Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  CHAPTER TWO

  Breathless, Sammy Greene sprinted into the radio studio, slid into her seat, and pulled on her headphones at one minute before midnight. She flashed a broad, slightly guilty smile at her producer on the other side of the glass. “Am I late?”

  Jim Lodge punched the button for the network feed harder than really necessary. As the sounds of the national news for the top of the hour came in over the loudspeaker, he turned to the window between them with a wry expression. “Bad hair day?”

  “Gut gesuked.” Sammy ran her fingers through her disheveled red mop and tossed off her grandmother’s Yiddish equivalent of I’ll say, adding, “I’ve lived through hurricanes and I’ve never seen hot winds like this.”

  “Santa Anas,” the producer said.

  Sammy reached into her satchel and pulled out notes for her upcoming show. “Aren’t winds supposed to be cold? Wind chill.”

  Jim shook his long gray locks and took a sip from a large mug of steaming coffee. He lowered his voice to a hush. “Devil wind.”

  “Huh?” Sammy repositioned her mic and leaned over to turn on the small TV monitor she had set up next to her board. She liked to run it muted on the national news networks or C-SPAN to keep up with breaking events while she was on the air.

  “They fly from the desert, from Death Valley, and soar over the mountains, bringing the flames of Hell to the denizens of Paradise.” He waved a torn sleeve at the window and the sea of lights beyond.

  “How Dante-esque.” Sammy’s colleague, his full beard, ponytail, and ragged togs identifying him in her mind as the last surviving hippie, could get a little creepy at times. “And I thought I’d only have to worry about earthquakes.”

  Frowning, Sammy surveyed the gloomy studio, buried within a ratty wood-and-stucco building in the bowels of Canyon City, a wannabe middle-class community just south of Beverly Hills. When she’d begun her broadcasting career, she’d never imagined ending up two years later on the night shift in a tiny shack like this.

  She glanced over at the adjacent monitor, now tuned to CNN. High-tech graphics whizzing across the screen cost thousands of dollars—more than a year’s wages at the Washington TV network where she used to work. Despite the low pay and long hours, she’d gladly have stayed there if she could. She’d loved being near the action, especially with an election coming up next year.

  Sammy felt no regrets leaving Ellsford University after graduating on the five-year plan in ’97. Her campus radio experience landed her the dream internship in D.C. at the television network and a gig six months later as one of the youngest associate producers for investigative reporter Barry Kane and his show, Up Front D.C. Sammy’d never had illusions about landing in front of the camera. Her frizzy red hair and strong Brooklyn accent didn’t fit the popular Barbie Doll image. She was happy as a journalist pounding a beat, thrilled to be trolling for stories from K Street to the hallowed halls of Congress, catching the scent of corruption hovering over the Capitol.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed so hard on the Senator Treadwell story. After all, he was a fishing buddy of the network’s CEO. Still, she never figured she’d get sacked for doing her job. Even the parade to the door through the studio by a security guard escort hadn’t dampened her certainty that another news organization would appreciate her skills in the tenacious pursuit of truth.

  Only after months of mailing out résumés and calling on colleagues once counted as friends, did the message sink in. She was persona non grata in Washington. And New York. And Boston. And—

  “Los Angeles,” advised her colleague, Vito, one of the few D.C. news pros still willing to lunch with her. “It’s the city of second chances. People don’t care about your past there.”

  Ironic. Vito couldn’t have known that some of her past—make that, someone from her past—was in that very city. That was why she’d resisted his offer to contact an old buddy at a tiny, low-budget, low-wattage Pacifica radio station on the Very Left Coast. She’d waited weeks, until every feeler she’d put out had been rejected and her bank account nearly drained, before swallowing her pride and asking Vito to make the call.

  Her career in tatters, Sammy had ended up back where she started. In front of a talk-radio mic. Lighting Chanukah candles in ninety-five degree Los Angeles heat. She walked over to the almost empty coffeepot. “Thanks, Jim,” she muttered, pouring the last few drops into a clean cup. Returning to her seat at the board, she began to arrange her notes for Hour One.

