by Linda Reid
“That’s tuchas,” Sammy rejoined without turning around. “And yes, you did. Many times.”
She was gone! Kaye couldn’t believe what Yevgeny was telling her. Like a speck of ash swept away by these devil winds, somehow Ana had completely slipped through their fingers. Again. Along with the client list Sylvie stole.
“I looked everywhere. She’s not with any of your girls.”
“Did you check the house in Malibu?” she yelled into the receiver. It was a long shot, but Ana and Courtney Phillips had been roommates at Promise House, the expensive facility Kaye sent her girls for rehab. Sylvie had told her those two had gotten pretty tight, in the bonding sense, and that last summer the actress had invited Ana to a hideaway in the Malibu hills few people knew about.
“No one was there.”
Kaye felt a growing sense of panic. She had to find Ana before Miller learned the girl was still alive. Unfortunately, it was becoming clear that Kaye had but one option left. So far, Yevgeny had proved absolutely useless. She would have liked to reach into the phone and wring his neck.
Instead, she hung up without a goodbye and began to punch in the number to her LAPD contact. Time to call in the pros.
The first rays of sunlight teased the manicured gardens outside her Malibu mansion. Courtney’s bloodshot eyes, however, didn’t welcome the brightness. Slipping on a pair of sunglasses and fighting off nausea, she stumbled into the living room to let in some air. The stench of her own vomit roiled her already unsettled stomach.
Straining from the effort, Courtney managed to open a front window just enough to allow a few breaths. But the air was hardly fresh, she realized, choking with every inhalation. The heavy smell of smoke from the fires to the southeast had made its way to Malibu. If only she were back home in Colorado, where everything had been so unsullied, so real.
Squinting into the haze, she spotted something lying in the azaleas a few feet from the house. A dog? No, human. And female. Was she sleeping? Or—
Courtney slammed the window shut and hid to one side, peeking out to discern if the body moved. After a few moments, the woman rolled over and curled into a ball. Now her face was clearly visible. And familiar.
“I need a favor.”
“I thought that’s what you did for me,” the voice on the other end replied.
It took all of Kaye’s self control not to tell the SOB to go fuck himself. But she’d long ago made her deal with this devil and there was no going back. Unless she regularly fed him information on her johns, she knew he would back off on Vice and she could end up in jail. So she bit her tongue. “I just heard about poor Ana Pappajohn.”
“Name hasn’t been officially released. How’d you get it?”
“Does the CIA tell the KGB?” she asked coyly.
“Which one are you?” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “Okay so the girl’s dead. What’s the favor?”
“She had a kid. I’d like to make sure he’s okay.”
“I don’t see you as the madam with the heart of gold.”
“Nonsense. When it comes to children, I’m a soft touch. The boy has some kind of disability. Ana had to give him up when she was using. I’d like to find out where he is. Maybe buy him a Christmas gift. Can you get his address from Social Services?”
“You want me to deliver the gift?”
“That won’t be necessary. Just find out where the boy lives, and I’ll take care of the rest.” Like I always end up having to do,” she grumbled, slamming down the phone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saturday
Christmas Day, 1999
Smoke from still-raging fires had turned the Christmas morning sky over Canyon City into a sepia blur. City Hall was locked up and empty for the holiday, but the large parking lots on either side of the office building were packed with flimsy tents hastily erected by homeless activists hoping to embarrass a local administration blind to their needs. Strong Santa Ana winds blew hard against the tent flaps, exposing those trying to catch a few last winks of sleep on mattresses of canvas and asphalt.
Declared a historical landmark over twenty years before, City Hall’s renovations to highlight the structure’s classic Spanish-mission architecture had only recently been completed. Several hundred people marched noisily around the main two-story building, shouting slogans and carrying placards under the watchful eye of a few yawning officers who leaned on their motorcycles at strategic vantage points along the route. The police, tasked to keep the protest peaceful, stayed away from the last remaining construction zone—Greene Progress’s restoration and seismic retrofit of the building’s bell tower scheduled for completion by spring. Not really a difficult assignment when other units were out working the fire evacuations.
