doesn’t surprise me one steer turd of an iota that he ended up with bottom-dweller losers like Jorgé Esposito and Donald Borden and Gennie former-Mrs. Esposito Smiley.”

“And their disappearance?” said Syd.

Dallas Trace laughed, and for the first time it sounded sincere. “These people perfect turning their whole lives into a disappearing act, Ms. Olson. You know that. It’s what they do. It’s what my son did. And now he’s gone for good and nothing I can do, or you can find out, will bring him back.”

Dallas Trace jumped to his feet—he moved very fast for a man in his sixties, Dar noticed again—pulled the tape from the machine, gave it to Syd, and opened the office door.

“And now, if there’s nothing else I can help you both with today….”

Dar and Syd got to their feet and moved to the door.

“There is one other thing I was curious about,” said Syd. “Your contribution to the Helpers of the Helpless.”

The dark eyebrows became almost vertical exclamation points. “What? If you don’t mind my bluntness, Ms. Olson, what in the sacred halls of fuckdom does that have to do with anything?”

“You contributed a large amount to that charity last year,” said Syd. “How much was it?”

“I have no idea,” said Trace. “You’d have to ask my accountant.”

“A quarter of a million dollars, I believe,” said Syd.

“Then I’m sure you’re correct,” said Trace, opening the door wider. “You’re a good investigator, Ms. Olson. But if you have that figure, you must also know that Mrs. Trace and I are active in—and contribute to—more than two dozen charities. The…what do they call themselves again?”

“The Helpers of the Helpless,” said Syd.

“The Helpers of the Helpless serve the Hispanic community,” said Trace. “It may also surprise you to know that I do quite a bit of pro bono work for the Hispanic community in this state…especially the poor immigrants who are constantly being persecuted…and not infrequently persecuted by the state’s attorney’s office.”

“I am aware of the wide range of charities which you and Mrs. Trace support,” said Syd. “You’re a generous man, Counselor Trace. And you have been more than generous with your time. Thank you.” She held out her hand.

Trace hesitated in surprise, and then shook both Dar’s hand and hers.

Once in the basement parking garage, Dar said, “Interesting. Now where?”

“One more stop,” said Syd.

It had been a long while since Dar had been to L.A.’s County Medical Center. It was the largest hospital in Los Angeles County and still growing—at least two new additions were being noisily built as Syd found them a parking space on the sixth upper level.

The hospital smelled like all hospitals smell, had the same miserable lighting—that fluorescent glow, like decaying vegetation, that seems to illuminate all the blood under the skin—and the same background noises of coughs, weak voices, laughing nurses, phones ringing, doctors being paged, and rubber soles on linoleum. Dar hated hospitals.

Syd led them through the halls as if giving him a tour, using her chief investigator ID to gain access to the emergency room, the intensive care center, the birthing ward, the patient rooms, and even the scrub room outside of surgery.

Dar figured it out quickly enough. In addition to the doctors, nurses, interns, orderlies, candy stripers, custodians, administrators, patients, and visitors, there was one other conspicuous presence—men and women wearing white jackets adorned with colorful patches. The patches included a red cross, the medical caduceus in gold on a royal blue background, a round shoulder patch showing an eagle with an olive branch—the patch looking like something one of the NASA Apollo astronauts might have worn—and an American flag. But most prominent—on the left breast of each jacket—was a blue square with a large, red capital H centered in it. Inside the upper bars of the H was a smaller gold cross. To Dar, it looked as if someone had kicked a crucifix for a perfect field goal.

They were in one of the waiting areas for the emergency room when Dar made the connection. They had seen personnel with these H jackets pushing carts loaded with magazines, fruit juice, and teddy bears; they had seen two H-jacketed women holding, hugging, and reassuring a wildly weeping Hispanic woman in one of the hospital chapels; there had been H people in intensive care, whispering—in Spanish, Dar remembered—to some of the most serious cases, and here in the emergency room waiting area, a young Hispanic woman in an H jacket was reassuring an entire family. Dar overheard enough to understand that the family was Mexican, immigrants without green cards. Their daughter, who looked to be about eight, had broken her arm. The arm had been set, but the mother was hysterical, the father was literally wringing his hands, the baby was crying, and the girl’s younger brother was on the verge of tears. Dar overheard enough to understand that their fear was that they would be deported now that they had been forced to come to the hospital, but the woman in the H jacket was assuring them in perfect, rapid-fire Spanish that no such thing would happen—that it was against the law, that there would be no report, that they could go home without fear—and that in the morning they could call the Helpers’ Hotline and receive further instructions and help that would keep them healthy and happy and in the country.

“Helpers of the Helpless,” said Dar quietly as they headed out to the parking garage.

“Yes,” said Syd. “I counted thirty-six in our little tour.”

“So?”

“So there are thousands…thousands…of volunteers for Helpers of the Helpless working in L.A. County. They’re in every hospital. It’s even chic for movie stars and Rodeo Drive shopper-matrons to volunteer their time, if their Spanish is good enough. They’ve even begun expanding to serve Vietnamese, Cambodian, Chinese, you name it.”

“So?”

“So it started as a small Catholic charity,” said Syd, “and now it’s grown into a huge, nonprofit machine. The Church found a small-time Hispanic lawyer to head it all up, and now it really has nothing to do with the Catholic Church. You’ll find Helpers in all the San Diego hospitals and medical centers, in Sacramento, all over the Bay Area, and—in the last year or so—in Phoenix, Flagstaff, Las Vegas, Portland, Eugene, Seattle—even as far away as Billings, Montana. In another year it will be nationwide.”

“So?”