  She’d scoured the morning papers, bypassing election news and holiday features until she found what she was looking for near the back page of the L.A. Times—a story about a homeless protest encampment, a tent city growing this past month outside the Canyon City Hall, just a few miles from the station. Sammy had come so close to being out on the street herself. She felt passionate about helping the thousands in her new city who could not afford shelter. With Christmas just over a day away, it was time for action. Sammy would try to rally her listeners to offer their aid. She glanced at the clock. Almost five after twelve. “Jim, we ready?”

  The producer nodded and began a five-finger countdown to her cue.

  A Miles Davis fusion riff filtered through Sammy’s headphones as she flipped open her mic and in a practiced sultry voice announced, “Sammy Greene on the L.A. scene. Turn up the radio, turn down the lights, and cuddle up in bed. That is, if you have a bed, lights, a radio, a home, a roof. Because many Angelenos don’t.”

  She shuffled her papers near the mic as a sound effect. “According to the L.A. University Center for Public Research, at least two hundred thousand individuals are homeless in L.A. County. On any given night, half have nowhere to sleep. Women and children make up more than a third of this group; over eighty percent of homeless families are headed by women. Folks, this is a national tragedy. How can we sleep at night when so many men, women, and children in Los Angeles are crying out for help?”

  Her cries for help went unanswered, drowned by the incessant beat of the deafening music from the patio outside the Bel Air mansion. The naked blonde in the guesthouse bedroom knew she was going to die. If only she hadn’t taken the wrong purse.

  Fahim had gone to the bathroom, leaving Sylvie sprawled on the crumpled sheets, groggy from the Ecstasy and wine they shared. As soon as the door closed, she’d tiptoed out of bed and lifted the Handspring personal digital assistant he’d laid on the night table. Sex was only one part of her job. Kaye expected Sylvie to bring back any client secrets she could find. That’s why the madam had insisted she seek out the Saudi tonight.

  Sylvie thought she’d done her part well—scanned the last few e-mails as quickly as she could, then grabbed the phone from her purse, texted the critical information as a short message, and keyed in the phone number to Ana’s cell. Hit “Send,” and the traces would disappear, to be retrieved safely in the morning from her roommate. Sylvie would be back on the bed, pretending to sleep. It wasn’t until the text message boomeranged to the phone in her hand that she realized she had Ana’s cell—and purse.

  The minute it took to resend the message to her own number and slip the phone back into the purse was one minute too long. Fahim had grabbed her from behind and shoved her against the wall before she could replace the PDA.

  Sylvie didn’t stand a chance as, towering over her tiny frame, Fahim pounded the life out of her, the loud beat of the party’s music masking the fatal blows and her final screams.

  “Anybody in there?”

  Fahim wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve before opening the front door of the guest cottage a crack.

  A uniformed officer was pointing at the Bentley parked behind him. “You here alone?”

  Fahim swallowed and nodded.

  “Better get this beauty and yourself outta here. We’re evacuating everybody. Fire’s at Mulholland.”

  “Fire?” Fahim shook his head to clear it. “Yes, of course. I’ll, er, get my things.”

  The officer waved as he left w
ith a last admiring glance at the car Fahim had rented on arrival. “Don’t wait too long. Be a shame if she burns up.”

  As soon as Fahim shut the door, he pulled his cell from his pants pocket and, dreading each step back toward the bedroom, dialed a number he’d preferred not to call.

  “You’re sure the girl’s dead?” It was same cold tone Miller had used on the plane that afternoon.

  “Yes, it was an acc—”

  “Name and address,” Miller interrupted, obviously not interested in the circumstances.

  Fahim balanced his cell in the crook of his neck as he looked into the silk purse and read off the license: “Anastasia Pappajohn. An address in Santa Monica.”

  “Okay, listen carefully.” Miller gave him a road map to get rid of the body. “When that’s done, take off. Get a room somewhere where the cops can’t find you. Just in case.”

