vi = √ 02 - 2(-0.79)(32.2)(132)
vi = 82 ft/sec = 55.7 mi/hr
The van’s velocity when there are twenty-nine feet left to skid can be done in the same way. The only value that changes is the value for distance, d. So that equation would read—
vi = √ ve2 - 2ad
vi = √ 02 - 2(-0.79)(32.2)(29)
vi = 38.4 ft/sec = 26 mi/hr
That was the van’s speed at impact. And that would become Mr. Kodiak’s speed as he became airborne at impact. This equation works with tall-fronted vans, by the way, but won’t work with most smaller cars.”
Syd nodded. “The vertical grille of a truck or tall van produces a flat-on impact, near the pedestrian’s center of mass,” she said. “A regular sedan or a smaller car would hit below that center of mass and throw the victim onto the hood or over the roof of the car.”
“Yep,” said Dar. “Or cut him in half.” He looked back at the equations on the screen. “So because Ms. Gennie was driving this rental van and got Dickie front on with the grille, the math is simple. We just have to know the typical values for pedestrian drag factors over various surfaces.”
He tapped a key. The screen read—
SURFACE
RANGE
Grass
.45–.70
Asphalt
.45–.60
Concrete
.40–.65
“And Marlboro Avenue?” said Syd.
“Asphalt.” Dar typed in the pedestrian drag factor, f, as 0.45.
“The value for this particular pedestrian’s center of mass height, h, was—2.2 feet,” said Dar. “And the measured distance between the initial contact point of impact—confirmed by the shoe he left behind and the scuff marks from the other shoe—to his final position as determined by blood and body scuff marks was seventy-two feet. So we substitute those values into the above equation—
df = 2fh - 2h√ f 2 - fd/h
df = 2(.45)(-2.2)-2(-2.2) √ (.45) 2 - (.45)(72)/(-2.2)
df = 15ft
“So the velocity at the beginning of Mr. Kodiak’s fall—that is, his separation from the braking van—calculates out as—
v = df √ -g/2h
v = 15 √ -32/2(-2.2)
v = 40.6 ft/sec = 27.6 mi/hr
Which is consistent with the earlier skid analysis,” said Dar.
“So she actually hit him doing about twenty-seven miles per hour, braking from a top speed of almost fifty-six miles per hour,” said Syd.
“Fifty-five point seven,” agreed Dar.
“And he flew backwards seventy-two feet from the point of impact, coming to rest on his back with his head farthest from the van,” continued the chief investigator.
“As ninety-nine-plus percent of pedestrians hit straight on by such a van would,” said Dar. “That’s why Larry and I knew that foul play was involved as soon as we saw the officer’s photographs.” He tapped at keys until the equations disappeared from the screen and the original animated street scene returned. Another tap got rid of all the numerical values of lighting, curb height, skid length, and so forth.
Two male figures stepped out of the building. The van screeched around the corner from Fountain Boulevard and began accelerating madly down Marlboro Avenue. One of the men pushed the other man, who stumbled into the street, almost fell, and then righted himself just as the skidding van slammed into him. The body flew a long distance, landed on its back, and skidded farther, finally coming to a stop. The van pulled away and accelerated around the corner of the next intersection, cutting off a Ford Taurus that stopped. A man got out, knelt by the victim, and then ran west, disappearing around the corner to go to his friend’s apartment to call 911.
“We found blood, hair, and brain matter on the right wheel, the hub of the right wheel, the front transaxle, the shocks, and on part of the catalytic converter of the van,” said Dar tonelessly.
In the animation, the van comes around the corner from Fountain Boulevard again, slows as it approaches the supine figure in the highway, then drives over it and backs up, dragging the body almost half the distance it had been thrown from the initial impact. Finally the body scrapes free, head pointed to the east, toward the van, as the rented vehicle continues to back up onto its own skid marks and finally comes to a stop.
“She had to finish the job,” said Syd.
Dar nodded.
“What did the jury have to say when they saw this animation?” asked the chief investigator.
