Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  Sammy reached to take his bag, but Pappajohn shook his head, and continued his trek to the exit. “I’m fine.”

  “My car’s across the street.” Sammy guided him. “This airport’s a maze.”

  “You seem to know your way around. How long have you been out here?”

  “Two months tomorrow. I’m a quick study,” Sammy said as they stepped out into the heat and smog and headed for the garage elevator. “You’ll never guess who else is here.”

  Pappajohn nodded again. “Are you living with him?”

  Sammy’s expression reflected surprise. “Uh, no. We broke up a couple of years ago.”

  Seeing Pappajohn’s puzzled features, she added, “Reed. Reed Wyndham. My old boyfriend. He’s at LAU Med doing a fellowship. We’re, uh, just friends now. Who did you—?”

  The elevator arrived.

  “I meant your father,” Pappajohn said, following her inside. “You told me he was out here.”

  Sammy focused on the lighted numbers moving from two to six. The elevator doors opened and she waved a hand to urge Pappajohn out onto the roof. “Yeah, guess I did,” she finally answered. “No, I’ve got my own place. But, I’ll give him a call. It’s, uh, on my list.”

  Sammy unlocked the passenger side of the Tercel and squinted at Pappajohn. The haze and the winds were obviously irritating his eyes too. Sammy noted they were a trace watery.

  Pappajohn opened his door, but didn’t get in before adding, “You should. Now while you still can—” The rest of his sentence was lost in the wind as he coughed and slid into his seat.

  An hour later, Sammy had located the North Mission Road address in Boyle Heights and angled into a visitor’s space behind the L.A. County morgue. Two men in blue jumpsuits were unloading a body bag from a coroner’s van.

  Sammy gasped, stealing a glance at Pappajohn whose sullen expression hadn’t altered since they’d left the airport. He’d insisted they drive straight downtown despite Sammy’s suggestion that he rest after his long flight. He had to see his daughter, he’d repeated. After Sammy had reluctantly agreed, Pappajohn had sat, grim and silent, staring out the car’s side window for the rest of the trip.

  Now Sammy worried that the sight of the body bag would cause Pappajohn’s stoic pose to crumble. But he maintained his composure and stepped out of the car even before Sammy had turned off the ignition. He was already inside talking to one of the clerks when she entered the foyer of the three-story brick building adjoining the massive L.A. County Southern Medical Center.

  “Oh yes, here it is.” The middle-aged black woman ran a manicured finger down a list of names on her clipboard. “Anastasia Pappajohn. Admitted nine-o-six a.m. this morning.” Looking up at Pappajohn, her expression registered confusion. “That’s odd,” she said, “usually takes two or three days to complete the autopsy, but I guess with everybody called in for overtime, you know, ’cause of the fires and all, there’s already a disposition—I mean a—”

  “I’m a cop, I get the jargon,” Pappajohn said flatly. “So you’re saying, I don’t need to identify my daughter?”

  “Well, it seems that’s been confirmed and the case is closed.”

  “Can I see her at least?” Pappajohn asked, his voice so soft that Sammy could barely hear, though the stoop of his shoulders proclaimed his grief.

  The clerk must have recognized it too because she dropped her matter-of-fact tone, her expression now empathetic. “Of course. I’ll need to get one of the staff. Please,” she said, pointing to the two red leather couches in the middle of the room, “have a seat.”

  Five minutes later, an older bespectacled man in a crisp white coat approached Pappajohn and shook his hand. “I’m Dr. Gharani, assistant chief medical examiner. Let me first say how sorry we are for your loss.”

  Lips drawn tight, Pappajohn merely nodded,

  “Reception said you wanted to see your daughter.”

  “Yes.”

  Gharani removed his glasses and rubbed the deep furrow between his weary looking eyes. “Okay,” he said with obvious reluctance, “but, please understand, I’m a father, too. Your daughter— she’s been through a terrible, terrible fire. If you wanted to forego—⁠”

  “No, I need to do this.” Pappajohn was firm.

  “All right, then.” Gharani slipped his wire frames back on and led Pappajohn toward the elevator to the basement. Sammy introduced herself as a family friend, and, with a nod from Pappajohn, followed them into the car.