  “But, I thought—”

  “Isn’t that the problem, Fahim? Not thinking.” Miller didn’t wait for a response. “I’ll keep you out of this and clean up your mess, but you owe me, pal. Big time.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Prescott turned his Mercedes east onto Sunset Boulevard. “I keep a place in Beverly Hills since I do lots of business in the city. That way I don’t have to fight traffic back to the O.C.”

  Ana nodded and sat back in the comfortable leather seat of the Mercedes, closing her eyes. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep up this game. She’d be twenty-seven next month. Over the hill in this market of young and younger. She’d been clean for over a year, but the bills for Teddy’s leg braces alone cost her more than she netted from weeks of work. Kaye saw to it that her girls got just enough take-home to keep coming back for more.

  Her fingers brushed the simple gold cross she always wore around her neck. A gift from her father when she was his innocent child. Those days were long gone. Ironic that putana was one of the names her father had called her when he’d booted her out into the cold Boston winter ten years before for shacking up with a gangbanger fresh out of juvie. She’d certainly lived up to his expectations.

  She’d run away with her boyfriend, all the way to the West Coast. The first few months on the road had almost been fun. At seventeen, sleeping in alleys, begging for handouts and food, and sharing good dope was an adventure. If they got cold or hungry, there was always a homeless shelter to spend the night. For the first time since her mother’s death, Ana had felt alive. And her father could rot in hell.

  Until her boyfriend moved on and never came back.

  Teddy was born in the hallway of L.A. County General Hospital seven months later, amidst the screams and cries of dozens of suffering people waiting for the few crumbs of help the overburdened facility could offer. She’d always blamed herself for his cerebral palsy. There had been no prenatal care on the streets. Ana had also never forgiven her father. If he hadn’t turned her away—

  Well, she and Teddy were on their own, and she wasn’t going to go back to daddy on bended knee. She’d been waiting tables at a hip café, struggling to make the rent and pay for her son’s care when Washington pulled the plug on public assistance programs. With no other options, she finally surrendered Teddy to her social worker and foster care. That day her heart had been irreparably broken.

  Drugs made a lot of the pain disappear—for a while. Another waitress, Sylvie, always seemed to have an unlimited stash of meth and coke to share. And somehow, plenty of dollars. Best of all, a Santa Monica apartment with an extra bed.

  Only one move-in condition.“You have to meet Kaye.”

  Six years later, Ana still knew Kaye only by her first name, though Henry Higgins could not have done a better job transforming the dark-haired waitress into a glamorous blonde. Then, like the serpent of Eden, the sophisticated middle-aged madam had slowly introduced Ana to a lifestyle she could merely dream of—glittering parties, beautiful clothes, champagne and caviar, top executives and movie stars—all to be hers if she agreed to barter her body for a taste of paradise.

  In the end, a Faustian bargain. Very soon, she was hooked on crack and dependent on the money she made as an “escort” to maintain her supply. The sex was sometimes kinky, sometimes even violent, but never, ever satisfying. And, in the mornings, when she would finally fall into a fitful sleep, she’d see Teddy’s face crying for her in her dreams.

  Teddy was the reason Ana had entered rehab last year. Without drugs, she might be able to save enough to quit the life and bring him home.

  Home. Could she return? she mused now. Perhaps this time the old man wouldn’t throw her out. He’d actually responded somewhat politely to the e-mail she’d sent last spring. Said he was thinking about retiring from his university job and moving in with Aunt Eleni in Somerville. Maybe he’d softened up enough to accept a prodigal daughter’s visit. And a grandson he’d never known about.

  The purse vibrating on her lap made Ana open her eyes. Fishing inside to shut off her phone, she realized that something wasn’t right. Instead of the single key she carried, her fingers found a large loop of keys. Opening the purse, she realized the problem. The keys, the wallet, the cell phone all belonged to Sylvie. Damn! The girls had bargained for identical silk bags in a little shop on Melrose last week. “Two for one,” Sylvie had chuckled, when she’d brought the price low enough. That was Sylvie. Always bargaining. In her haste to meet her mark, Sylvie must have grabbed the wrong bag. Yep, that was Ana’s own number calling with a text message—Sylvie must have figured out the mix-up, too.

  “So how much is this going to cost me?”

