by Linda Reid
Then came the bump in the road. In the last days of the Gulf War, Bishop was wrapping up a tour of duty in Saudi Arabia when he began drinking heavily and behaving erratically. Enough to have him sent to Germany for a psych evaluation. According to the medical record, while going through the DTs there, Bishop insisted he’d lost a burn patient because of a test weapon used to target civilians, claimed his demand for an army investigation had been denied, that no one believed him. The psychiatrist who diagnosed alcoholic delusions secondary to PTSD suggested immediate discharge.
Miller shook his head, remembering his concern in nineteen ninety-one. If the resonator was going to be a trump card in the next theater, he couldn’t afford the other side hearing about those early trials. His team had had to bury all evidence that the building collapse in the desert had been anything other than an accident. A few well-placed calls to some very important people had undermined Bishop’s credibility, gotten him shipped stateside to a Walter Reed psych unit and a one-way ticket back to Houston. Miller had hoped that Bishop would’ve learned his lesson, kept his curiosity in check and his mouth shut. Now he wondered if the man might just become another loose end he could ill afford.
Closing the army file, he picked up the intel his own people had just gathered covering the seven years since Bishop’s return to the U.S. Though the doctor had joined Alcoholics Anonymous, his already rocky marriage soon dissolved. For months he stopped practicing cardiology, instead volunteering as a GP in recession-ravaged Houston clinics. Then, seemingly out of the blue, he was offered the post of chief of cardiology at Houston Medical. Given Bishop’s history of alcoholism and breakdowns, that seemed surprising.
Miller read a little further until he discovered the nugget he’d been hoping for. Well I’ll be damned. It wasn’t just the glowing letters of reference from Donald Graves Senior that helped piece together the story. It was the yellowed photo of Frank Bishop, high school football star and his then-steady girlfriend, Julia Graves, along with the nineteen fifty-nine OB-GYN’s note documenting a D&C perfomed on the girl. Obviously, eighteen-year old-Bishop had gotten sixteen-year-old Julia pregnant. In exchange for his silence about the pregnancy and his leaving town, he not only received no jail time for what could have been construed as statutory rape, but got recommendations from her rich father—first to West Point and then, years later, to the hospital board in Houston. Not quite seventeen, Julia Graves, post-abortion, became Mrs. Neil Prescott. From the notes in the file, it looked as though Julia had a hand in bringing Bishop to LAU Medical.
Well, adultery was definitely something he could hold over Bishop’s head. Sometime tomorrow he’d give the good doctor a call to make that clear.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Christmas Day
Saturday
Near the end of another overnight shift, De’andray slowed his plain wrap to a crawl. The red MINI Cooper convertible had several parking tickets flapping on its windshield. De’andray nodded at his partner, and pulled his car behind the small vehicle. Parking on most Bel Air streets had been banned since the fires started and the neighborhood had gone on red flag alert. The two detectives stepped out into the predawn and walked over to check out the abandoned convertible.
“Wash me,” Ortego said as he ran a finger across the sliding roof, leaving a trail in the ash that had covered the MINI Cooper like a layer of gray snow.
De’andray brushed off dust from the driver’s window and peered in. An opened makeup kit was strewn on the floor of the passenger side, along with two round hairbrushes and a bottle of Fuze low-cal juice. On the backseat were a pair of New Balance running shoes with frayed laces and a can of spray-on tan. Nothing unusual for L.A.
He ambled over to the windshield and lifted up the wiper to grab one of the tickets. Shaking it clean in his hand, he strode back to his car and called in the license and ticket information. “Got a twenty-eight or twenty-nine on this plate?” he asked the dispatcher.
“Nada. Let’s see if we can locate the owner’s name and address.”
He could hear the clicking of a computer keyboard as she talked.
“Okay, here we go. Car’s registered to a Sylvie Pauzé, twenty-three twenty-five Ashland Street. No outstanding tickets.”
“Thanks.”
“Dee?”