Dar smiled. “No jury. No trial. I showed this to Detective Ventura as well as to the Accident Investigations people, but no one was interested. By this time, Donald and Gennie had dropped their lawsuit against the owner of the apartment building—I think it was because I confronted them with the light-meter readings—and settled with the van rental people for fifteen thousand dollars.”
Syd shifted in her chair and stared at Dar. “You have absolute proof that these two killed Richard Kodiak and the LAPD dropped it.”
“They said it was just another fag killing, ‘another garden-variety homocide,’ to quote the venerable Detective Ventura,” said Dar.
“I always thought that Ventura was an ass,” said Syd. “Now I know.”
Dar nodded, chewed his lip, and looked at the animation repeating itself on the screen. The human figure was hit, hurled, the van drove away, returned, drove over it again—dragging it back toward the front vestibule of the building, crushing the skull. The animation began again with two male figures, featureless, emerging from the well-lighted lobby…
“Lawrence’s clients…the rental people…were happy to settle for the fifteen grand,” he began.
“Wait a minute,” said Syd. “Wait a minute.” She went over to her big leather tote bag and pulled a top-of-the-line Apple PowerBook from it.
As she set the computer up on the table next to Dar’s PC equipment, he looked at her dubiously, the way a Lutheran would have regarded a Catholic in the seventeenth century. Apple people and PC people rarely mix well.
Syd brought her computer to life. “Gennie Smiley,” she repeated. “Donald Borden. Richard Kodiak. These names ring a bell…”
Columns of data flowed down her portable screen. She hurriedly typed in a search command. “Ahh,” she said, typed again, watched data whirl by and stop again. “Ahah!” she said.
“I like ‘Ahah!’” said Dar. “What?”
“Did you and Lawrence check into the backgrounds of these three…lovers?” asked Syd.
“Sure we did,” said Dar. “As much as we could without treading on Detective Ventura’s toes. It was his case. We found that the victim—Mr. Richard Kodiak—had three addresses in addition to the Rancho la Bonita residence given on his driver’s license: all in California—one in East L.A., one in Encinitas, and one in Poway. Tracing his social security number, we found his listed employment as CALSURMED with no address. In old telephone listings, Trudy found a California Sure-Med listed in Poway, but the business is no longer in existence and all information regarding it has been purged from city records. Then we checked with the Poway post office and found that the Poway address was the same as that listed for the CALSURMED business—box number 616840. We suggested to the Accident Investigation team and Detective Ventura that they check with the Los Angeles and San Diego counties’ Fictitious Business Filings under both the subject’s name and the CALSURMED and California Sure-Med listings. They never followed up.”
Syd was grinning at her computer screen. “You know those red pins on my map?”
“The fatal swoop-and-squats?” said Dar. “Yeah?”
“California Sure-Med was the health provider for six of the victims. A certain Dr. Richard Karnak was instrumental in testifying in the liability cases.”
“You think Richard Karnak equals Dickie Kodiak?”
“I don’t have to guess,” said Syd. “Do you have a photo of the victim? When he was alive, I mean?”
Dar fumbled through the file and came up with a small passport pho
to labeled KODIAK, RICHARD R. Syd had tapped keys, and a high-resolution black-and-white photo filled a third of her PowerBook’s screen. It was the same photograph.
“And Donald Borden?” said Dar.
“Alias Daryl Borges, alias Don Blake,” said Syd, calling up a photograph and data column on the other man. “Eight priors—five for fraud, three for assault and battery.” She looked at Dar and her eyes were bright. “Mr. Borges was a member of an East L.A. gang until he was twenty-eight, but now he works for an attorney…a certain Jorgé Murphy Esposito.”
“Shit,” Dar said delightedly. “And Gennie Smiley. That has to be fake.”
“Nope,” said Syd, looking at another column of data. “But it wasn’t her current legal name, either. She was married seven years ago.”
“Gennie Borges?” guessed Dar.
“Sí,” said Syd, and her grin grew broader. “But Smiley was an earlier married name…married briefly to a Mr. Ken Smiley who died in a car accident seven years ago. Can you guess her maiden name?”
