by Linda Reid
“I understand you both took the report at the hospital?”
Ortego nodded. “It was all pretty routine, Gus. We’re so sorry.”
“I’d like to see it.”
Ortego raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason? I thought the ME had shared his findings with you.”
“Yeah, but I’m trying to get a picture of what exactly happened that night. Where Ana went, how she ended up in that fire.”
Ortego’s expression didn’t change, but De’andray scowled.
“When did you two last talk?” Ortego asked.
Pappajohn exhaled. “It’d been a while. We’d, uh, lost touch after my wife died and Ana ran away.” He rubbed his temples. “I probably should’ve been home more, but my job—”
“We probably should be home from our jobs, too,” De’andray hinted with another dose of sarcasm as he pointedly checked his watch.
“And how long ago was that?” Ortego continued, ignoring his partner.
Pappajohn hesitated, “Eight, nine years.” He added quickly, “but, we’d e-mail once in a while. And Ana used to call Eleni, my sister, for birthdays, Christmas.”
Sammy thought she saw his eyes mist again.
“Said she was working as a waitress. Saving up money to become a nurse.”
“Nurse? Well, she was working, all right.” De’andray snickered. “You knew your daughter was into drugs, didn’t you?” He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Let’s see.” He flipped through the pages, “Misdemeanor drug possession in ninety-six. Second arrest last year.” He looked at Pappajohn with palpable disdain. “As an ex-cop, you got to know L.A. is a mean mother of a town for a kid on her own. How come you refused to fly out for her arraignment?”
Pappajohn reacted as though he’d been physically wounded. “I . . . I thought a little tough love might teach her a lesson.” His voice trailed off. “Besides, the officer I spoke with out here said she’d be sent to mandatory rehab. No jail time.”
“Promise House?”
Pappajohn appeared confused.
“The state sends druggies to some outpatient clinics downtown. Promise House is luxury Malibu. Sea views, catered meals, massage and yoga overlooking the Pacific. Rehab to the stars,” De’andray explained. “Any idea where she’d get the cash to pay for that?”
Though Pappajohn shook his head, Sammy knew he’d figured out the truth already. He’d lost Ana in this city of dreams and nightmares. Sammy also knew how much he blamed himself. Having to suffer De’andray’s obvious scorn seemed unfair. She glared at the tall detective.
Ortego leaned forward and gripped his partner’s forearm to cut him off. “Look I know it hurts,” he interceded. “Dee here’s a dad. I’m a dad too. But, we’ve got to face it, your daughter wasn’t such an innocent.”
“What happened that night?” Pappajohn sounded close to the boiling point.
“She was found on Roscomare near the bottom of Benedict Canyon, probably running from the fire—”
Sammy didn’t know why, but Ortego looked over at her.
“—in high heels and tripped. Hit her head. Knocked unconscious and—well, you know the rest.”
“She didn’t have a car?”
“Not according to DMV records.” Ortego glanced over at his partner as if to see if it was okay to reveal information. “There seems to have been a roommate. Sylvie Pauzé. She owned a car, so maybe they drove together.”
“This her?” Pappajohn handed Ortego the snapshot he’d just found.
“Where’d you get this?” Ortego asked after studying it for a moment.
“At her apartment.” Pappajohn explained that they’d gone there that morning to see where his daughter had lived.
De’andray exploded. “Jesus Christ, man. That’s a crime scene. You of all people should know better.”
“The only police tape was in the trash, inside the apartment. Which I entered with a key,” Pappajohn shot back. “And I was careful not to disturb anything, just in case forensics wanted a second look. I assume you guys know the place was tossed.”
De’andray shook his head in disbelief. “Second look? You have any idea how overloaded the system is with these fires? Not to mention relocating all those homeless squatters.” He aimed his obvious disgust at Sammy as if she were somehow responsible for what happened yesterday. “Homicides, armed robberies, freeway riots. Pauzé had a rap sheet even longer than your daughter’s. Looting a trick pad’s got to take a backseat to real crime.“
“You don’t think someone was looking for something?”