  Ana paced back and forth near the merry-go-round, the sense of urgency growing in her gut. Nearly ten minutes late. Where the hell was Kaye? Anxious to share her fears and hopefully get help, Ana had hiked from the library to Colorado Avenue, arriving at Pacific Park just before the four p.m. meeting time.

  Located on the Santa Monica Pier, this amusement park’s roller coaster, Ferris wheel, midway games, oceanfront specialty food outlets, and seaside shopping attracted hordes of tourists and locals alike. Now it seemed as though all of L.A. sought relief from the fires. Though flecks of soot still floated down from the blazing hills to the east, at least here, over the ocean, the salty sea breeze made it easier to breathe.

  A chilly marine layer of clouds had moved in over the pier in the last half hour. The moisture would help the firefighters, but the approaching sunset with its drop in temperature made Ana shiver. She’d hurried over to a vendor selling hot drinks and paid for a tall decaf—she’d had enough caffeine for one day. Back at her post, she circled the carousel once again. No sign of Kaye. Just the happy faces of children waving to mothers and fathers from astride fancifully painted horses and chariots. Her heart leapt at the sight of one little boy with the same tousled brown hair that framed her own Teddy’s round face. Oh God, she missed him, how she wanted him in her arms again.

  A tap on the shoulder made her spin around.

  “Ana?” The man towering over her had bulging biceps and a thick Russian accent.

  Who—? How did—? Ana was instantly suspicious. “Where’s Kaye?”

  “In the car. Come.”

  Ana frowned and took an uncertain step backward, leaving a few feet between her and the man. Her alarm bells had gone off full tilt. Shaking her head, she said, “I’ll meet her here. That’s what we agreed.”

  His intense stare made Ana’s whole body tighten. The Russian grabbed her arm, “Come now!”

  Looking around at the crowd, Ana made a split-second decision. With her free hand, she threw her hot coffee in the man’s face. Pain registered in his expression, and the moment he released his grip on her arm, she scrambled past him, and sprinted out onto the pier. With a loud roar, only seconds behind her, the Russian appeared between Ana and the ramp that led off the pier to Ocean Avenue.

  Desperate to escape, yet not wanting to call attention to herself, Ana threaded her way through the oncoming throng of pedestrians in the opposite direction. As she hurried, she stumbled and fell, then picked herself up, narrowly missing a woman and her baby. She staggered to her feet, breathless. The man was still on her tail, closing the gap between them. She could see an earpiece glued to his left ear. Talking to someone on his cell phone?

  Spying a photographer posing a wedding party in formal attire, Ana slipped behind the group, then ducked into the busy arcade. The sound inside was deafening as teenagers challenged each other at video games that pinged and buzzed. Surveying the huge area for somewhere to hide, Ana located a space between two unoccupied video displays. Her heart thumped wildly, her palms were wet with fear. She wanted to scream for help, but she knew that would only bring the police and right now she didn’t know who she could trust. Instead, she crouched down, peeking out every few seconds to see if she’d been followed.

  She froze when she spotted the Russian scanning the room. Please don’t look this way. Less than ten feet to her right, a sign pointed to the Hall of Mirrors. The moment he turned in the other direction, Ana rose and made a mad dash for its entrance, racing past the befuddled checker. Inside, the
mirrored halls were dimly lit and the passages narrow, heightening the illusory experience and making it difficult for Ana to see exactly where to go.

  She chose one path and bumped up against a young couple laughing at their deformed reflections, first tall and skinny, then short and wide. Apologizing, Ana rushed past them, her pulse racing. Like a lost lab rat, she traveled the bewildering maze of mirrors, frantically seeking an exit until she heard her name.

  “Ana, Kaye knows you have it. She’s waiting.”

  Have it? What was he talking about? Ana stopped to listen, focusing to determine the origin of the disembodied voice. Somewhere in back. But how close? She searched for the man’s reflection. Down an empty path, she ran hard into a hidden mirror blocking her path. Looking up, she could see his distorted image behind her and swallowed a scream. She spun around and shot out her hand, now clutching the knife she’d hidden in her pants. He was gone. Where?