Dar looked at Syd for a quiet minute.
“Gennie Esposito,” said Syd at last. “Sister to the ubiquitous attorney.”
Dar looked back at his screen where the van continued hitting the pedestrian, accelerating away out of sight into the night, and then returning to run over the poor man again…and again.
“They know I know this,” muttered Dar. “But for some reason they felt threatened by me.”
“It is murder,” said Syd.
Dar shook his head. “The LAPD had already passed on the whole matter…the rental people settled… Donnie and Gennie moved to San Francisco. No one was interested. It has to be something else.”
“Whatever else it is,” said Syd, “it points directly at our Attorney Esposito. But there’s something even more interesting here.” She tapped at her computer keys.
Dar caught a glimpse of the PowerBook’s screen as the FBI symbol appeared, an asterisk password was typed, and directories, data, and photographs began flashing by.
“You can access the FBI data banks?” said Dar, surprised. Even ex–special agents did not reserve that privilege.
“I’m officially working with the National Insurance Crime Bureau,” said Syd. “You know, Jeanette from Dickweed’s meeting—her group. It merged with the Insurance Crime Prevention Institute in 1992, and to show its support, the FBI gives the NICB full access to its computer files.”
“That must come in handy,” said Dar.
“Right now it does,” said Syd, pointing to the photograph and fingerprint ID of the late Dickie Kodiak, a.k.a. Dr. Richard Karnak, original legal name—Richard Trace.
“Richard Trace?” said Dar.
“Son of Dallas Trace,” said Syd, tapping more keys and looking at more data.
Dar blinked twice. “Dallas Trace? The big-time, good-old-boy lawyer? The guy in the buckskin vest and bolo tie and long hair who has that stupid legal show on CNN?”
“The same,” said Syd. “Next to Johnny Cochran, America’s best-known and most-loved defense attorney.”
“Bullshit,” said Dar. “Dallas Trace is an arrogant twit. He wins trials with the same tricks that Cochran used in the O. J. trial. And he has a book out—How to Convince Anyone of Almost Anything—but he couldn’t convince me to read it in a thousand years.”
“Nonetheless,” said Syd, “it was his son Richard who was run over and killed—murdered—in your Kodiak-Borden-Smiley van accident.”
“We need to get started on this,” said Dar.
“We just did get started,” said Syd. “The murder attempt on you and my investigation into the fraud-business gang wars are now on the same track. Monday we’ll move ahead on it.”
“Monday?” said Dar, shocked. “But it’s only Saturday afternoon.”
“And I haven’t had a goddamned weekend off in seven months,” snapped Syd, her eyes fierce. “I want one more day off and one more night to sleep in the sheep wagon before this goes any further.”
Dar held both palms up. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had even a Sunday off.”
“Agreed then?” she said.
“Agreed,” Dar said, and held out his hand to shake hers.
She reached up, pulled his face closer to hers, and kissed him firmly, slowly, surely, on the lips. Then she went to the door.
“I’m going to take a nap, but when I come back this evening, I expect steaks to be grilling.”
Dar watched her leave, considered following her, considered kicking himself in the ass, and then drove into town to buy the steaks and some more beer.
CHAPTER TEN
“J IS FOR JORGÉ”
DAR PULLED THE lap belt tight and then tugged the shoulder straps snug as he settled into the L-33 Solo and moved the rudder pedals back and forth to make sure he was comfortable. Ken taxied the towplane forward a bit while his brother, Steve, stood watching the two-hundred-foot-long tow rope lose slack. Ken stopped for a moment. Steve looked over at Dar in the bubble cockpit of the L-33 and made a circular motion with his fist and thumb up, meaning “check controls.” Dar had checked them, and gave the thumbs-up signal for ready to go.
Steve caught his brother’s eye in the towplane and swung his right hand low across his body from left to right. Ken pulled the tow rope taut and glanced back from the single-seater Cessna. Steve looked over at Dar again, who nodded, his right hand comfortably loose on the stick, his left hand on his knee but ready to grab the tow-hook release knob at the first sign of trouble. The towplane began its roll-out and the sailplane jerked slightly and began to bump along behind it off the grass and then down the asphalt runway.
