Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  Jeffrey turned his back to the view and sat down behind his antique mahogany desk. Trina insisted he make the high bid at Sotheby’s last winter. “You work so hard, cheri. You deserve it,” she’d said. Well, she was right, dammit. He lived to work. Even with the fires raging in the city, he’d slipped out of bed at five a.m., ran an hour on his home treadmill, then fought the still backed-up traffic from Orange County to Century City to arrive at the office well before the secretarial staff. He needed some privacy to make his call this morning.

  Jeffrey unlocked the desk drawer and removed a file labeled PLAYA BELLA PARTNERSHIP #2. This was his deal of deals. For years he’d set his sights on the last remaining undeveloped tract of land in Southern California where the Marine Corps was closing its El Avestruz air station. A dream property with hundreds of open acres right next to the ocean-misted hills overlooking Newport Beach, one of Orange County’s most popular coastal resorts. Tipped off by Trina, who never actually told him her source, he’d snapped up an adjacent old hotel built on land leased from the Marines, giving him an inside track to buying the rest when the base finally shut down.

  Prescott, head of the House Armed Services Committee, had introduced him to the Department of Defense official who could work out a sale. When talks stalled over price and water supply, Prescott’s legislative aide had smoothly interceded, resolving the matter with one call to a deputy assistant secretary at the Pentagon. Jeffrey had finally bought the land for twenty million, obtaining an unusual guarantee from the Marines that gave him a generous water allowance outside the standard allocation process—a bonus that he knew had rankled municipal officials like that prosecutor in Irvine.

  Trina was sure the prosecutor was the reason the county commissioners balked at his renovating the historic landmark. Lucky for Jeffrey the jerk ran his Mercedes into an eighteen-wheeler last year. Dead on impact. Six months later, Jeffrey had sold the just completed five-star hotel for two hundred million. Playa Bella Partnership #1 had made a tenfold profit in less than three years. Not bad for a poor slob from Brooklyn.

  Now he craved an even bigger prize: the two Navy golf courses sold to the city of Mission Alto. He lifted the brochure featuring a four-color rendition of the proposed high-end condominiums and luxury inn by the links in the rolling hills, a project he’d described in an internal memo as World Series, final game, out of the park, grand slam, home run.

  Courting local officials and potential partners, he’d assured them that his close relationship with Prescott would help cut through any red tape in dealing with the Department of the Navy. And that was no lie. He and Trina had been one of the platinum fund-raisers for the congressman. You scratch my back—

  Up to now, Prescott had come through. When Mission Alto solicited bids last year to develop the world-class resort, Prescott had made a few phone calls to the city council and Greene Progress LLC flew to the top of the list. But now there was a serious glitch in the deal. Jeffrey needed Prescott to assist the city in a water dispute before they’d give final bid approval. Just one final step. Last week when he’d asked him to drop a line to the Seaside city manager, Prescott had balked.

  “I can’t,” he’d said. “With all this Clinton crap, the media is looking for dirt on every candidate. It’s too close to the election for me to do anything that might appear inappropriate.”

  Jeffrey would have liked to laugh in the hypocrite’s face, or, better yet, spit in it. All the money he’d raised for that bastard and his cronies. The congressman hadn’t worried about “inappropriate” when Jeffrey had let Prescott’s staff use his Century City office to make fund-raising calls. But Jeffrey was savvy enough to play it cool and try his backup option. Trina had assured him she could sweet-talk Prescott into reconsidering his position.

  He looked again at the beautiful brochure and then at the date on his calendar. December 24th. Prescott’s Savings and Loan buddies were shutting down operations the week between Christmas and New Year’s to do their Y2K computer retrofits. That meant the deal he’d lined up had to be funded by five p.m. today.

  Jeffrey shook his head. Y2K. What a crock. Didn’t those fools know the doom and gloom predictions were all manufactured hype? As far as he was concerned, it was just a ploy by IT nerds. He’d read somewhere that the U.S. had spent close to one hundred billion dollars preparing for the so-called coming disaster. I should’ve gotten a piece of that, he thought, as he started to dial a number on his multiline desk phone. Right now the only disaster to worry about was Prescott not coming through on this dream project.

