A photo appeared of a plump, vaguely Hispanic-looking man with perfect hair, a smile as broad as Father Martin’s, and an obviously expensive suit and tie. “This is the attorney Father Martin turned his dream over to,” said Syd. “Counselor William Rogers…You probably know his name, an important attorney with several offices in East L.A. and impeccable political connections. Rogers is a well-known fund-raiser and was the number two man in the election efforts of L.A.’s current mayor. Father Martin hoped that Attorney Rogers would head up the Helpers of the Helpless and keep the charity going after he—Father Martin—retired.”

“Did Mr. Rogers agree?” asked Lawrence.

“Not quite,” said Syd. “Rogers set up a codirectorship, with his wife, Maria, sharing the leadership with a community activist and one of Rogers’s own investigators, Juan Barriga.”

Barriga’s photo joined that of Rogers on the Helpers row of the pyramid. The men and women around the table nodded. They all knew that investigators working for attorneys who specialized in liability cases all too often found insurance fraud irresistible, these men and women spent their lives and careers interviewing slip-and-fall artists, swoop-and-squat experts, cappers, Medicaid cheats, flop artists, accident gangs, unethical doctors, professional whiplash victims, and fraudulent claimants of every sort. More important, the investigators invariably saw how quickly most insurance companies settled with these claimants to avoid more costly litigation.

“Juan Barriga has spent the past three years setting up a network of attorneys and doctors to work with those referred from Helpers of the Helpless. Both Bill and Maria Rogers select the Helpers volunteers personally. In addition, the Helpers of the Helpless receive referrals from the Mexican, Colombian, El Salvadoran, Costa Rican, Panamanian, and other consulates, as well as from Catholic parishes and various Protestant churches from all over the state.”

Photos of some of these attorneys and doctors appeared in the pyramidal flowchart. Some of the attorneys were familiar, Esposito and the late Abraham Willis among them, but some of the others—Robert Armann, a former deputy district attorney now known as the most effective and popular member of the Beverly Hills City Council; Hanop Semerdjian, a respected civil rights attorney and spokesman for Southern California’s Armenian community; and Harry El-more, a former U.S.C. football hero who went on to medical school and then to open free clinics in the worst sections of San Diego and L.A.—were faces that everyone stared at in shocked silence.

“Is your task force blowing smoke here, Investigator Olson?” CHP Captain Tom Sutton asked bluntly. “This looks more like a grab for media attention than a serious investigation.”

Syd turned away from the screen and met the big CHP captain’s gaze without showing any rancor. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it, Tom? But it’s real. We’ve had a grand jury sitting for three months and we’re going to get indictments…all the way up to Mr. Dallas Trace.”

“Why are you telling us this now?” asked Frank Hernandez.

Syd turned off the projector and flipped on the overhead lights. She remained standing. “Because our investigation is moving into high gear and it will be on your turf, gentlemen. This is confidential information—”

“There are several ongoing investigations, and not just within the LAPD,” said Lieutenant Barr from Internal Affairs. “Any leaking of this information would be…most unfortunate.”

While the law enforcement officers glared at Lieutenant Barr, Syd said, “This…Alliance…backed up by Yaponchik, Zuker, and other muscle imported from the Russian Organizatsiya…is doing to the fraud business what the Colombians brought to drug sales more than twenty years ago in this country—serious organization, huge profits, and an almost unbelievable level of violence.”

“So what do you want from us?” asked Hernandez. “You’ve got the state resources behind you…as well as the NICB and FBI. What can we peons offer?”

“Liaison,” said Syd. “Communications when necessary. Access to forensic labs and personnel when speed and location demand a local response. Cooperation, so that we don’t end up working against one another…or shooting at one another.”

Hernandez pulled a cigarette from a pack in his sport-coat pocket, glowered at the ubiquitous No Smoking sign near the door, and let the unlit cigarette dangle from his lip. “OK. What’s your plan?”

“I’m going to be going undercover again,” said Tom Santana. “I’ll create a cover story of being an illegal, get into the system via one of the medical centers, and check out the Helpers of the Helpless from the inside.”

Despite himself, Dar said, “Is that wise, Tom? After the publicity on your busts of the Asian gangs a few years ago…”

Santana smiled. His boss, Bob Gauss, said, “That’s what I told him, Dr. Minor. But Tom thinks that hoodlums have a short memory. And because he’s technically task force commander of FIST, I can’t order him not to do it.”

Dar started to speak again but shut up instead. He looked at Sydney. She was looking at Santana and seemed to be worried, but she went on with the end of her briefing. “Tom will infiltrate the Helpers. We’re trying to follow the Russian trail through the attempts on Dar Minor’s life. Meanwhile, Dr. Minor and Mr. and Mrs. Stewart are going to loan us their expertise to prove that several of these fatal accidents were either staged or actual acts of murder. Their information, analysis, surveillance data, and accident reconstruction will flow through us to the NICB and then to the grand jury.”

A media cart in the corner held a TV monitor and VCR. Now Syd picked up a second remote control and turned on the monitor and rolled a video. She kept the sound muted. It was a tape of a recent airing of Dallas Trace’s weekly CNN show, Objection Sustained.

“Sometimes Trace tapes in New York,” said Sydney Olson, “but usually it’s more convenient for him to broadcast from his office in L.A. Before this year is out, I want our people to walk in front of those cameras…while they’re live…and arrest that supercilious son of a bitch. I want his TV series to end with him being led away in handcuffs.” She flicked the other remote and the computer projector showed the faces of the dead Gomez children on the screen while Dallas Trace’s silent image laughed.

After the meeting, Dar wanted to talk to Syd, but she had a scheduled meeting with Poulsen and Warren, so he walked into the old courthouse part of the Justice Center with Lawrence and Trudy. Lawrence was still testifying at a liability claims trial that was starting in a few minutes, and Trudy needed to get back to the office in Escondido.

Before they parted ways, Dar said, “Are you guys sure you want to be part of this task force?”

“We already are,” said Lawrence. “We were involved in both the Esposito and Richard Kodiak investigations; we might as well keep going.”

“Plus the NICB is putting us on retainer,” Trudy said again.

“I’m surprised you changed your mind, though, Dar,” said Lawrence. “You’ve seen dead kids at accident scenes before.”

“More than I could count,” said Dar. “But that was no accident, and I can’t just walk away from a multiple murder after I’ve seen the victims being set up.”

“I was talking to Tom Sutton,” said Trudy. “We’re going to depose the truck driver of the car carrier later today, but they’ve already interviewed him pretty extensively. There were three swoop cars involved, but the driver didn’t really get a look at any of the drivers or license tags. He was too busy trying to avoid the Gomez car ahead of him.”

“Three swoop cars?” said Dar. Rarely were there more than one or two swoop cars.

Trudy nodded. “Two to box in the truck. One to break hard in front of the Gomezes. All the truck driver could remember about the cars blocking him was that they were American-made, possibly a Chevy to his right, that he thinks they were driven by white guys, and that the cars were at least ten years old.”