“Yeah, hon?”
“I think I remember something. Let me check.” More clicking. “Yep. That’s the same address we sent the black-and-whites out on last night. For the girl that died in the fire.”
De’andray whistled, turning to Ortego, whose brow was puckered. “Now that’s something I didn’t expect.”
Leaning back in his chair with eyes closed, the guard nearly fell over when Sammy approached his desk a little before six a.m.. Obviously surprised to see visitors in the building this early—let alone on Christmas morning. But a call upstairs found her father in, evidently expecting her.
As the elevator accelerated skyward to his thirty-sixth-floor suite, Sammy’s stomach lurched downward. Gravity or nerves? She couldn’t honestly say as she stepped from the car and headed toward 3601. At the entrance to the suite, she hesitated. Part of her heart hoped her father was reaching out for reconciliation, the other, hurt so often before, just wanted to avoid more pain. She took a deep breath, then with feigned bravado, walked inside, past the deserted reception area into a long, heavily carpeted hallway. At the far end, she found the corner office belonging to Jeffrey Greene, CEO.
Through the half-open door she could see her father seated behind a large mahogany desk, his back to a wall of glass that framed the city, his head bent over in concentration. For several seconds she stood quietly at the door, studying him with a measure of skepticism and curiosity. It was just past dawn, yet he appeared to have rolled out of bed, clean-shaven, perfectly coifed and dressed to the nines, the cut of his dark suit obviously custom. And for a man of fifty, he had the trim build of someone much younger. Probably contoured by a personal trainer. Everything in the picture bespoke money, confirming what Sammy had just read online. Dear old dad was doing very well, Sammy thought with an unwelcome dash of bitterness honed by years of separation.
Without knocking, she strode inside and sat in one of two chairs facing the desk. “How’d you find me?” she demanded, her tone angrier than intended.
Jeffrey looked up and flashed a smile that Sammy guessed to be the expensive handiwork of some Beverly Hills cosmetic dentist. She didn’t recall such evenly spaced, white teeth from her last visit as a college student.
“Is that a nice way to greet your father?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Trina heard your show—”
“Trina.” Sammy couldn’t keep disdain from her voice. “Sounds exotic.”
Jeffrey lifted a gilded frame from the corner of his desk and held it up to Sammy. “She’s a remarkable person. Can’t wait til you meet her.”
The woman in the photo did indeed look exotic and, Sammy had to admit, beautiful. Dark haired with piercing dark eyes. She guessed Trina’s age to be late thirties, though with the wonders of plastic surgery—especially in this town—she might be a decade or more older.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were in L.A.?” Jeffrey asked. “It’s been what? Two, three—?”
“Six years,” Sammy corrected.
Jeffrey ignored the hostile edge. “Well, you look terrific.”
Sammy felt her cheeks redden, “Bubba meisa.”
“Huh?”
“Yiddish for baloney.”
“You sound like your grandmother.”
“Well, she raised me,” Sammy snapped.
Jeffrey rose and came around the desk to stand in front of her. “How about a hug?”
It would have been easy to refuse. For so long she’d grown accustomed to disappointments from this man. “It isn’t necessary.”
Jeffrey leaned against his polished desk. “Hey, Sammy. I know I haven’t always been ‘Mr. Father Knows Best.’ I know an ‘I’
m sorry’ won’t cut it with someone as bright as you. But, we’re both adults now. And I have changed. Really. I’m a new man.”
“You mean you’re a rich man.”
“Yes, I’ve got money. Finally. But that’s what we all needed. You make it sound terrible.” He waved his arm around the beautifully appointed office. “Look at this, Sammy. I made it. I’ve worked damn hard for what I’ve achieved.” With a look of contrition, he reached out to her. “Would it really hurt to give me another chance?”
Sammy stayed silent for a moment, searching his features for guile. It wasn’t there. His remorse seemed genuine. She certainly wasn’t ready to trust him, but she wanted so much to feel a father’s arms around her that she found herself rising as he walked over and enfolded her.
