CHAPTER 1

THE OPERATIVE WORD

Shaking her head in disgust at the latest antics of the so-called richest man in the world, the Sovereign turned away from the news and strode over to a window, sweeping her sharp gaze across a chain of snowy mountains. Then she dropped her eyes to the frozen lake below and the frosted trees surrounding it. Just outside the window, thick icicles framed this hostile landscape, the sight of which was, for her, the highlight of each and every one of these meetings.

“I can’t stand that clown,” said one of her co-conspirators in reference to the same individual, the one generally considered to have amassed the greatest fortune on the planet, but who in reality was simply the person held up for the population to love or hate.

A concordant murmur rose up from among all those gathered around the long conference table, who knew firsthand that the truly ultra-rich preferred to remain in the shadows.

This relatively lighthearted moment had come on the heels of a discussion about a politician whom this group had been planning to install as the President of the United States, but the fool had died in the most appalling display of weakness that the Sovereign—who was invariably referred to by that name, and her face never shown to anyone who did not absolutely need to see it—had ever witnessed. She spun on her heel to return to her chair at the head of the table, and as she did, she nodded to another one of her allies, vowing to herself that from then on she would keep a closer eye on her pawns.

The man she’d prompted with a nod—code name “the Chancellor”—was a thin-faced man in his forties. He was impeccably dressed, immaculately groomed, and his features showed no trace of emotion. Seated in the center of the men and women on the left side of the table, with a massive LED display mounted on the wall behind him, he actually was one of the world’s richest men (but not the richest person in the room, thought the Sovereign with great satisfaction).

The Chancellor cleared his throat and said, “On to the next item of business, which involves one of our West Coast corporations.” He pressed a button on a remote control, calling to the screen a chiseled face, that of a man in his sixties dressed in a dark suit and tie. “This is Vincent Tyson. In case you haven’t heard of him, Tyson is well known throughout the State of California for his impressive record as a high-profile defense attorney. But, for the first time in his career, he’s found himself in a spot of trouble.”

At that, the two men standing guard at the door looked to the Sovereign, their unspoken question being whether it was time to dispose of the Chancellor, but she shook her head imperceptibly. Not just yet.

***

Having agonized over what she was about to do, Chief Deputy District Attorney Lynn Peters finally reached for her desktop phone and punched in an extension.

“This is Cammie O’Mara,” came a younger woman’s voice on the line.

“Good morning,” said Lynn Peters crisply. “Do you have a moment?”

“Yes, ma’am. Be right up.”

Peters pictured Cammie sashaying confidently from her office to the elevators, catching everyone’s eye with that beaming grin and her perfect rear end swishing from side to side. As bright as any other person working at the Hall of Justice, this new deputy district attorney wasn’t nearly as loyal as Peters had initially expected. The latter felt a selfish pang of regret for having hired the girl when she spotted her through the window, sweeping past the executive receptionist with a winning smile.

There came a knock at the door. “Come in,” said Peters.

Cammie did just that and settled herself primly into a chair on the other side of her boss’s desk. Her glossy black hair fell straight past her ears, almost to her shoulders, and her fine features expressed an innocence that Peters now found false.

“I can’t believe you’ve been here for three years already,” the blond-haired chief prosecutor began, forcing a smile.

“I know,” said the younger attorney. “It’s all gone so fast.”

“Ha! I’ll bet.”

“Gotta start somewhere. I know you paid your dues.”

“Yes, I did. At any rate, you’ve done an outstanding job,” Peters said. “How’d you like to work in the Major Violators Unit? Dea Bladet could use your help.”

Deputy District Attorney Cammie O’Mara’s face brightened at once, but it didn’t stay like that for long. Shortly thereafter she was sitting at a table in the corner of the same office, scribbling on a yellow legal pad while Peters briefed her and DDA Dea Bladet (pronounced blah-day) on the facts of the case at hand.

“The lead prosecutor is the U.S. Attorney’s Office,” Peters informed them. “They’ve filed separate actions against Southern Trust—one up north and another down here in San Diego—and instructed us to coordinate directly with the LA County DA’s Office. Until recently, the charges were only political and financial—money laundering, bribery, that sort of thing—so John Roche over in Economic Crimes was handling it on our end, but—” Peters stopped to shoot Dea Bladet an irritated look. “What?”

The head of the Major Violators Unit, whose striking red hair matched her passion for justice, among other pursuits, had turned to Cammie to flash her a suggestive wink at the mention of DDA Roche. Quickly Bladet apologized for the interruption.

“Anyway,” Peters went on, “now that seven key witnesses have been silenced—five in LA and two down here—the judge has declared a mistrial. USAO has launched a new investigation and appointed me the task force liaison for San Diego.”

