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?”