Dar went back through his A-B-C-C-C-D checklist again as he rolled toward takeoff speed: Altimeter, Belts, Controls, Canopy, Cable, Direction. Everything all right. He shifted slightly to get more comfortable. Besides his lap belt and shoulder straps, he was strapped into a model 305 Strong Para-Cushion Chair parachute—the integrated seat pad putting something between his butt and the metal seat, and the inflatable air bladders along the back of the chute giving him much better back support than the upright strip of metal offered by the plane’s seat. Most sailplane pilots of Dar’s acquaintance disdained parachutes, but two of those he’d known had died for the lack of them: one in a totally foolish midair collision above Mount Palomar a few miles to the north, and the other in a highly improbable accident doing loops in his high-performance glider when the left wing simply detached.
Dar liked both the physical comfort of the integrated chute seat under him and the mental comfort of having the chute aboard.
The sailplane left the ground before the towplane, of course, and Dar held it a firm six feet above the runway until Ken got the Cessna airborne in a few hundred feet, and then Dar expertly put the L-33 in the normal “high tow” position, staying just about level with Ken’s little Cessna and just above the towplane’s wake. Officially, Dar was using a standard mountain-country technique of keeping his glider aligned properly with the towplane—that is, keeping the towplane at a fixed position on his windshield just above the sailplane’s simple instrument console—but in truth he was using the skilled pilot’s trick of just placing himself where he wanted to be in relationship to the towplane and staying there. This skill required a certain amount of precognition and telepathy, but after being aero-towed by Ken several hundred times, both those elements were there.
It was a beautiful morning with unlimited visibility, a gentle three-knot wind out of the west, and lovely thermals building in the foothills and mountains around the valley airstrip. But when they had gained a thousand feet of altitude, Dar could see a storm front far to the west. It would be moving in over the coast soon and would spoil the day’s soaring within a few hours.
They climbed at a steady rate as the towplane turned north and then west, then continued climbing as the Cessna turned them back onto a northeasterly course, toward Mount Palomar and into the wind. At the prearranged altitude of two thousand feet, Dar let the t
ension on the towline grow taut so that Ken could feel the imminent release. Then Dar pulled the release knob twice, saw and felt the towrope go free, and banked into a right climbing turn as Ken dropped the Cessna into a steep left descent.
Then the L-33 was on its own, lifting into the thermals rising from the foothills and steep ridges north of the airfield, and Dar settled back to enjoy silence broken only by the lulling and informative rush of air over the metal wings and fuselage.
Dar had awakened early that Sunday morning, prepared coffee, set out bagels, cereal, and a note for Syd, and was prepared to leave for the Warner Springs gliderport when Syd herself showed up at the door, dressed again in jeans with a red cotton shirt this day and a light khaki vest with many pockets. Her holster and pistol were on her belt under the vest.
“I was out for a walk,” she said. “Are you skipping out on me?”
“Yep,” Dar said, and explained.
“I’d love to go along.”
Dar hesitated. “It’s boring just standing around the field waiting,” he said. “You’d have a better time hanging around here and reading the Sunday paper… I can drive down to the junction and get it. They have a paper dispenser near the row of mailboxes.”
“Won’t you let me fly with you?” she asked.
“No,” said Dar, hearing more harshness in the syllable than he had meant. “I mean, my sailplane is a one-seater.”
“I’d still like to go watch,” said Syd. “And remember, I’m not really your guest this weekend, I’m your bodyguard.”
So they rinsed a Thermos with hot water and filled it with coffee, put some bagels in a bag, drove back through the little town of Julian on Highway 78 and then turned north and west through canyons on Highway 79 before coming out into the broad valley at Warner Springs.
Syd was surprised at how small his sailplane was. “It’s not much more than a pod, a boom, wings, and a tail,” she said as he unlashed the tie-down cords.