  Feeling his blood pressure rise with each digit he pressed, he keyed in the congressman’s private number.

  “Fresh cup? That one’s got to be cold by now.”

  Ana glanced up at the weary looking waitress holding a coffeepot, wondering if the remark was a subtle message that she’d overstayed her welcome. She’d been sitting in the booth at the back of the diner for almost two hours, downing cups of caffeine, waiting for a decent time to call Kaye.

  “No thanks. Three’s my limit.”

  The waitress removed Ana’s breakfast plate and slapped down a check. “I’m off duty in ten minutes. With these fires, I’ll be lucky to make it to the Valley and feed my kid before I come back for the night shift. Christmas Eve too. Can you believe it?”

  Ana conveyed her understanding of the woman’s plight with a sympathetic look. She’d been in her shoes, waiting tables, trying to stretch tip money between rent and food for Teddy. She handed over enough for the check plus several dollars extra and started to get up. “Keep the change. I’m just going to use the phone.”

  The waitress pocketed the tip, “Sure, honey.”

  Ana hurried over to the pay phone next to the rest rooms and made a collect call to Kaye’s number. The diner was beginning to fill up with the morning crowd, so she tried to keep her voice low. “It’s me,” she whispered when she heard Kaye accept the charges.

  “Where the hell are you?” Kaye demanded.

  “I can’t really talk,” Ana said, afraid of who might be listening. “Not on the phone. Can I meet you, uh, at—?”

  Ana didn’t expect Kaye to suggest her place, a well-kept secret. As far as Ana knew, none of Kaye’s girls had a clue where the madam lived. Rumors abounded, of course, and stretched from Brentwood to Beverly Hills, from Santa Barbara to La Jolla. But, as Sylvie had explained, Kaye had to be discreet. For herself as well as for her famous clients, few of whom had ever actually met her in person. Kaye conducted her million-dollar business on the phone or the Internet. The only two times Ana had seen the madam had been at their apartment.

  “I’m booked with meetings until three,” Kaye responded, adding curtly. “I’ll come to you.”

  No surprise. “Then how about Third Street?” Ana improvised. Several blocks of the Santa Monica street close to the ocean had been turned into a pedestrian open-air mall. They could lose themselves among the crowds and talk privately.

  “All right,” Kaye said through a clutter of static. “I can meet you at the pier, by the carousel, at four.”

  The Santa Monica pier with its amusement park, shops, and restaurants was also a popular attraction. Ana agreed, disconnecting. The graffiti-etched pay phone burped, and Ana heard the clanking of a quarter in the return slot. She reached in and picked up the coin, smiling at the small good omen. She briefly considered calling her father in Vermont, but twenty-five cents wouldn’t be enough for long distance. And if the operator did reach her father, would he accept her collect call?

  On impulse, she dropped the quarter into the slot and dialed her cell, the phone Sylvie had accidentally grabbed. It rang repeatedly without an answer, defaulting to voice mail. Ana heard her own voice asking callers to leave a message. She hung up, eyes welling with tears.

  “God damn it!” Jeffrey Greene slammed down the receiver. Prescott was hiding in the fucking hospital, hanging him out to dry! What the hell was he going to do? Jeffrey glanced at the speed dial list on his phone.
He’d have to ask Trina to work her magic once again.

  Trina picked up after a half dozen rings. Though her greeting was warm, Jeffrey caught the faintest edge in her tone.

  “Es nada,” she said when he called her on it. “Too many headaches here, but for you, carino, always time. What do you need?”

  He filled her in on the news he’d just learned: Prescott had had a heart attack and was in the hospital. “Julia refused to let him take my call,” Jeffrey said. “You think you could sweet-talk Neil out of the CCU and back into our deal? I’d hate to think his bout of indigestion is going to take down our multimillion-dollar arrangement. And us with it.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line before Trina responded. “None of us would want to see that happen. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”

  Kaye pressed the button on her cell phone. Did you get it?” she asked in Russian.