“No homicide charges yet?” asked Bladet.

“Not even a suspect,” said Peters briskly as she came to the part she’d been dreading. “Now, you will be working with Dom Taylor, an investigator with whom I believe you are well acquainted.” This last remark, while true for both of her deputy prosecutors, had been aimed at Cammie and coupled with a four-second stare. “I have a conference in a few minutes, so I’ll leave it to him to fill you in on the rest.”

Take it easy on her, Peters told herself as she shut the door behind her subordinates a little too hard. It’s your own damn fault.

***

“It’s her fault,” affirmed DA Investigator Dominick Taylor. “Lynn’s the one who broke up with me.”

“Wouldn’t the anti-fraternization policy apply to everyone?” asked Sean Choi, a technical analyst assigned to Taylor’s office.

“You mean does it apply to me and Cammie O’Mara. No. Absolutely not.”

Choi’s face was narrow and delicate, his body skinny, but his gaze was as sharp as a razor’s edge. He leveled a skeptical pair of eyes on his friend and mentor.

“It doesn’t,” Taylor insisted. “First of all, it’s an anti-harassment policy, not an anti-fraternization policy, which establishes guidelines rather than official rules.”

“Found it,” said Choi, after using his tablet to search for the document in question, quoting some of its text. “Personal relationships between employees, particularly those involving supervisory roles, are strongly discouraged as they may create conflicts of interest, favoritism, or disrupt workplace harmony.”

“Supervisory roles being the operative term. Plus, these guidelines aren’t enforced or even discussed until you get up into the higher ranks. The political ones.”

“Like a certain chief deputy gunning for assistant DA.”

“Exactly.” Out of the corner of his eye, Taylor detected movement on the far side of his interior window, so he heaved his powerful frame out of his chair and strode to the door to open it for Bladet and O’Mara.

Minutes later, Cammie O’Mara was scribbling on the same yellow legal pad as before, and as Taylor spoke, every so often she’d look up at him with an inviting expression. “Southern Trust,” she repeated, taking down the name of the investment firm facing legal action. “Got it. And what was the name of the first victim again? The one with the shellfish allergy.”

“Ronald Green,” said Taylor. “He was the firm’s private equity director. His whole table was served the same steak tartare mixed with tropomyosin and ricin. But he wasn’t the first victim. Remember, the LA branch was hit first and much harder.”

“The ricin made everyone sick but the tropomyosin killed only Green,” noted Bladet. “Clever.”

Taylor nodded. “It was. Threw Green off for long enough that he didn’t think to use his EpiPen.”

“What do we know about the killer?” asked Bladet, recrossing her long and muscular legs. The red-haired prosecutor was clad in a navy blue pant suit that made no attempt to hide her impressive figure.

“Not much. She used a fake ID when she got the job just before the event, wore gloves while serving the food, and kept her face turned away from the cameras the entire time.”

“She must have cased the Convention Center beforehand,” said Cammie, glancing up from her notes with that same look again. Taylor paused for a moment to reflect upon their budding relationship. He was smitten, but she was pretty young.

“Were there any pictures taken at the event?” Bladet wondered. “You know, by the organizer or the attendees.”

“Good question,” said Sean Choi. “That’s one of the things we’re going to look into today. Now, as for the second murder, Michael Schmidt was the head of business development for Southern Trust San Diego. He died yesterday in his office from respiratory failure secondary to acute nicotine poisoning. The tox report showed six hundred times the amount normally found in a smoker’s body, and chemical analysis of his cigarettes revealed a similar altered concentration. That means someone switched out his smokes with doctored ones, but again the killer was careful. CSI found no useful prints and the surveillance system recorded nothing. The cameras had been malfunctioning for several days.”

“Right,” said Bladet.

Cammie scrunched up her lips thoughtfully. Then she said, “It’s not easy to tamper with cigarettes while preserving their original appearance.”

“Nor to enter a busy building undetected in broad daylight,” added Choi. “That’s what’s remarkable about all this. The LA murders were made to look like accidents. There was a fire, a stray bullet in a drive-by shooting, failed brakes on a car, an apparent suicide, and a boating collision. With no evidence left whatsoever.”

“We’re dealing with professionals,” DAI Taylor said, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. “But there’s always something you can learn from the scene, so Choi and I are going out to see what that is. In the meantime, I suggest y’all meet with Johnny Roche, who should be able to bring you up to speed on the mistrial. Also, head over to the intake unit to see if there’s been any charges filed that match these MOs. We’ll be searching the databases. And let’s meet back here later today, if we can.”

‘If’ would turn out to be the operative word.