  Panicked, she stumbled to her right until finally she heard young voices and saw a ray of light up ahead. Hoping it was a way out, she slipped the knife into her side pocket and quickly elbowed past a troop of giggling Brownies to the emergency exit, bursting back out onto the pier just beside the Ferris wheel. She closed the exit to block the overhead spotlight and threw a large empty metal trash can on its side in front of the door, so that anyone rushing out would likely trip.

  At five p.m., the late December sun had already sunk over the horizon. Artificial lights strung up all along the Ferris wheel sparkled green and gold and amber against the moonlit sky. Refusing to look back, Ana joined a line moving to get on the ride.

  “Ticket?” a young man wearing a Pacific Park T-shirt demanded when she reached the front. Only one empty bucket remained to be filled.

  “Sorry, I lost mine.” Ana handed him a twenty with a wink.

  Without missing a beat, the ticket taker pocketed the bill and waved her in. Ana crouched low, the knife back in her hands, and held her breath until the ticket taker pushed a lever on the side of the ride and swept her bucket high up into the air.

  At the same moment, Ana heard what she guessed was a Russian expletive as the sound of someone falling hard on the wooden pier below made everyone else turn in its direction. Knowing she had just seconds to hide, Ana slid down all the way in the bucket. Trembling, she peeked through the cage. Flat on his face, the Russian tried to stand, refusing all offers of help from several good Samaritans who’d rushed over. Although she hovered far above him, Ana could not miss his frustrated expression when, after getting up, he scanned the crowd for several minutes, spoke into his earpiece, and finally walked away in the direction of the parking lot. What she did miss was Kaye hidden among a group watching a sidewalk artist, a cell to her ear, her elegant features contorted with rage as Yevgeny gave her the news that he’d lost Ana.

  The mingled smells of disinfectant, sweat, and something sweet permeated the air. This was death. Sammy shivered as she followed Dr. Gharani and Pappajohn down the morgue’s basement hallway. She noticed the cracked cement walls, missing ceiling tiles, and chipped plaster and thought of how the lobby had been so pristine, like the entrance to a funeral home. Here, in the mortician’s workshop, no one tried to hide the imperfections.

  “From the ninety-four Northridge quake,” Gharani explained with a shrug when he saw Sammy eyeing the damage.

  Several white-coated staff, all looking harried, hurried past, ducking into doors that Sammy guessed led to autopsy rooms or forensic labs. A few of the coroner’s crew nodded greetings to Gharani, but none stopped to chat.

  “Busy day,” he explained to fill the silence. He stopped just outside a steel door and turned to Pappajohn. “You’re sure about this?”

  “I’m sure,” Pappajohn responded, his expression grim.

  Pappajohn followed Gharani inside the chamber.

  For a moment, Sammy hesitated, unsure if she could face another viewing of poor Anastasia, but Pappajohn’s shuffling gait convinced her he’d do better with her by his side.

  The viewing room was a long, narrow space painted entirely in white. On the table in the middle lay a body covered by a white sheet, the overhead fluorescent lights bathing it in a rectangle of iridescence. Gharani moved to one side of the table while Sammy and Pappajohn stood on the other. Slowly he pulled back the sheet, exposing the head.

  Sammy shut her eyes. But when she heard Pappajohn’s rapid expulsion of breath and felt the trembling hand that grabbed hers, she opened them again.

  “The-eh mou, what happened?” Pappajohn cried. “I don’t even recognize her.”

  Gharani quickly recovered the body and came around the table. Sammy stepped aside as he draped a comforting arm around Pappajohn’s shoulder. “From what we can gather, she was running away from a fire in Bel Air. The smoke got pretty bad so it’s likely she got disoriented, fell, and was knocked unconscious. Unfortunately, by the time the EMTs found her, she’d been badly burned. There was nothing they could do. I’m sure she was out long before the flames and didn’t suffer at all.”

  As if a dam had burst, Pappajohn began to sob. Sammy could barely make out his words, repeated over and over, a gasping prayer, “Theos horesteeneh.” God forgive her.

  Like a caged rat trapped on a spinning wheel, Ana stayed crouched in the Ferris wheel’s bucket for what seemed to her an eternity. Her fingers unconsciously crept to her cross, repeating the prayer she’d learned years before in Sunday school. The Lord is my Shepherd—

  Her twenty dollars had apparently bought her a quarter hour’s worth of rides. Enough time, she fervently hoped, for that goon to give up. Occasionally, her bucket would stop at the top, affording Ana a panoramic view of the pier when she dared to peek over the edge. After ten minutes or so, the Russian had disappeared, hopefully gone for good.