“Sure, coke, meth, pootie tang—”
Pappajohn jumped out of his chair. Sammy grabbed his arm, whispering, “Gus!”
Pappajohn wrenched free and glared up at the taller De’andray, unbridled anger oozing from every pore.
Sammy interrupted, “At least tell us where we can find this Sylvie. She might know where Ana was that night, how she came to be by herself in the fire.” She appealed to Ortego. “You certainly can appreciate that a parent needs closure.”
A tense silence followed as Ortego looked from Sammy to Pappajohn, and then to De’andray. Finally, he rose and left the room, returning minutes later carrying a manila file from his desk. “We’ve told you all we know. It was an accident. Accidents—well, they never provide closure.”
Pappajohn grabbed the folder from Ortego’s extended hand, then sat back down and started leafing through the pages, with Sammy peeking over his shoulder.
Sammy read through the officers’ interviews with EMTs and hospital ER medical staff. Severe third degree burns over most of her body and an occipital head injury. The story on paper was straightforward and consistent with Ortego’s narrative. Only one item caught Sammy’s eye. Michelle’s comment that Ana had “temporomandibular instability.” She’d have to ask Reed what that meant. Maybe that was what he’d hesitated telling her.
Pappajohn lingered on the few photos of his daughter in the file. Ana on her driver’s license, looking beautiful as a blonde. Ana on the gurney, her charred face hidden by an oxygen mask and breathing tube, her long bleached-blonde hair scorched and singed. Sammy turned away after a quick glance. What a horrible way to die.
The one-page DMV report included a smudged black-and-white photocopy of the registration and title to a 1990 red MINI Cooper convertible found abandoned on Anzio Road at 5:45 a.m. on December 25. The duplicated license of its owner, Sylvie Pauzé, had just the minimal data—age: twenty-nine, hair: blonde, eyes: blue, height: five feet three. Same pretty face as the girl in the picture they’d discovered in the apartment.
The statement on the break-in had even less to add. Officers called to investigate that busy night found the place trashed and abandoned. Sammy read through the sketchy notes: Bedroom ransacked, computer knocked over, multiple pills on nightstand (note to forensics), clothes and shoes dumped on closet floor.
No obvious clues. Nothing to indicate who might have done the job or why. Maybe De’andray was right—just looters taking advantage of the chaos brought by the devil wind that night.
When he’d finished his review, Pappajohn threw the file onto the table. He rose and stuck out his hand to shake Ortego’s, adding a curt, “Thanks. You’ll let me know when forensics does their job?”
“Sure, leave us where to call.”
Sammy scribbled her cell number on a slip of paper from her satchel and handed it to the stocky detective.
De’andray frowned. “Hey, Gus,” he said coldly, “when did you come in anyway?”
Pappajohn returned the icy gaze. “Christmas Eve. After noon.” He pulled himself up to his full five foot ten inches. “Too late.” Waving to Sammy to follow, he spun on his heels and strode from the room.
At the door, Sammy glanced back. Ortega had grabbed the remaining donut, but De’andray was watching her, his dark eyes narrowed, his expression grim.
Can you believe that momzer?” Sammy declared when they were back in the car. “Bastard actually accusing you
of—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“It’s his job. I would’ve done the same thing.” Pappajohn’s voice remained even.“It’s the part of their job they’re not doing that pisses me off.”
”You mean not investigating the break-in?”
Pappajohn, who had been staring out the passenger-side window, turned to her, his face now etched by pain and resignation. “And they won’t,” he said with a weary fatalism, “because deep down, they don’t think Ana matters.”
“Then we’ll make them. We’ll go and—”
Pappajohn spread out his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I know you mean well, Sammy, but I’m tired. Right now I need to make arrangements to bury my daughter.”
Sammy looked at him with concern. Clearly the last two hours—the last two days—had taken a great toll on her old friend. “Okay, Gus.” She started the engine and backed out of the LAPD lot. “Let’s do that.”