  “Nyet.” Yevgeny was clearly anxious as he responded in their language. “I found nothing and now police are all round the building.”

  Kaye sat up in her Porsche Boxter, her expression showing more than a hint of alarm. “Police? Why?”

  “One of the doctors thought the girl was beaten. A cop said the body’s gone to the county morgue.”

  “Govno.” Miller was supposed to handle things so there’d be no investigation. Now she’d need to create some excuse to call her LAPD “friend” and see what was going on. Until she found the client list Sylvie stole, it would be better for people to believe Ana had died in the fire.

  “Get over to the morgue right away. If Sylvie’s “treasure” is there, take it!” Kaye snapped the phone shut.

  If the list wasn’t with Sylvie’s body, Ana would probably have it. Well, that would be convenient. Kaye wasn’t about to take any chances. Like a Mafia don whose turf had been invaded, she decided to send her enforcer Yevgeny to the pier that afternoon. He could handle Ana easily, get Sylvie’s information and kill, literally, two birds with one stone.

  At half past seven, Fahim and Miller were the only guests having breakfast on the oceanside patio. Just as well, Fahim thought. Forced to rush to the meeting, he’d had to wear the wrinkled suit from last night. Miller, on the other hand, appeared crisp in pressed tan slacks and a blue blazer over an open-collared cotton dress shirt.

  “I can never get enough of this view,” Miller said as he sipped champagne and gazed at the blue Pacific whose waves crashed rhythmically against the shoreline less than twenty yards from their table. This morning a cool ocean breeze kept the smoke and dust of the Santa Anas at bay. “An American Eden, don’t you think?”

  Fahim had to agree. Open only six months, the Montagne Olympus already rivaled the finest five-star luxury hotels from London to Dubai. But he wasn’t here to admire the view or make small talk. For half an hour, he’d been anxiously waiting to hear about Miller’s change of plans.

  What had he gotten himself into? After years of small-time arms dealing, Fahim thought he’d finally found in Miller the right partner to impress his contacts in the royal family. One suitcase nuke delivered to the prince’s man al-Salid by the New Year, and his Vegas debts would disappear. That’s all he’d wanted in the beginning.

  And then he’d seen in Miller an irresistible opportunity. Intensity reflected in the man’s cold blue eyes no different from that of the fanatics within his own country who talked of annihilating infidels. Miller’s “us-versus-them” oligarchic worldview was as obsessive and misguided as that of any jihadist.

  Less motivated by politics than practicality, Fahim had hoped to play both sides and stay neutral. Feeding Miller manufactured news of impending terrorist threats had placed the Saudi on the unofficial CIA payroll. “Consultant” certainly sounded better than “arms dealer.” It also paid a whole lot better. And allowed him to indulge his yen for hot women and cool deals.

  But now it seemed he was being drawn further and further into some high-level secret plot that Miller promised would ensure the election of a president who favored a much more aggressive approach against the enemies of America and her Saudi brothers. Despite the cool breeze, Fahim felt sweat drip from his collar. With a sweep of his linen napkin, he wiped an errant piece of omelet from his lips. “So you have a surprise?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.

  “That I do.” Miller grabbed his Macbook from the empty seat beside him and opened it on the table where they could both watch the screen. With a few keystrokes, he summoned a photo of an abandoned fifteen-story building standing squarely in the middle of a dirt parcel filled with overgrown weeds and trash. “Voila, Eden 1.0.”

  Fahim raised an eyebrow.

  “That ramshackle tenement was the Palacio Real Hotel—the vacation spot for Hollywood’s biggest stars of the ninteen thirties.”

  Up went the other eyebrow.

  “Needed a little face-lift, wouldn’t you say?” Miller sipped his champagne. “A real estate partnership bought the place planning to do major surgery. Unfortunately, the Orange County commissioners declared it a historic landmark and Jeffrey Greene, the principal investor, was left holding the bag. All they’d let him do was a seismic retrofit, but, hell, you’d need Atlas himself to keep that Tinkertoy up in an earthquake. As it turns out, Neil Prescott had some of his own money in the deal and you know Neil,” Miller said. “He hates to lose anything.”

