Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  “If Neil Prescott hadn’t led that initiative to clean up Beverly Hills, those men, women, and children would never have been in Canyon City. I’ll tell you this, it may have been the Santa Anas that blew down the tower, but Congressman Prescott sure gave it a strong push. Fifteen after.”

  Jeffrey winced. Poor construction, faulty engineering, human error. Negligence. His lawyers would have convulsions hearing those terms bandied about. And by his own daughter, no less.

  Trina glowered at the radio. She’d insisted they stay up for Sammy’s show to learn if she’d backed off of her vendetta against Prescott. Jeffrey knew this segment had just confirmed Trina’s worst fears.

  “So this is your ‘flies with honey’ approach?” She turned to face him, her tone cold as ice. “You realize contacts like Neil Prescott are why Jeffrey Greene is no longer some two-bit salesman, but a real estate tycoon. I don’t know what Prescott is up to and I don’t want to know. But we have to shut your daughter down. Now.”

  Jeffrey let out a deep breath through puffed cheeks. Perhaps Trina was right. If Prescott got pissed, he might try to deep six the Playa Bella deal and leave Jeffrey holding the bag. Family was family, but it seemed Sammy had inherited a hefty dose of Bubbe Rose’s genes and didn’t know when to stop. “So what do you suggest?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Trina said. “I’m sure I can convince her to keep her big mouth shut.”

  “You wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, would you?”

  Trina laughed. “Of course not, carino. She’s your daughter. But she’s more likely to listen if she truly understands the consequences of continuing down this road. For us and,” she muttered sotto voce, “for her.”

  “Apocalypse!” the caller cried. “A sign from God. America is headed for terrible doom. You can laugh, but you’ll see. Welcome the Lord Jesus as your Savior because time is running out!”

  “Believe me,” Sammy said. “I’m not laughing. But my rabbi would be a little upset if I took your advice without proof. How do you know?”

  “It is written. The Book of Revelation, I’m warning you. The Lord has commanded seven angels to pour seven vials of the wrath of God upon the Earth! The new millennium will bring us Armageddon!”

  Sammy cut off the caller. “Looks like your calendar’s a bit off, sir. Y2K may become Armageddon for IBM, but the new millennium isn’t til 2001. Mike in Downey, you have a comment about Y2K?”

  “Hi. This is Mike.”

  “Yes, Mike, we know, go ahead.”

  “Am I on?”

  “Yes, Mike, we’re all waiting breathlessly.”

  “Okay. Hi. Haven’t you seen all the warnings on the news?”

  “About?”

  “Terrorists. The USS Cole, the bombings in Kenya. And now Y2K. Take your money out of the bank, stock up on canned food and water, and buy lots of MREs.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sammy interrupted. “If you’re talking about the military ready-to-eat meals, they say it’s illegal to sell them. Right on the package.”

  “But it isn’t. We’ve been pushing them on eBay and the Pentagon can’t do a thing. There’s no law on the books against it. So, go on eBay, type in Mike’s MREs and be prepared—”

  Sammy cut him off in mid-sentence. “Folks, we love advertising here. Just call our sales associates Monday through Friday and pay for it! Stella in Hermosa Beach on the Canyon City tragedy.” She clicked on the next caller.

  “It wasn’t the winds, you know.”

  “No?” prompted Sammy.

  “No. The tower fell because Mars and Jupiter were in alignment. Your callers are right to worry about Y2K. My charting shows an exact conjunction between Pluto and Chiron, at about eleven and a half degrees of Sagittarius, the twelfth degree of the sign. The Sun and Moon occupy similar degrees of the prior and succeeding signs to Sag, Scorpio, and Capricorn, or in other words the conjunction is semisextile to both luminaries. This means the Pluto-Chiron conjunction is very much emphasized, brought to rational and emotional awareness, being at the Sun-Moon midpoint as they sextile each other.”

  “Let’s keep this show G-rated,” Sammy said as she hung up on the caller, “And, reality-based, people. Please. The stars had nothing to do with the tower’s fall. Humans built it, and humans are most likely responsible for what happened. It’s up to us to find out why, and then make sure this never happens again. Twenty-eight after.”

  Distracted by Sammy’s show blasting on Lou’s boombox, Bishop stopped writing the ER consultation note to listen. Unbidden thoughts drifted back to the battlefields of northeast Iraq, a place he’d tried so long to forget. The collapse of a five-story apartment building during a vicious sandstorm had killed more than thirty innocent men, women, and children.

