Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  They had had a couple of great years together. Life since Sammy had become much more predictable, boring even. Reed had to admit that he missed the sense of excitement and adventure he’d felt being around her, though more than once her need to get at the truth had gotten her into major trouble.

  He thought back to how he’d rushed into the Nitshi Institute that day years ago to save her life, with that portly campus cop waving his pistol right behind. Pappa—? Reed sat up, startled. That’s where he’d seen that name before. Of course. Pappajohn. The burn victim whose papers he’d gathered had the same last name as the Ellsford University chief of campus police.

  Now that was a scary coincidence. Pappajohn didn’t seem to be a common name. Could this poor young woman be a relative? Reed hoped not. Chances of her making it were zero to none. And, after their partnership to rescue Sammy and catch her kidnappers, Reed had developed a soft spot for that grumpy old cop.

  Well, no matter. The police here would do their job and track down the girl’s next of kin. Reed had enough on his plate with Prescott, and Dr. Bishop would be arriving any minute.

  He clicked on the dictating machine, and, visualizing Sammy also at her mic, began, “inserted a 22-gauge catheter in the left femoral vein, period.”

  “You gonna keep going?” The nurse’s question sounded more like a suggestion.

  Flushed and sweating, Michelle’s forearms ached with the effort of closed chest massage. Despite the infusion of drugs and three jolts of electricity from the defibrillator, the chaotic, undulating blips on the EKG monitor had refused to respond. If only Reed were by her side.

  “Time?” she asked one of the bystanders.

  “Twenty-two minutes.”

  Michelle’s eyes welled with tears as she looked down at the young burn patient—Anastasia—and then at the half dozen nurses and techs crowded around the gurney. Their expressions reflected her own sense of sadness and defeat. Even Reed—heck even Dr. Bishop—couldn’t fight the fatal prognosis of third-degree burns over 80 percent of Anastasia’s body. From the moment she’d been wheeled into the ER, everyone knew she was facing a death sentence. Still, the used syringes, drug vials, and crumpled packaging on the floor confirmed how hard they’d all battled to beat the odds. Michelle fought back her tears. It was now her job to let Anastasia go.

  “Okay. Let’s call the code,” she said, reaching past the tangle of wires and IV tubing to shut off the cardiac monitor. Within seconds, the oscilloscope went black. She looked at the watch she’d pinned to her scrubs and, noting the time, said softly, “Two fifteen.”

  The driver of the Bentley switched the audio system from AM to CD. The fading sounds and growing static of Christmas carols and L.A. news stations were replaced by the soothing melodies of Rabeh Sager. When he’d called Miller earlier, he’d assured him that the whore was dead. Since hearing reports of a burn victim rescued in Benedict Canyon, he’d been frantic, flipping from station to station, listening closely for further news that the victim might somehow have survived and fingered him.

  For two hours Fahim had driven south on Pacific Coast Highway, too nervous to stop at his penthouse hotel in Marina Del Rey. It would be better to hide out much closer to the Mexican border, just in case. Now he saw a sign for Oceanside up ahead, took the turn-off and pulled into the lot of a seaside Hampton Inn. Not quite up to his luxurious standards, but it would do for the next few hours. He needed time to think.

  After registering as Mr. Smith and accepting the key from a somnolent front desk receptionist, Fahim drove the Bentley a few blocks away and parked it in an inconspicuous spot obscured by palm trees. He hiked back to the motel and rode the elevator up to the third floor. Inside his modest room, he undressed and walked naked into the bathroom, stopping abruptly in front of the mirror.

  His dark eyes studied his reflection, carefully taking stock. His handsome face, framed by his neatly trimmed mustache and beard, was free of bruises. The nails on his strong hands still had their manicures intact, but a line of scratches with dried blood like scarlet ribbons were clearly visible across his muscled chest.

  He tried to calm his growing fears. Even if the rescued victim had been the whore, and, somehow, by some miracle, she had survived, what could she say? She’d never seen him before tonight, didn’t know his real name, where he lived, or what he did. Besides, in the midst of the revelry of the party, no one would remember seeing them together. Thank Allah all his e-mails were in code. She could learn nothing for her trouble. And she deserved what she got.