“That was nice,” he said, stepping back again. “Hungry? I know a twenty-four-hour deli on Fairfax where we can get some breakfast.”
“No, uh, thanks,” Sammy said, feeling off balance. “I’ve got to get ready for our station’s food drive for the homeless.”
“Yeah, that was one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” Wary, Sammy’s heart began beating faster.
Jeffrey walked over to a coffeemaker sitting on his credenza, poured some of the steaming brew into two mugs and handed one to his daughter. “Still take it black?”
Nodding, Sammy had to smile at the jogged memory. Though her short visit with her father the summer after her freshman year had ended badly, she’d returned to Ellsford with a shared love for java straight. It was a habit she’d yet to break.
Jeffrey sat back down behind the desk and opened his top drawer. “Until we heard you on the air last night we didn’t know about your event. Nice thing you’re doing, by the way.” That winning smile again. “Sorry I didn’t have time to browbeat any of my friends to help out. But Trina and I would like to provide some of the food. We’ll have it delivered later this morning. And here,” he said, handing Sammy a check, “is a small donation.”
Sammy was stunned at the amount. “Ten thousand dollars! That’s unbelievably generous.” Hesitating for a moment, she folded the check and placed it carefully inside her pocket.
Jeffrey beamed. “It’s the least I can do for such a worthy cause. Besides, our firm is doing the renovations on the Canyon City Hall site. Never hurts to give something back. Right?”
“I suppose,” Sammy’s response was tentative, her caution flag raised. Jeffrey Greene, an altruist?
“By the way, you know who helped finance the remodel of that old building?”
“No—”
“Congressman Prescott.”
“Really?” Sammy squirmed, aware that her father was studying her reaction.
“Really. Neil isn’t what you said on your show. He cares about those less fortunate.”
“As long as they’re not in his backyard.”
Jeffrey chuckled, “I’m afraid Neil’s let himself get a bad rap with the press. I’d love for you to get a chance to meet him and see what a mensch he really is.” His expression brightened. “You know, I could arrange for you to have a private interview. You could do a story on Neil’s ‘Keep America Safe from Terror’ bill that’s in committee.”
“You mean his ‘Keep America Terrorized’ bill? They’ve got us thinking Y2K will be another Hiroshima.”
“That’s just politics. Neil’s a solid guy who loves his country. Like we all do.” Jeffrey folded his hands in his lap. “Sammy, I wish you’d let me help you. I know how much you want a career in broadcasting. I’ve got the connections now to make it happen.”
“I have a career in broadcasting.” Such as it is. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“I guess we all have to find our own way. I just wanted you to hear the truth about Neil, and about me.” Jeffrey sipped from a steaming mug labeled Greene Progress, and added, “We’re here if you need us. Just say the word, and this,” he waved his hand around the lush office suite, “can be your home.”
Sammy smiled politely, and nodded, hoping her expression didn’t reveal her true emotion. I’m homeless.
The moment Sammy left his office, Jeffrey dialed Trina.
“It’s taken care of,” he said, trying to conceal his hesitation.
“Did you read her the riot act?” Trina asked.
“Not exactly.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Jeffrey sighed. Trina’s passionate, assertive nature was a thrill between the sheets, but could become overbearing outside the bedroom. Subtlety was not her strong suit. “In this case, you’ll just have to trust my instincts.”
“And they are?”
“When it comes to Sammy, you get a lot more flies with honey.”
“Clear.” De’andray slammed the trunk door of the MINI Cooper shut, and coughed as the dust flew into his face. He frowned at the sound of Ortego’s laugh. “I don’t see anything funny, Chico.”
“That’s ’cause you can’t see you, Dee. You look snow white, bro.”
Glaring at his partner, De’andray brushed the ashes off of his scalp and cheeks. “We could use a little snow around here. My son thinks Santa’s sled’s got wheels.”