  Ana turned her attention back to business. “The usual. Three thousand.”

  That number seemed exorbitant to her, even after all these years. Still, the gurgling sound she heard in response was unexpected. Kaye’s girls were the crème de la crème. Surely the price couldn’t be a surprise to the congressman. What was a surprise was the Mercedes beginning to weave on the fairly empty boulevard. Ana turned to see Prescott clutch his chest, his features contorted. He must be having a heart attack!

  Ana seized the wheel and straightened the sedan’s frightening yaw. Sliding into Prescott’s lap in the driver’s seat, she intended to pull to the side of the road and call 911 from his car phone, but the street sign up ahead changed her plans. She jerked the wheel to the right and turned south onto Beverly Glen Boulevard. In less than a couple of minutes, she could make it to the ER at L.A. University Medical Center.

  A few miles north, the dark, late model Bentley navigated up the serpentine Roscomare Road, buffeted by the strong winds that were bringing in ever-thickening smoke from the Bel Air hills above. Visibility diminished as black flecks of soot filled the air, settling on the windshield like a swarm of strange insects. Fahim heard the sounds of sirens following him up the canyon well before he saw the flashing red lights in his rearview mirror. Praying that they heralded the fire brigade and not pursuing police, he pulled over toward the far edge of the road and turned off his headlights.

  Lucky Prescott had insisted he park next to the guesthouse. Now that his all-nighter had evolved into a journey of a different sort, the estate’s private drive had become an escape route allowing him to bypass the mob crowding the valet stand at the front gates.

  The sedan shook as the fire engines skimmed by. Once the last truck had passed, Fahim maneuvered the Bentley a few hundred yards north until he could make out a gravel shoulder on the right.

  Stopping his car again, he waited, listening for passing traffic, but only hearing distant echoes of retreating sirens and whistling winds. Shrouded by thickening smoke, he stepped from the car and opened the trunk. Eyes and nose watering, he lifted the bruised and battered body of the young blonde and dumped it in the brush next to the gravel. Judging by the dense fumes and growing heat, the fire couldn’t be too far away. He assumed the flames moving down the canyon would reach her body and consume it.

  Gagging and coughing, Fahim raced back to close the trunk. In it, to his dismay, he spied the
woman’s silk purse. Cursing, he threw it next to her feet and hopped back into the driver’s seat, gasping in filtered breaths of air through the Bentley’s vents as he fled the burning cloud of sparks.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dr. Reed Wyndham dabbed a little jelly on the ultrasound probe and slowly glided it around the teenager’s tattooed chest. “So tell me again how you got shot.”

  “I was on this guy’s roof. I didn’t do nuthin’.” The boy threw a defiant look at the LAPD officer standing guard in the corner of the examination room.

  “And why were you on the roof?” Reed asked as he studied the black-and-white moving picture of the patient’s beating heart on the monitor by his side.

  “I was taking the TV.”

  Reed pushed the probe a little more to the left. “His TV?”

  “Yeh, but he didn’t need it.”

  The ER resident who’d paged Reed down for a cardiac consult snickered. The cop just shook his head.

  “I see.” After spending four years at Boston Medical, the last as chief resident in internal medicine, not much surprised the thirty-year-old doctor. He pointed to the monitor, and said to the ER physician, “No pericardial effusion.”

  “What’s that mean?” the young man interjected.

  “That means you were lucky this time, kid. The bullet missed your heart. Next time—” He stopped what he sensed would be a futile lecture, shut down the machine, and peeled off his latex gloves.

  “He’s all yours,” Reed said to both the ER resident and the cop, knowing that once the kid was patched up, he’d be shipped to juvie for a few years of criminal training. Nothing more he could do, Reed appeased himself with a sigh. He was a cardiology fellow, not a psychiatrist.

  Finished with his consult, Reed ambled over to the corner of the ER where a half dozen of the staff compared notes by the coffeepot. At one a.m., he didn’t think he could get back to sleep. Besides, odds were he’d just get paged again the minute he hit the pillow. He poured himself a cup of the lukewarm brew and grabbed a piece of leftover cruller.