Dar was surprised when Sydney called.

“Hey, I was hoping to catch you home. Would you mind some company?”

Dar hesitated only a fraction of a second. “No…I mean, sure. Where are you?”

“In the hall outside your apartment,” said Syd. “Your police protection didn’t even notice us when we came in the back way…carrying a suspicious package.”

“Us?” said Dar.

“I brought a friend,” said Syd. “Shall I knock?”

“Why don’t I just open the door,” said Dar.

Syd was indeed carrying a suspicious package. Dar guessed that it was a rifle or shotgun wrapped in canvas. Her friend was a strikingly handsome Latino a few years younger than Syd or Dar. The man was only of medium height, but he had the muscular presence of a long-ball hitter. His wavy black hair was brushed straight back, he looked lean and comfortable in khaki pants, a khaki windbreaker, and a gray polo shirt, and although he wore cowboy boots, the effect was natural—as if he belonged in them—exactly the opposite of the costume effect that Dallas Trace’s boots had created. He introduced himself as Tom Santana and his handshake was also the opposite of Dallas Trace’s: where Trace had attempted to impress with his bonecrushing intensity, Santana was obviously a very powerful man with the restraint of a gentleman.

“I’ve heard of you, Dr. Minor,” said Tom. “Your reconstruction work is much admired. I’m surprised we haven’t met before.”

“Dar,” said Dar. “And I don’t get out much. But I do know the name Tom Santana…You started out with the CHP Staged Collison Unit and shifted over to the Fraud Division in ninety-two…working undercover. You were the one who blew open the Cambodian and Vietnamese capper gangs in ninety-five and put those two attorneys in jail.”

Santana grinned. He had the smile of a movie star but none of the self-consciousness. “And before that, the Hungarians who literally wrote the book on capping in California,” he said with a laugh. “As long as the Hungarians and the Vietnamese and the Cambodians stayed within their own ethnic group, we couldn’t get to them. But once they started recruiting Mexicans as el toros y la vacas—then I could go undercover.”

“But you’re not undercover anymore,” said Dar.

Tom shook his head. “Too well known for that now. Last couple of years I’ve been heading up FIST…The last year, I’ve been working on and off with Syd here.”

Dar knew that FIST was a Fraud Division acronymic cuteness standing for Fraud Intelligence Specialist Team. And the way this man and Syd acted around each other…just stood so easily together…sat so comfortably on his leather couch next to one another, not too close, not too far apart…Dar did not know what the hell it meant, but he was irritated at himself for feeling some pang about it. How long had he known Chief Investigator Olson anyway? Five days? Did he expect her not to have a life before that? Before what?

“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?”