  And one young soldier dying in his arms, the winds echoing his words: resonator . . . murder . . .

  And Bishop’s words that had soon followed: We need to investigate, uncover the cause, make sure this never happens again.

  “Dr. Bishop, we’re ready to move your patient to the CCU. Can we have the chart, sir?” The dark-haired orderly spoke politely, with a faint, unplaceable accent.

  Startled, Bishop focused again on the unfinished record. “Of course.” He scribbled a few notes before handing it over. “Just thinking about the case.”

  The long-forgotten case.

  “Radio’s dead and we’re out of batteries,” Courtney said. “My manager told me to get a generator.”

  “All that horrible news was creeping me out, anyway.” Ana said. “These candles kind of remind me of camping with the Girl Scouts.”

  Courtney sat down on the couch beside Ana and raised her glass in a toast. “Or in my case, the Boy Scouts.” In the flickering candlelight, she was glad to see Ana’s pale, drawn features melt into a smile.

  “The mayor of Canyon City refuses to comment. We’ll keep you updated as events progress. In other tragedies,” Sammy pulled over a piece of paper for reference, “it looks like the fire’s moved west through parts of Brentwood and the Palisades, and has now killed three people and destroyed over two hundred homes. Another ten thousand have been evacuated from Mandeville Canyon and Temescal Canyon tonight. Firefighters are working to keep the flames from Topanga. Power is out from Malibu to Oxnard. DWP is on the job, trying to bring things back online in West L.A. County. Hope you all have your flashlights and batteries working. This is earthquake country and we better be prepared.”

  Sammy hesitated. Would she be going too far if she asked? Jim looked tense through the glass, waving a finger for her to speak. Her pause, known in the radio business as “dead air,” would make listeners reach for the dial in confusion or frustration. More than a few seconds of silence was unprofessional. She had to make a choice.

  “One of the fire’s victims died on Christmas Eve,” she finally began. “A young woman with her life ahead of her. I knew—I know her dad. I just want to help. I’ve never had kids, but I lost my mother when I was seven. Your world just ends. You want to understand what happened and why.” After another brief pause, she added, “What could I have done to prevent it?”

  Sammy sighed. “Ana Pappajohn was twenty-seven. Her father would like to answer those questions too. We know she died alone, in the hills of Bel Air, but if anyone can tell us more, we want to hear from you. If you’re a friend, or her roommate,” she checked her notes, “Sylvie Pauzé, please call us. Ana’s father would just like to know how she spent her last hours, her last days. Our number is 310-555-KPCF. 310-555-5725. Forty-six after.”

  Pappajohn switched off the radio. He had no appetite for more of Sammy’s show tonight. While he knew she meant well, he could no longer see the point. If only he could rewrite his life, create a new, happy ending. A tide of despair swept over him without warning and he wept. He was doing a lot of that lately. Weeping for his beloved Effie, his darling Ana, for everything he’d lost, let slip through his hands, beyond his reach.

  Tomorrow, he would call the church an
d finalize the plans for Ana’s funeral. If the coroner released her body, maybe they could have the service by Wednesday. Once he’d buried his daughter, he’d leave this hellhole of a city and go home. Alone.

  Wondering if he could ever sleep again without his dreams tormenting him, he rested his head on the pillows and blankets he’d piled on one end of Sammy’s couch. Shutting his eyes tight, he whispered a prayer to the one who wasn’t there for him, who didn’t protect him from such pain. Please, God, don’t let me wake up. Ever.

  Ana blew out the candles in the bedroom while Courtney connected the wires of her accountant’s drive to her computer. The power had returned, but with the ferocious winds, who knew for how long?

  Courtney sat down at her keyboard and waited until the monitor flashed the message, Equipment Recognized, Removable Disk F. “Show time!” she yelled. With Ana leaning on her shoulder, she double clicked to open the Jazz drive, revealing several files labeled in French. “No videos,” she said after scanning the list. “Just Word files.”

  “Wait!” Ana pointed to a file labeled Deneuve. “Open that one.” Cathérine Deneuve had been Sylvie’s favorite actress. She‘d watch the classic film Belle de Jour over and over on the VCR when she got depressed.