  The earnest face of the ticket taker leaning into her bucket made Ana jump. “Want to go again?”

  Ana eased herself up and looked around. The coast was clear. She patted the young man on the hand and shook her head. “Not in this lifetime.” Hopping out, she sped off toward the crowded parking lot, where ducking behind a car would be easy if the man turned up again.

  Scanning the rows of parked cars, Ana spotted a Porsche nestled between two sedans. The vanity license plate USPEH made her look twice. Hadn’t Sylvie told her that was Kaye’s motto? Success in Russian? Ana stepped back and surveyed the lot. If this was Kaye’s car, was she here too? Then why hadn’t she met as planned?

  The implication hit Ana like a slap in the face. Kaye must have sent that man after her to—to what? Kill her? Was he the one who’d trashed the apartment? And destroyed the computer? Imagining the rage with which he’d smashed it made Ana’s panic rise. Heart pounding, she crept away as fast as she could, hiding in the next row of cars behind a large SUV. Minutes later she saw the Russian sprint into the lot and unlock the passenger side of the Porsche. By the light of its open door, the car’s mirror reflected an agitated Kaye.

  As soon as her well-muscled lackey slammed the door shut, the sports car revved out of the parking space, and, tires squealing, sped off. Ana leaned against the SUV, shocked and feeling very much alone. There was no safe house to which she could return. What had happened? She’d been so sure that Kaye would be her savior. My God, did Kaye really want her dead? Why? The only person who knew all the players in this drama was Sylvie, who was in no condition to help.

  Fear tightened across Ana’s chest like a vise. She was a sitting duck now with no one to turn to and nowhere to go.

  On duty for over twelve hours, the detective was dreaming of a Double-Double at In-n-Out Burger before hitting the sack. He’d already filed the report on the dead girl, and all that stood between him and his cheeseburger was the call he’d expected this morning. For which he was still waiting. Frustrated, he tried his contact’s number for the second time that afternoon. Once again, the line rang through to voice mail. This time though, the message he left was far from polite.

  The sun had set ov
er Santa Monica while Ana leaned against the creaking wood railings at the end of the pier, wondering what to do. Beneath the pilings below her, a group of teenagers huddled against the wind’s chill. Their boom box blasted an old Everclear rock song Ana knew to be Sylvie’s favorite: “Father of Mine.” According to Sylvie, the lead singer, Art Alexakis, had never gotten over his father’s leaving him when Art was just ten.

  “Neither did I,” Sylvie had admitted one night when she’d returned home stoned. Her father’s last words had been whispered in her sleeping ears, “Au revoir, ma petite.”

  She’d gone on to tell Ana how Art had attempted suicide as a teen somewhere near the very spot where Ana now stood, filling his pockets with weights, then getting high on marijuana and jumping off the pier. “He claimed the vision and voice of his dead brother, Donald, made him survive,” Sylvie had explained, choking back a sob. “We cling to what we can.”

  In her head, Ana could still hear Sylvie singing that sad song as she’d staggered off to her room.

  Dejected, Ana shuffled along the wooden planks. Below her, through the cracks, she could see the churning Pacific waters washing over the sand. The sound of the ocean seemed to call to her, inviting her to find a home in its depths. This is how Art must have felt standing here all alone many years ago. Desperate to go home.

  A little boy with his parents stepped out of a taxi that had turned into the lot to drop them off. Teddy. How Ana missed him. Though she gazed longingly at the ocean, she couldn’t forget her promise to her son.

  I’ll be back for you, my love. As soon as I can.

  The DJ came on the radio with breaking news. “Update on our own Courtney Phillips. Word is she’s AWOL. That’s right, slipped out of Schwarzenegger Hospital sometime this evening. Where she’s gone is anybody’s guess. Her manager refused to comment, ri-i-ight,” the DJ chuckled. “I’ll bet she headed straight back to Promise House one more time. Promises, promises. So how ’bout we toast her well-worn road to recovery with some “Lithium” from Nirvana.”