Two news helicopters monitored the marchers. Several protesters carried effigies of both the Los Angeles and the Canyon City mayors while others waved giant papier-mâché puppets of pigs at the TV cameras to protest corporate greed. The rotors of the copters added turbulence to the wind gusts from the Santa Anas, at times blowing the vulnerable tents and marchers completely off balance.
“Quite a scene,” Sammy observed, as she laid out the escargot and the paté. She and Pappajohn, along with Jim and a few other station volunteers, had been working since just after breakfast, setting up serving tables for the midday meals. To her surprise, her father had kept his promise. Less than an hour ago, three shiny black Humvees had stopped by and delivered tray after tray of gourmet food. Not the kind of fare these homeless folks were used to, but, she had to admit, a nice gesture.
“More police here than people,” Jim groused, ignoring Pappajohn’s disparaging glare.
“What time is Jésus getting here with our eats anyway?” Sammy asked. KPCF’s sales manager was bringing a more traditional holiday menu—turkeys, stuffing, and an assortment of pies, many donated by patrons of Sammy’s radio show.
Jim smiled. “Give the guy a break. He was only born this morning.”
Sammy blinked, momentarily confused. “Ha. Gee, Jim, I thought you were an atheist.”
“I follow the teachings of Gautama Buddha, but I’ll be the first to cheer when Jésus arrives. In fact, I think I see him coming now, hallelujah!” He bowed in the direction of the parking lot’s driveway. “Edible food.”
Sammy spied the station’s rickety van with Jésus at the wheel. She waved for him to stop next to their tables and let the van serve as a buffer against the winds. Rolling her eyes at Pappajohn, she wrinkled her nose at Jim.
No one paid attention to the Canyon City police van that had arrived just behind the KPCF junker and parked facing the construction fence around the bell tower. Like the news vans, it only had windows beside the driver and front seat passenger. Two young, trim men with buzz cuts and blue Canyon City PD uniforms exited those seats, and, after scanning the area, leaned against the vehicle, immersed in conversation.
Inside, out of sight, Miller, Fahim, and al-Salid sat in front of a console of keyboards and monitors that filled the cargo area and resembled the cockpit of a 747. Unlike his urbane and expressive compatriot, the clean-shaven al-Salid was somber and restrained, his eyes darting from one video screen to another as they displayed a panorama of the entire scene, including an overhead shot of rooftops around the block.
Fahim gestured toward one TV. “You can see street numbers from that one.”
“Our satellites can spot a fly,” Miller said. “A good fact to remind the prince when you return.”
Al-Salid motioned at another monitor displaying the tower and spoke a few sentences in Arabic to Fahim.
“Winds are starting to make the tower sway,” Miller responded in Arabic, without turning to face his colleagues. “Normally, the computers managing the active seismic-control system in the apex should help counteract the wind’s force. Normally.”
“I did not know you spoke our language so well,” Fahim stammered in English.“You are a man of many talents.”
This time, Miller turned
to face him, and replied in Arabic, “Another good fact to remind the prince.”
Fahim pointed to the large machine that filled the back of the van’s cargo space. “This resonator will make the control system’s weights work in sync with the winds, so the tower’s swaying and shaking becomes stronger.” In Arabic, he added, “and falls.”
“You get an A, Fahim,” Miller said. “Okay, now that we’re all set, let’s warm her up.”
As if on cue, the resonator whirred to life. The size of six desktop computers, the machine resembled the old mainframe computers with blinking lights and spinning disks commonly seen in 1960’s Hollywood films. But these lights were LEDs, and the discs were laser-cut DVDs. Within minutes, the remote computer in the van was ready to transmit its binary Trojan Horse into the Canyon City tower’s computers and take over control of the counterweights.
“They’ll start serving food as soon as the bell rings twelve.” Miller nodded at the tower centered on one of the monitors above his keyboard. “That’s when we’ll amp up. Target should be between 12:30 and 12:45.”