  Now Fahim stepped into the shower, turning the water on full blast, letting the spray stream over his body to cleanse it. At forty-eight, he was old enough to have mastered self-discipline, to put mission before pleasure. But, freed from the bounds of his homeland and his brothers, he could not resist the temptations so forbidden halfway round the world. He knew he should shun the unholy and impure, but it was an irresistible addiction.

  Wrapping himself in a bath towel, Fahim raided the motel’s minibar and gulped down the contents of several tiny bottles inside. Only when the alcohol had washed over his brain could he begin to forget. He lay down on the lumpy mattress and, praying that not even Allah’s eyes had seen him take a life, fell into a fitful sleep.

  Guided by moonlight, Ana plowed through the thorny bushes of neighborhood yards, avoiding sidewalks and streets. A few more blocks and she would reach the towering high-rises that lined Wilshire Boulevard as it wended toward Beverly Hills. The luxury buildings had opulent lobbies manned by doormen who could discreetly call her a taxi. She’d been a “guest” at one of their towers last year at the invitation of a retired film director.

  Scurrying from house to house, her nose, mouth, and lungs stinging from the smoky air, she turned into the rear alley behind two of the Wilshire luxury behemoths. Brushing twigs from her dress and smoothing her windblown hair, Ana trailed a maintenance worker into one tower through a back door. After a detour to the thirty-seventh floor on a balky freight elevator, she returned to the ground floor and entered the marble lobby. Marshalling all her skills to portray a nonchalant wealthy sophisticate, she strode over to the elderly doorman and requested a cab.

  Charmed by Ana’s enthusiastic nattering about a “recent Mediterranean cruise,” the doorman didn’t seem to mind that the only tip offered was a warm kiss before she stepped into a taxi. As soon as he shut the cab door, Ana rested her head back and breathed a sigh of relief, eager for the safe haven of her apartment. There was nothing she could do for Sylvie tonight. For herself, a warm bath, clean clothes, and a few winks would tide her through until she could reach Kaye in the morning.

  The driver was a big, burly, middle-aged man with a bushy mustache who reminded her of her father, though his accent had traces of Hispanic roots rather than Greek. Without twisting around to acknowledge her, he fiddled briefly with the meter, then put the cab in gear. “You’re not going anywhere near the fire?” The question was clearly rhetorical.

  “No, uh, Ocean Park.” Ana gave her address.

  “Good, I can take Santa Monica to Twenty-third. Too much traffic on Wilshire.” He stepped on the gas and turned up his radio. Ana recognized the station, a small, liberal outlet known for its radical perspective. She smiled. No way would daddy have ever tuned in to KPCF.

  As the taxi drove through Brentwood toward Santa Monica, Ana listened to the female host engage her callers in a spirited discussion about the homeless.

  “So you think they should all be herded up and shipped back home?” the host challenged in a strong Brooklyn accent. “Well, roll out the welcome mat, bubba, because most of them are from your town, your neighborhood, your street. People with mental and physical health problems that needed a helping hand and all they got from you and our government was a door slammed in their face.”

  “Maybe if they’d learn English they could get a job instead of expecting me to pay for their health care—”

  “Do you know English? Did you understand a word I just
said?” the host interrupted the caller. “Most of the homeless are not undocumented immigrants. They’re people like you and me, who—”

  “Illegal aliens,” the driver interjected, drowning out the radio, “are killing my business!” He leaned over to straighten the American flag waving from his dashboard. “I’m a citizen. Since eighty-five. Working my butt off not so some cholo can come take my job.” Glancing back at Ana, he raised a fist in pride. “America for Americans, right?”

  I know that look, Ana thought. It went along with the “Reagan for President” bumper stickers on her father’s Dodge pickup. The world according to Gus Pappajohn.

  Closing her eyes, she could see him standing at the door, ranting that life’s consequences came from wrong choices, not bad luck. Didn’t he understand how easy it was to lose control of your own fate?

  “You said Sixteenth, right?”

  Ana opened her eyes, surprised to feel dampness on her face. “Yes, Ashland should be up ahead.”