This time the middle-aged clerk at the medical examiner’s office greeted Pappajohn by name. “Didn’t you get my message?” she asked as she spotted them in the hallway. “I called the number you left with Dr. Gharani.”
“What message?” Sammy’s phone hadn’t vibrated.
The woman’s umber features reflected genuine regret. “With Saturday’s accident and all the fires, everything’s even more backed up than before Christmas. Dr. Gharani said to tell you he’s sorry, but it could be another day or two before we can release your daughter’s body.”
Pappajohn simply nodded, though from the way he clenched his jaw, Sammy knew he was upset. She reached out a hand, but he pulled away, heading for the bench and a moment alone.
“What about the final autopsy report?” Sammy asked when he was out of earshot.
“At least a week. Most of our transcription staff is off until after New Year’s. The government’s worried about the computers. You know.” The clerk lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Y2K.”
Sammy did her best not to roll her eyes. “Yeah. So, how’d you get the short straw to work on a holiday?”
“Don’t matter to me. Chanukah was real early this year. I’m glad to fill in over Christmas.”
Well what do you know, one of the lost tribe. Patting the clerk’s arm, Sammy wished her a gut yor before rejoining Pappajohn.
Two hours later, Pappajohn was fast asleep on the living room couch. Though he’d balked at the bowl of canned chicken soup Sammy insisted he eat, he’d finished it all, then like an exhausted child, retreated for a nap. Watching his deep rhythmic breathing, Sammy guessed he’d be out for most of the day.
Just as well. Yesterday, after taking him to the church, she felt the need to spend time with him. They’d talked until late in the night, sharing memories of those they’d lost—Pappajohn’s wife and daughter; Sammy’s mother. The adversarial tone that had marked their relationship early in Sammy’s junior year had evolved into mutual admiration and friendship when they’d joined forces to uncover a university scandal and solve an honored professor’s murder. Now their losses had helped them forge an even stronger bond. In some ways, Pappajohn had become the father Sammy had longed for in Jeffrey Greene.
Tiptoeing to her bedroom, Sammy closed the door and sat down at her computer. Glad for the quiet time, she decided to investigate the Canyon City tower collapse for tonight’s show, to get a clearer picture of Prescott’s connection with her father.
Where to start? Normally she’d begin with primary sources—checking original permits and plans, looking for possible code violations or other shenanigans. But she’d been too busy today to visit the Office of Building and Safety. Tomorrow she’d go downtown and see if Jim’s suspicions about the tower’s structural integrity might bear fruit.
Right now, she’d have to settle for what she could learn by surfing the web. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to strategize her search. First rule of good reporting: when in doubt, follow the money. Though part of her hoped her father sincerely wanted a relationship, that his check was a genuine show of altruism, her experience argued for a hidden agenda behind his gesture.
What had her father said? That Neil Prescott had helped finance the renovation of the Canyon City tower? Why, she wondered? His stomping grounds were in Orange County and Beverly Hills. She doubted his motives had anything to do with caring about the unfortunate protesters either. Despite Jeffrey’s assertion that Prescott was a mensch, so far Sammy had found no evidence that he championed artistic or humanitarian activities or initiatives. In fact, she recalled, the man was usually front and center as an advocate for aggressive military expansion, both at home and abroad.
Your father and Congressman Prescott are pretty tight . . . where there’s rumor, there’s a fire—Jim’s words.
Did Jim know something specific or was he just pointing her toward a possible story? She’d already discovered that her father was one of the congressman’s biggest fund-raisers. While Sammy hated the idea, that was no crime.
She opened her eyes and jotted down what she knew so far. Prescott was somehow involved in the Canyon City City Hall project. How? Why? That was one trail to follow. As she clicked on the Netscape icon, Sammy wondered if her questions about the tower’s collapse would eventually lead to answers she’d rather not know.
For the first fifteen minutes, she carefully reviewed all the material she had already collected on Prescott, including the fact that he led the powerful House Armed Services Committee. One small article named the congressman as an investor in America First Communications, the national broadcasting empire that syndicated practically every top right-wing talk show host in the country. That would have gotten him on Jim’s radar. But, the deal just sounded like business. Not her politics, true, but not illegal.