Smiling at al-Salid, he spoke in perfect German, “And, as I said back in Munich, that’s when the curtain will rise on Götterdämmerung.”
“Here you go.” Sammy scooped a hefty spoonful of mashed potatoes onto a little girl’s plate. “Gravy?”
The child nodded and giggled as Sammy covered the mound of potatoes with the thick, brown liquid. Sammy watched her skip off behind her siblings, her plate overflowing.
“More turkey!” Jim’s voice was muted by the winds.
“More ballast!” Pappajohn gripped an electric knife in one hand and with the other struggled to prevent his tablecloth from flying off and catapulting a twenty-pound roaster onto the gravel.
Sammy lugged over an untouched tray of raw oysters and dumped it on Pappajohn’s carving table. “Don’t think these are going anywhere.”
“Damn winds practically knocked me over,” grumbled Pappajohn as he filled a plate with slices from the enormous bird. “Amazing that thing doesn’t get blown away.” He pointed his knife at the creaking scaffolding surrounding the bell tower a few yards from their tables. “Look at that bell rock.”
Clutching the tray of turkey, Sammy observed the bell’s swaying and strained to hear it ring over the roar of the winds.
“What’s that?”
Sammy turned back to two middle-aged women dressed in dirty denims staring at one of her father’s epicurean dishes. “Salmon mousse. Would you like some?”
“Hell, no,” one of the women said. “Don’t trust that genetic stuff. Only eat one type of animal at a time. Just give me turkey.”
Sammy forked a couple of slices from Jim’s tray onto each of the ladies’ plates, adding scoops of potatoes. She couldn’t resist a chuckle as she watched the women move on and overheard one say to the other, “Who the hell eats moose anyway?”
Resuming her rhythmic dealing of spuds, Sammy stole a few glances at the bell. Was it her imagination, or had that last gust of wind made the tower visibly tremble for a moment? Sammy looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but they were all too busy doling out food.
Another gust of wind blew Sammy’s almost empty aluminum potato tray off the table. With her back turned to the crowd as she chased the rolling tray in the direction of the KPCF van, Sammy missed seeing the tall stucco bell tower creak and then, begin to sway.
Pressing a series of computer keys, Miller brought up screen after screen of equations and graphs. Fahim couldn’t follow the numbers, but he was able to monitor the tower vibrations displayed as multiple wave signals on the oscilloscope.
“T minus thirty seconds,” Miller reported. “Keep your eyes on the bouncing waves.”
Whirring like a swarm of bumble bees rose from behind the men as the resonator continued beaming its instructions to the tower’s computer sensors, magnifying the wind’s forces by manipulating the movements of the counterweights. Fahim gripped the armrests of his seat. It wasn’t the wind rocking the van that made his heart race. He gasped at the size of the enormous synchronized wave created on the oscilloscope when the multiple waves slowly merged into one green glowing tsunami.
“Lift-off imminent,” whooped Miller, pointing to the TV monitor displaying the swaying tower. Shards of scaffolding began to break off and fall to the ground.
Fahim’s jaw dropped as he watched a giant crack appear near the top of the structure and heard Miller’s cry: “Thar she blows!”
The bell tower swayed precariously back and forth over the parking lot and the tent city, widening its cracks with each pendulum-like swing.
“Run!” Sammy screamed, racing toward the crowd, at the same time pointing up at the tottering structure. “It’s coming down!”
Jim ran past her, shouting something, but Sammy couldn’t hear his words above the wind and the cries of the protesters and homeless campers.
Chunks of wood and plaster dropped, shattering by her feet while she and Pappajohn tried to guide people from the path in which the tower appeared to be falling. Up ahead, Sammy spotted the little girl with the adorable giggle sitting with her brother. Just as the tower broke apart, she yelled, hoping to warn Jim to get himself and the children away before the structure came crashing down on the asphalt. But it was too late. Within seconds, the tower had slammed onto the parking lot, a giant dust cloud enveloping Jim and the two tots.
