The Fallen

Van Flyke was tall and well built. Dark suit, white shirt, yellow tie. He was big-faced, like many actors or professional athletes are, and his red-brown hair was combed back from his face with brisk aggression. His hand was dry and strong.

A quiet young man in a shirt and tie appeared with a tray and coffee for three. He had suspenders over his shoulders and an automatic holstered at his hip. He handed McKenzie her cup with a brief smile, then left. The room was washed in sharp March light and through the windows you could see taller buildings and a slice of bay and a palm tree. McKenzie flipped open her notepad and propped it against her knee.

Van Flyke sat forward and studied each of us in turn. His hands rested on two green folders. ‘Have you run the GSR test?’ His voice was deep but soft.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Negative.’

‘No chance of suicide?’

‘Very little.’

‘How many rounds left in the gun?’

‘Eight,’ I said. ‘We recovered an empty from the dashboard of the Explorer.’

‘Did they take anything?’ he asked.

‘He wasn’t robbed,’ McKenzie said, writing. ‘Not that we know at this point.’

Van Flyke lifted his cup of coffee and looked at McKenzie. His brow was heavy and his eyes were blue and set deep. ‘This is difficult. Garrett was a very close friend. He was my best investigator, I was hurt by what he and Stella had been through with their little girl. Truly hurt. You didn’t know him, did you?’

‘We’re getting to know him,’ said McKenzie. ‘If we knew what he was doing for you, it would help a lot.’

‘I’ll bet it would. Witnesses?’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

Van Flyke’s expression brightened, like a dog catching a scent. ‘Oh?’

I told him about Mr Red Ferrari standing off in the bushes.

‘What time?’

‘We’re not at liberty to discuss that,’ said McKenzie.

Van Flyke deadpanned her. ‘Here’s something we can discuss.’

He handed each of us a green folder.

‘Garrett was looking into two different areas for me,’ said Van Flyke. ‘One was the antiterrorism watch – Homeland Security R&D contractors, mostly out in Spook Valley. Right now there’s more money than sense out there. About seven billion federal dollars, nationwide, just looking to get spent. Spook Valley is after its share. Erik – our director, Erik Kaven – believes it’s a potential hot point. Garrett was also looking into the Budget Oversight Committee – Abel Sarvonola’s group. Dull stuff, but big money. Lots of hands out, lots of paths that cross.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘We appreciate this.’

I got the Homeland Security file. It started with a long list of companies addressing security problems. Most dealt in information, security, and biomedical technology and software, but there were also makers of personal flight modules, solarpowered biohazard warning systems and ‘hit-stop’ handguns. Names, phone numbers, addresses. Typewritten and handwritten notes followed – I assumed they were Garrett Asplundh’s.

I traded files with McKenzie. Now I was looking at a list of departments and commissions, boards, committees, councils, and authorities. This was Abel Sarvonola’s brew for sure. His powers as Budget Oversight Committee chairman were well known enough to be joked about at moneyconscious PD headquarters. When does a dollar disappear on its own? As soon as it’s Abel’s. And so on. His appointment to the Budget Oversight Committee was part-time and paid only a small per diem when the committee was in session. Sarvonola was a big part of the La Costa Resort development in north county back in the seventies. There had been talk of Teamster pension funds and mob involvement in the building of that swank resort, but Sarvonola had come through it very clean and extremely rich.

I saw that in addition to being involved in the many arms of San Diego’s government, Garrett Asplundh also knew the players in San Diego’s biggest industries – hospitality, development, entertainment, and consumer technology. There they were, the sports owners, financiers, tech billionaires, land developers, biomedical-research companies, and old money that ruled the city. This was the powerful private sector that the Ethics Authority was entrusted to keep from getting too chummy with the various branches of the city bureaucracy.

‘Why would an Ethics Authority investigator rent a Testarossa at four-fifty a night?’ asked McKenzie.

‘An occasional expense for cultivating his sources,’ said Van Flyke. He raised a heavy brow as if entertaining his own answer.

‘Cultivating his sources,’ I said.

‘Of course. Or, in some cases, maybe he was trying to foster an impression of corruptibility.’

I heard McKenzie’s pen racing to get those words down. I hadn’t thought of using Ethics Authority investigators that way – trying to lure someone into doing something illegal. Such law-enforcement tactics are proactive and dangerous. But I knew that Van Flyke’s days at the DEA had certainly taught him how to orchestrate an entrapment that would stand up in court.

‘You let your investigators do that?’ asked McKenzie.

‘I give my investigators trust, respect, and independence.’

Van Flyke’s remote blue eyes went from me to McKenzie and back to me again. ‘He was a good man.’

Neither McKenzie nor I spoke.

‘A person’s life can change so fast,’ he said quietly. ‘A pivot. A moment. An event that takes a fraction of a second but lasts a lifetime. Garrett comprehended that. It gave him depth and understanding.’

He sighed and looked out the window.

‘Are you talking about the death of his daughter?’ I asked.

‘Of course I am.’

In the back of each folder was a list of complaints filed, fines issued, convictions won, or indictments handed down based on Garrett Asplundh’s investigations. Most of the offenders were city contractors, some were city employees themselves. There were fines for violations of the Business and Professions Code, the Government Code, and the Civil Code. A city Building Department supervisor was discharged for taking a bribe. A city Purchasing Department employee was reprimanded for the ‘appearance of favoritism.’ I didn’t see anything worth killing a man over, but I hadn’t been fired or called down.

‘Were his current investigations heating up?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ said Van Flyke. He had returned his attention from the window and now stared at me. ‘Garrett was making progress in both areas. I printed and attached Garrett’s notes to the end of each file. You can get a feel for where he was, how people were reacting to us.’

‘Are those his complete notes?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Everything he submitted.’

I watched a hawk with something in its beak fly into the palm tree outside. The fronds shimmered in the winter light and the hawk disappeared into them. I thought for a moment. I pictured Garrett’s apartment. It still seemed to me that something was missing. There just wasn’t enough, not for a man as orderly and intensely focused as Garrett Asplundh seemed to be. For someone who, as his ex-wife had said, went through so much. I thought about the checks made out to Uptown Management. The hawk dropped out of the tree, spread its wings, and rose straight over us. I saw the stripes on its tail and the gleam of its eye.

I asked Van Flyke about the underlined entry in Garrett’s datebook for next Wednesday, March 16. From my notes I read it back to him: Kaven, JVF & ATT GEN.

‘That would translate as Director Kaven, myself, and a lawyer from the state attorney general’s office. Garrett was going to present his findings. Together we were going to decide which cases to intensify and which ones to drop.’

‘If the attorney general was involved, Garrett must have had some serious evidence,’ I said.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Van Flyke. ‘The meetings are semiannual and routine.’

‘The underline looked more than routine,’ I said.

‘I can only tell you what I know,’ said Van Flyke.