“They’re part of it, Dar. They’re part of this huge capping syndicate that’s creating injury mills. They recruit immigrants from everywhere—showing them how to make money on the slip-and-falls and the swoop-and-squats, on industrial accidents and fender benders.”

“So?” said Dar again as they got in the hot car, put the air-conditioner on, and headed for the freeway. “Nothing new about that. Ever since the big insurance companies grew up and litigation became a business, it’s the fastest way for immigrants to get rich in America. Before the Mexicans and Asians, it was the Irish and the Germans and the rest. Nothing new.”

“The scale is what’s new,” said Syd. “We’re not talking about fly-by-night clinics and a few dozen cows and bulls being run by a capper or two, Dar. We’re talking RICO here. We’re talking organized crime on the scale of the Colombian drug dealers and their American connections.” She nodded toward the medical center as they pulled out into traffic. “Doctors and surgeons—legitimate doctors and surgeons—are referring patients to the Helpers for…well, help. The goddamn Mexican consulate makes referrals.”

“So, it makes it easy to recruit more swoop-and-squatters,” said Dar, looking out at the jumble of closely cramped, oversized houses along the freeway. “Big deal.”

“A several-hundred-billion-dollar-a-year big deal,” said Sydney. “And I’m going to find out just who’s behind it. Who’s organizing this monstrosity.”

Dar looked at Syd and only then realized how angry he was. It had all been a lark up to now—letting her be his “bodyguard,” letting her stake him out like the goat in Jurassic Park, showing her his amusing little accidents and tagging along with her in turn, playing Watson to her Sherlock Holmes.

“You think Dallas Trace is behind this?” he said. “Probably the most famous lawyer in America? Mr. CNN answer man? That posturing, West Texas–from–Newark asshole with his silk work shirts and dork knob? You really think someone that famous is the Don Corleone of Southern Cal capping?”

Syd chewed her lip. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Dar. Nothing connects. But all the loose strings seem to point in his direction somehow.”

“You think Dallas Trace ordered his own son to be killed?”

“No, but—”

“You think he killed Esposito, Donald Borden, and the girl, Gennie Smiley?”

“I don’t know. If—”

“You think he’s the head of the Five Families, Chief Investigator? Squeezing it in between his law practice, his book writing, his weekly CNN show, his public appearances, his stints on Nightline and Good Morning America, his charity work, and his nights with that beautiful new child-bride?”

“Don’t get angry,” Syd said.

“Why the hell not? You knew he’d seen my accident reconstruction video before.”

“Yes.”

“So you dragged me in there just so you could watch him and he could see me. On the off chance that he’s the Big Man, you had him take a good look at me, so he would know for sure who to send his hit men after next time.”

“It’s not like that, Dar…”

“Bullshit,” said Dar.

They drove in silence for some time.

“If this conspiracy is as big as I believe it is—” began Syd.

Dar cut her off. “I don’t believe in conspiracies.”

Syd glanced at him.

“I believe in evil institutions,” said Dar, trying to control his anger but unable to keep his words light. “I believe in La Cosa Nostra and shitty car makers and evil people like tobacco merchants and those shitheads who give away baby formula to Third World mothers so they’ll keep on buying their baby formula even while the babies die of diarrhea from the filthy water…” Dar stopped and took a breath. “But conspiracies…no. Plots are like churches or other multicelled organizations—the bigger they get, the dumber they are. The law of inverse IQ.”

“If there are no conspiracies, what do you believe in, Dar?”

“What does it matter?”

“I’m just curious.” Syd’s voice was flat and emotionless now as well.

“Well, let’s see,” said Dar, looking out at the traffic mess ahead of them, the solid wedge of automobiles and trucks moving at ten miles per hour. “I believe in entropy. I believe in the unbounded limits of human perversity and stupidity. I believe in the occasional combination of those three elements to create a Friday in Dallas, Texas, with some asshole named Lee Harvey Oswald who learned to shoot well in the Marines getting a clear field of fire for six seconds…”

Dar stopped speaking. What the hell am I talking about? Had it been Dallas Trace’s arrogance or the death stench of the hospital that had set him off? Maybe he was just going crazy.

After several minutes of silence, Syd said, “And you don’t believe in crusades, either.”

He looked at her. At that moment she was a total stranger to him—certainly not the woman whose company and repartee he had enjoyed so much over the past several days…

“Crusades always end up sacrificing innocents. Like the original Crusades to free the Holy Land,” said Dar harshly. “Sooner or later it’s a fucking Children’s Crusade, and kids are on the front line.”

Syd frowned. “What are you so angry about, Dar? Vietnam? Or your work with the NTSB? The Challenger? What are we—”

“Never mind,” said Dar. He was suddenly very tired. “The grunts in Vietnam had a saying for everything, you know.”

Syd watched the traffic.

“No matter what happened,” said Dar, “the infantrymen would learn to say, ‘Fuck it. It don’t matter. Move on.’”

The traffic stopped. The Taurus stopped. Syd looked at him and there was something more than anger in her eyes.

“You can’t base your philosophy on that. You can’t live like that.”

Dar returned her stare, and only when she looked away did he realize how angry his gaze must have been. “Wrong,” he said. “It’s the only philosophy that lets you live.”

They drove into San Diego in absolute silence. When they were near Syd’s hotel, she said, “I’ll take you up the hill to your condo.”

Dar shook his head. “I’ll walk to the Justice Center from here. They’re releasing my NSX from impoundment this afternoon and I’m meeting the body-shop guy there.”

Syd stopped the car and nodded. She watched him as he got out and stood on the curb. “You’re not going to help me any further with this investigation, are you?” she said at last.

“No,” said Dar.

Syd nodded.

“Thanks for…” began Dar. “Thanks for everything.”

He walked away and did not look back.