A flash of pain crossing Ortego’s face reminded De’andray that his partner hadn’t seen his own children for months. “Any word from the wife?”
Ortego shook his head. “Don’t know where she is. Don’t care.”
“I hear you.” Frowning, De’andray leaned against his unmarked car and rubbed his neck.
“I’ll call in the tow,” Ortego said.
“You don’t think anything else is up? Same address as the dead burn victim. Could be a roommate. You read the report from the crew that checked out her apartment last night. Anything unusual?”
“Place looked like a trick pad. That’s it. Bet this one,” he nodded at the MINI Cooper, “ran for it when our guys paid their visit.”
“Why didn’t she take her car?”
“How the fuck do I know? Maybe she was working a job around here last night,” Ortego chuckled, “and now she’s turning tricks at the evac centers. Bad pennies, man. She’ll turn up.” He walked over to the passenger side door of his car and opened it.
“She’ll have to do a good night’s work to pay off all these parking tickets.” De’andray slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “I’ll take you up on your offer. You call it in to parking services. Let them follow up with this Sylvie Pauzé. I’d love to crawl under the covers with my wife for a quickie before the kids wake up looking for their presents.”
“You really been married to the same woman for ten years?” Ortego asked as he buckled in. “Don’t know how you do it, Dee. Mine walked out the door a dozen times in less than three.”
“Like a good wine, Chico. Better every year.”
“Well, amigo, I wish you both Feliz Navidad,” Ortego said, his stony expression hidden by the darkness of the predawn night.
“What chutzpah,” Sammy muttered as she opened the door to her apartment. “The nerve of him.”
“Something I said?” came a voice from the living room.
“What? Oh gosh, no, Gus, I’m sorry, not you. I was, uh—I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s almost eight. I’ve been up for hours.” He turned on the light. Showered, shaved and dressed in a clean shirt, he’d tidied up the living room, and even folded the linens on the couch.
“Wow, you’re the houseguest everybody dreams of.” Sammy lay her satchel on top of the TV and settled on the couch beside Pappajohn.
“Want to talk about it?”
Sammy saw Pappajohn’s pained expression, his sad eyes, the lines of worry carved into his brow. He was the one who should be asking for a listening ear, a supportive shoulder. “It’s really not that important.”
“I’ve sworn never to say those words again,” he whispered. “What’s the problem?”
Sammy sighed. “My father. I just got back from seeing him.”
&n
bsp; “Took my advice, eh?” Pappajohn prompted. “And?”
“And I—I don’t know. It’s been so long and there’s so much baggage.” She plunged into a full account of the meeting, including the generous donation.
“He’s reached out to you. That’s a big step,” Pappajohn said. “Believe me, I know.”
It hung there for a long moment. Between them. The empty space each longed to fill. In Pappajohn’s case, Sammy understood, he was telling her it was too late for him and Ana.
“I guess I should give him a chance,” she said. “Still, I can’t help thinking the money’s a bribe. I mean he practically warned me off digging up any more dirt on Prescott.”
“He obviously doesn’t know you very well.” Pappajohn smiled. “Why not take his gesture at face value?” he asked. “By the way. I listened to your show last night too. Most people just talk. You’re actually going out there and doing something for others today. I’d like to help.”
“Really?”
The smile slid away. “So many young people on the streets. Alone, hungry, scared.” He turned to gaze out the window. “How little I really knew her,” he said, his voice cracking. “I realize I can’t bring her back, but maybe I can reach out to some kid who—”
Sammy placed a comforting arm on his shoulder. “Thank you. We’d love to have you join us. But first,” Sammy rose and grabbed her satchel, “my father recommended a deli on Fairfax. I bought fresh bagels, a little Nova, cream cheese, and a half dozen eggs. Give me a minute and I’ll whip you up a nice omelet.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ll get sick if you don’t eat.” Sammy started for the kitchen.
“Did anyone tell you you’re a pain in the tookas?” Pappajohn asked.