  Fahim nodded, though he wondered where this story was going

  “Watch this.” Miller pressed a few more keys and in seconds, the QuickTime program played a video with a more distant perspective of the dilapidated hotel. Construction equipment surrounded the building’s concrete and steel frame, and bulldozers ringed the ground floor. A large crane hovered menacingly to one side. “Greene Progress has almost completed the seismic retrofit and is ready to begin renovating the inside of the old rattletrap,” Miller narrated. “Their engineers were putting in an active seismic control system in the mechanical rooms under the roof.”

  Fahim stifled a yawn.

  “In a minute, the construction team will start blasting a hollow for a new underground parking garage.” Miller pointed to the edge of the screen just as several booms shattered the silence. “Keep your eyes on the hotel.”

  As both men watched the monitor, the hotel began to weave slightly back and forth in reaction to the explosion’s ground shock wave. Instead of stabilizing quickly, the weaving became increasingly exaggerated and irregular, until the building’s concrete started to crack and crumble. Within seconds, the vibrations had become so strong that the men could see the structure’s steel beams bend and fissure. The entire building seemed to lose its balance, collapsing in on itself, disappearing in a mammoth cloud of dust.

  “Oops,” Miller said to an awed Fahim. “Everyone thought it was an unfortunate accident, including Jeffrey Greene.” Miller’s voice dropped to a gruff whisper. “Except that obsessive prosecutor Taylor. Didn’t shed any tears at his untimely death.” He swept his hand toward the hotel, “With this wonderful coastal landmark destroyed, the county commissioner practically begged Greene to build the Montagne Olympus on the site.”

  Fahim was impressed. “You will tell me how this accident happened?”

  “Remote active seismic control.”

  “Sorry. I studied economics at university, not engineering.”

  “Here, let me show you. Active seismic-control systems are found in many of the newest tall buildings and skyscrapers.” Miller reached over and grabbed the crystal saltshaker from the center of their table. “Normally, in an earthquake, buildings sway in rhythmic sync with the ground forces generated—what’s known as resonance. In severe quakes, the swaying gets so strong, that—” He tilted the saltshaker roughly from side to side, until it fell over.

  “Yes. That is clear. We lost many buildings in Tabuk,” Fahim said, referring to the 1997 quake in northwest Saudi Arabia.

  “To prevent this, many structures like L.A. City Hall are now installing base isolation systems just under their foundations. It�
��s like putting a pillow between the building and the ground to dampen the earthquake waves.”

  Miller folded his napkin into a small square and inserted it under the saltshaker. He slipped one hand palm up under the napkin and wagged it to simulate an earthquake. Cushioned by the napkin, the saltshaker wiggled on his palm, but didn’t tip over. “For extra protection you can combine base isolation with an active seismic-control system—computer sensors that dynamically monitor a building’s sway and instruct rooftop weights to counter the motion. You not only cushion the forces of a quake, but you can actually resist them.” Miller wagged his hand again, and, as the saltshaker started to tilt, he thrust out his other hand to push its tip in the opposite direction. “The building stays up.”

  “The hand of Allah, to keep us, safe, eh?” Fahim said. “That’s what they needed there.” He pointed to the frozen image of the destroyed hotel’s dust cloud displayed on Miller’s monitor.

  “Actually, Greene Progress was installing a seismic-control system in the old hotel.”

  Fahim frowned. “But it was not yet ready—”

  “That’s what’s on the public record. Normally, this hand of God can keep a building up. But, let’s say a remote wireless signal worms into the control system’s computer and changes the programming. Instead of instructing the weights to counter the quake forces, now they magnify them.” Miller lifted the saltshaker with one hand again. “The building will start resonating, swaying in sync in rhythm with the ground forces more and more.” He extended a long finger and pushed the top of the saleshaker with increasing pressure until it fell off his supporting hand onto the table with a thump, spilling salt on the pristine tablecloth. “Boom. It’ll come down.”

  “And you have this—hand of God?” ventured Fahim.

  “We call it a resonator,” Miller said quietly.

  “This resonator?”