Breathless, Pappajohn ran up to Sammy. “You all right?” He was covered in white powder from head to toe. “We got as many out as we could.”
Sammy coughed and gagged from the swirling dust. “Jim! The children!”
They both stared in horror at the dust ball where the tower had landed.
Like ghostly apparitions, two tiny figures emerged from the cloud. Dirty and frightened, but barely scratched, they raced into their tearful mother’s arms. Jim staggered behind, coated in white powder, rivulets of blood streaming down his face and chest. With a grunt and a gasp, he collapsed, unconscious, into the bushes.
Taking advantage of the chaos and confusion, the Canyon City police van moved slowly away from the scene, wending its way through the hysterical crowds pouring into the street and dodging police cars and ambulances screeching to the City Hall parking lot. By the time the medical helicopter had landed on the grassy knoll beside the building to transport its first critical patients to LAU Med, Miller’s van was long gone.
The phone beside his hospital bed rang just once before Prescott answered.
“The bell has rung,” came a voice on the other end.
Satisfied with the message, Prescott clicked off without a reply, laid back on his pillows with his eyes closed, and smiled.
Bishop hung up the wall phone in the Cardiovascular Intervention suite and leaned wearily against the polished tiles.
“You all right?” his lead nurse asked.
Bishop stood erect and nodded. “Eccles just called a code one emergency. There’s been a building collapse in Canyon City. Hundreds injured and on their way.”
“Oh, my God.” The nurse paled. “I’ll get things ready here and see if ER needs help with triage.”
“Good, and please page Dr. Wyndham. To come back in STAT.”
Sammy didn’t know where the past few hours had gone. After the tower’s deafening collapse, the screams of the injured and the dying had merged with the blare of ambulance sirens and police bullhorns. And the wind—like a monstrous creature—kept howling at the horrific scene below. Sammy knew she’d never forget those sounds.
Now, as she paced nervously back and forth in the waiting area of LAU Medical’s emergency room, she wondered how the collapse had happened. One minute they were serving Christmas dinner to thousands of hungry tent city denizens and the next the tower had just toppled, leaving a trail of dust, blood, and debris in its wake.
Sammy glanced over at Pappajohn, seated in the corner of the crowded room, trying to comfort the father of one of the injured protesters who’d just bee
n taken to surgery. It was a tender side of Pappajohn he usually kept well hidden. This bear of a man presented himself to the world as a gruff and feisty loner, someone who tried to make you think he didn’t need or care about anyone—not even his own daughter. Watching him, Sammy’s heart ached, aware how rarely Pappajohn allowed this side of himself to be seen.
She felt a gentle tap on her shoulder and turned to see Reed, dressed in green scrubs, his features creased with concern. “Sammy, thank God you’re all right.”
“Reed, what are you doing here? I thought you were off today.”
“Everyone available was called in. Code one disaster. Good thing we’d just been through the drill. We’ve gotten all the criticals and most of the injured. Community hospitals got the rest.”
“How’s Jim?” she asked. “Jim Lodge. My producer.”
Reed wiped his brow. “Guy’s a real hero, saving those kids. Considering what might have happened, he’s a lucky man. Just a concussion and lots of scratches. No intracranial bleed. We’re admitting him for observation, but he should be fine.”
“Thank you.” Sammy’s lip quivered. She turned to indicate the slight man who’d been talking with Pappajohn. “What about his daughter? Carmen Moran?”
A scrub-clad doctor had approached the two men, shaking his head. “No!” the father shrieked, almost sliding to the floor. Sammy watched as Pappajohn helped the doctor lift the devastated man to his feet and lead him into one of the tiny rooms off the waiting area. Even with the door shut, she could hear the anguished cries.
“They couldn’t save her,” Reed said, his own regret clearly written on his face. “That makes at least four we’ve lost, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t understand it!” Sammy voice rose, her body trembled with rage and grief. “How could that tower fall like that!”
Everyone in the waiting area looked up.
“Not here.” Reed put his arm around Sammy’s shoulder. “Let’s go into the staff room and talk.”