  “Mierda!” The cab driver slammed on his brakes and gave a one finger salute to the lone pedestrian scurrying across the street, dodging eddies of dirt and paper being blown about like bits of tumbleweed.

  “I can get out here.” Ana opened the back door, grabbed the twenty she’d secreted inside her shoe, and handed it to the driver for the $17.65 fare. Her apartment was just around the corner. “Keep the change,” she added as she slid out of the cab into the hot, dry winds.

  The cab sped off, tires screeching, no doubt a show of the driver’s displeasure at a mere two dollar tip. Ana felt little sympathy. The twenty would’ve gone a lot farther if he hadn’t amped up his meter. This town. Everybody’s got an angle. Weary, she hurried down the block toward her building’s side entrance. All she wanted was to get home and shut out the world.

  By 3:05 a.m., Sammy had signed off, passing the baton for the next three hours to her soporific producer. Jim didn’t bother to return her conciliatory “goodbye.” Not even a wave as he leaned into the mic, welcoming his audience with a dull monotone that guaranteed them quick sedation and a good night’s sleep.

  No wonder all I get is crazies, Sammy thought. It wasn’t easy waking up listeners used to Graveyard Jim to her passionate, activist brand of radio. She headed for the station exit, vowing to try for an earlier shift as soon as she could.

  Pressing against the door, it took all her strength to open it. The moment she stepped outside, the dry winds slammed into her with such force that she half expected a tornado to lift her up and carry her small frame across the deserted parking lot.

  Jeez, Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore. She dived through the gale to her Toyota Tercel, fumbled to unlock it, and, with the door slamming behind her, slipped inside. Safe in the tiny cocoon, she examined herself in the rearview mirror, aghast at the damage to her frizzy red mane. Bad hair day for sure. Last year, tired of resembling a freckled pixie, she’d let the natural curls grow out, so that now, when she took the time to tame them, they fell softly on her shoulders.

  As she anchored down the errant strands, Sammy wondered what Reed would think of her new look. They’d finally called it quits two years ago, but she had to admit she’d always have feelings for the young medical student she’d met at Ellsford. Not only because Reed had literally saved her life, but because he’d helped her come to grips with the pain of losing her mother to suicide and her father to a pot of gold. Sammy laughed at the image. Somewhere over the rainbow—in L.A.

  And now Reed was in L.A. too. Pulling out of the lot onto Venice Boulevard, Sammy felt a surge of excitement she was reluctant to acknowledge. Reed had helped to soothe Sammy’s pain, but, in the end, he couldn’t break through the armor she’d built around her heart. Love, for Sammy, had always led to loss. And Reed, exasperated, had finally given up trying to overcome her fears. Seeking an intimacy she couldn’t offer, he—they—had decided to move on. His loss.

  At the intersection, a honk from the car behind jolted her alert. The light had already turned green. Driving north on Robertson, Sammy could see high-intensity beams from hovering helicopters bathing the distant Santa Monica Mountains. Eager for an update on the fires, she punched in KPFK on her radio to catch the latest news. The progressive NPR station was very unlikely to be wasting time with Cocaine Courtney.

  The newsman on the scene reported that gale-force winds had transformed hillside canyons from Hollywood to the Getty into giant blowtorches. At least a half dozen multimillion-dollar homes had been lost. Shelters were being set up all across the foothills for those displaced by the evacuation. Traffic tie-ups along Sunset and Pacific Coast Highway had resulted in a couple of incidents of violence as people raced to escape the flames. “It could be days before firefighters get a handle on the situation,” he reported.

  The fury of the Santa Anas was turning L.A. into a tinderbox, Sammy realized. As she traveled along Pico, the usual clusters of ragged men and women she’d often see huddled in the dark doorways of closed storefronts had been driven away by the winds. Instead, scraps of litter danced above deserted pavements like confetti, but with no living souls standing by to enjoy the parade. Where were these poor homeless victims sleeping tonight?

  Less than a mile away was the Avenue of the Stars, a wide tree-lined boulevard of luxury shopping and opulent high-rise hotels where heads of state and Hollywood stars paid thousands a night for a suite. Except for the swaying and flickering Christmas lights strung along its median, the avenue was deserted too. Century City residents were no doubt celebrating their wealth inside the glass, chrome, and steel towers that kept them safe from the winds—and the homeless.