Frustrated by the lack of web-based information on the man, Sammy pulled up her address book on the screen. Once a much lengthier list, she’d deleted most of the Washington crowd who’d turned their backs on her the moment the network let her go. Only her buddy Vito, sage of the network’s assignment desk, had been willing to stick his neck out and help her get the L.A. job. Luckily, he was home and happy to catch up. He was sorry about the fires, sorrier still about the horrible building collapse, and relieved that Jim was okay. Sammy and Vito were soon joking about how the hippie producer was an acquired taste.
“One of the few old-timers who’s managed to stay in the business and still keep his integrity,” Vito said. “Getting harder and harder each year.” The result? Jim was still at the bottom of the news food chain. Sammy didn’t bother to say she was there with him.
Instead, she changed the subject, explaining that she was digging into Congressman Prescott’s past and wondered what background Vito could share. With a warning to stay out of trouble, her old friend reluctantly promised to get back to her soon.
Hanging up, Sammy checked e-mail. Only one new message in her in-box. She recognized the sender as her father’s second wife, the one person who’d showed kindness when she’d last spent time here as a college student. Typical of Susan, her message was brief and to the point. Heard you on the radio. Welcome to L.A. Call anytime, 714-555…
Area code 714. Orange County. It’d be nice to see her again. Maybe Susan could offer some perspective on the changes Sammy had observed in her father. And his burgeoning career. Sammy copied the phone number into her book with a note to set up a visit the next day.
Shutting down her computer, she stretched her neck, trying to remove the kinks. Resting her eyes, she reviewed the morning’s run-in with the two detectives who’d been so unsympathetic, so callous. Was this the real L.A.? A city with no heart? A city indifferent to those who lived beneath the radar? Like Ana? Like the thousands of homeless she’d tried to help yesterday? Maybe Ana hadn’t followed the straight and narrow, but didn’t she deserve some modicum of respect as a human being?
The more Sammy considered it, the less she was willing to let it go. Ana was dead. Sammy couldn’t bring her back. Ana’s roomma
te could hold the keys to the poor girl’s last hours. Maybe Sammy could learn something that would help Pappajohn make peace with the reality of Ana’s death.
Where was Sylvie anyway? Why had she abandoned her car—and her roommate? It wasn’t hard to disappear in a city as big and anonymous as L.A. But why would Sylvie be hiding unless she was involved—or afraid?
Knowing it was a long shot, Sammy grabbed the ragged yellow pages next to her desk phone and made a list of hotels and motels between Benedict Canyon and Santa Monica. After a dozen calls she gave up. If Sylvie Pauzé had checked into any of those establishments, she hadn’t used her real name. Another dead end.
Sammy stared at the phone for a long time, an idea tickling the edge of her brain. On impulse, she picked up the receiver and dialed LAU Medical.
“ER. Costanza.”
“Hey, Lou, Sammy Greene, Dr. Wydham’s friend.”
“Red, how could I forget you? You gotta promise me if you two ever break up, I’m next.”
“You’re number one on my waiting list,” Sammy forced herself to banter. “Listen, I need a favor.”
“Your wish—”
Sammy nudged a smile into her voice. “I want to send Reed a surprise birthday card. Believe it or not, I don’t know his zip code. Can you check your computer?” she asked, adding, “shhh, just between us, of course.”
“My lips are sealed,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m bringing it up now. In the Marina, right?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” She tried to sound definite. “Been there many times, but never paid attention to the address.”
“I hear you. Don’t even know my own cell number.” His voice brightened. “Got it. 11645 Admiralty Way, right? 9B. And the zip is 90292.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Lou, you’re a lifesaver.”
“Any time, beautiful.”
Sammy gently laid down the receiver. Poor Lou. Hope he finds the girl of his dreams someday. Another girl. Meanwhile, this girl was going to look in her closet for something really, really nice to wear.