  Passing the grand Fox Plaza skyscraper, Sammy recognized the address of her father’s new corporate offices. When she’d talked with his second ex a few months ago, Susan had mentioned something about her father moving to Century City as his business grew. Now that Sammy was in L.A., she made a mental note to pay Susan a personal call. That summer between freshman and sophomore year, Sammy had come here to reach out to her father, but it was her stepmother who’d made the visit bearable. Sammy’s father? Well, people could be unavailable even if they lived in the same city or the same house.

  Wiping a tear from her eyes, Sammy muttered, “Damn winds!” and pushed the dashboard button switching the ventilation to recirculate.

  After swinging west on Santa Monica Boulevard, she arrived in Westwood within minutes. A right on Sepulveda brought her to the gates of L.A. University. The Schwarzenegger Hospital and its emergency room, a small part of the enormous LAU Medical Center, were located just inside the south gate off Montana. Sammy parked the Tercel in the hospital parking lot beside two media vans and walked around to the emergency entrance. At least a dozen teenaged Courtney Phillips fans, some looking as stoned as their idol, were standing vigil behind yellow police tape, waving and mugging for the local reporters filming updates on Courtney’s condition in the ER driveway.

  Sammy pushed past the group and strode toward the entrance.

  The uniformed guard held up a hand to block her. “You can’t come in unless you’re a patient.”

  Experience had taught Sammy to try honey before vinegar. Flashing a warm smile, she reached into her purse and pulled out a paper bag holding her uneaten dinner sandwich and banana. Looking at the sea of press and groupies, she shook her head sympathetically. “Tough job, I don’t know how you do it. I’m Dr. Reed Wyndham’s fiancée. He said he was hungry.”

  “Heart doc, right?” the guard asked, squinting.

  Sammy nodded. “It’s been a long night.”

  “I’ll say. Go ahead on in.” He winked, “And, hey, next time, I’ll take a ham on rye.”

  Sammy waved and returned his smile. “You got it,” she promised as she stepped inside the ER’s double doors.

  Sylvie’s apartment was in one of the older buildings on Ashland Street, surrounded by tiny aging boxes—single-family bungalows with grills on the windows—that sold for over a million dollars. Despite its vintage
, this former working-class neighborhood’s proximity to the beach and good schools now attracted upwardly mobile young professionals who gladly paid hefty monthly rents for a westside address.

  Ana scurried through her building’s unlit courtyard and up the side stairs to the third floor. Even before she reached 3B, she sensed something amiss. The door to her apartment, which she was sure they’d locked, was slightly ajar. Beyond, only darkness. Ana paused, waiting, listening for any sounds, but all she could hear were the violent winds rustling through the leaves and branches of the nearby trees.

  Tentatively, her body pressed against the wall, she nudged the door open with her foot and waited. Nothing happened. She carefully inched her head closer to peek inside, ready to jump back at a moment’s notice. Again, nothing. Finally, after scanning the hallway one more time, she tiptoed over to the doorframe and reached in to flick on the light switch.

  Her jaw dropped as she viewed the scene. The entire living room had been trashed. Papers were tossed everywhere, bookcases upended, and CDs scattered all over the floor. Even the cushions on the sofa bed where she slept had been slashed. Neither kitchen nor bathroom had escaped the devastation. My God, what were they looking for?

  It’d been over a year since Sylvie had stopped dealing. She and Ana had been doing so well with clients, it was no longer worth the risk. The coke Sylvie used herself appeared untouched, still in the sugar bowl next to the tea cozy. They must have been after money. Ana checked inside the box of tampons under the bathroom sink. The four hundred dollars she’d hidden there had disappeared. Damn.

  Sylvie’s jewelry. Most of it was paste, but Sylvie did have a few genuine pieces she’d gotten from some of her favorite clients as gifts. Ana raced into Sylvie’s bedroom, to find it similarly ravaged. Everything, from the bed linens to the clothes in the closet had been tossed onto the carpet. Sylvie’s jewelry box, hidden inside a now open Payless shoe box was missing. Money and jewelry. Shit.