  Courtney clicked and opened a long list of names with notes beside each. Famous names and compromising information.

  “They’re all Kaye’s clients!” Ana said.

  Scrolling through the columns, Courtney shook her head. “You know how many careers would be six feet under if these names came out? No wonder your madam is ready to kill.” She turned and looked up at Ana. “You are in deep shit, girl.”

  Kaye cursed as she turned off the radio. That talk-show bitch was stirring up what should have been laid to rest days ago. Not only was she after Ana’s history, but now she’d started looking for Sylvie. And that was the last thing Kaye needed right now. Reaching over, she picked up her cell phone. Time to call Yevgeny once again.

  The elderly woman on the gurney had been gasping for air for the better part of an hour before Reed was able to remove the excess fluid from her congested lungs. She was the third cardiac patient he’d treated today, all pushed into pulmonary edema and heart failure by the added stress from the city’s smoky air.

  He adjusted the IV and increased the oxygen in her nasal cannula. “You’ll feel better now,” he promised the woman. Exiting the cubicle, he handed the chart to one of the ER nurses with orders to transfer the patient to the CCU and shuffled toward the doctors’ lounge.

  At two a.m., the room was vacant, though from the near-empty level of the coffee in the community pot, it was clear that he was not the only one substituting caffeine for sleep tonight. Even Bishop had stayed to help with consults.

  Exhausted, Reed poured himself a half cup of sludge, then settled down on the couch for a moment of contemplation. What had happened this afternoon? Sammy showing up at his door, looking so hot. The green color of her tight-fitting dress accentuating her emerald eyes. Her red hair, wind blown, falling in soft curls against her shoulders. He smiled at the memory. The five-foot pixie he’d met more than four years ago at Ellsford University had morphed into a beautiful, sexy young woman.

  Reed shook himself. They’d been down this road before. Had anything really changed? Sammy was still the intrepid seeker of truth who couldn’t let go of a challenge until she’d conquered it. And, then?

  Was her appearance today manipulation, or had their lovemaking meant as much to her as it had to him? Each time he’d gotten really close before, she’d managed to back away.

  The door opened and Michelle marched in, brusquely tossing a couple of charts onto the counter.

  “Were you called in too?”

  “I’m a resident. I never go home. That’s probably why I’ve missed your calls.”

  Chastened, Reed looked down at his feet. “Sorry, I’ve been so busy—”

  “Who hasn’t been?” Michelle’s voice softened. “Literal black clouds raining patients down on us.” She approached him and leaned in for a kiss, then stepped back, sniffing. “Jasmine?”

  “Huh?”

  “New perfume?”

  Reed felt his cheeks redden. “Must be the soap in the men’s john.”

  “Really.” Michelle’s face tightened. She pulled over a rolling chair from the counter, sat, and grabbed a few papers from her pile.

  ”What are you doing, Reed?” Michelle held out two faxes on L.A. County Medical Examiner’s letterhead. “I’m only a first-year resident, but even I know you can’t order a final autopsy report without special permission. If Bishop finds out, you’ll be in big trouble.”

  “He won’t find out,” Reed’s voice had a hint of pleading. “I had to do it for Sammy and Gus.”

  “Sammy? She’s the reason you’re sticking your neck out?” Michelle shook her head. “I thought you said the two of you were through.”

  “We were. We are.”

  “Were or are?” Michelle asked, her tone pure ice. “Maybe you and I need to take a break until you get your tenses straight.” She handed him the report. “Here’s the chart you asked for.” She slapped it down on the table, rose, spun on her heels, and strode out of the lounge without another word.

  Damn, Reed cursed when he was alone again. Things had been going so well before Sammy came riding into town. Michelle was right. Ana Pappajohn wasn’t his patient. If Bishop learned that he’d poked around the records of someone not under his care, he’d have his ass. In fact, HIPAA threatened to criminally prosecute health professionals who violated its strict rules of confidentiality. Lying about being Ana’s doctor and pressuring the poor substitute clerk at the ME’s to release the information could jeopardize his license. Thank you, Sammy. It better turn out to be worth it.

  With the deed done, Reed now skimmed the faxes, searching for something that might be of interest.

  Date of report: December 24, 1999

  Time of report: 10:00 a.m.

  Name of Decedent: Anastasia Pappajohn

  Age: 26

  Date -and time of death: December 24, 1999. 2:15 a.m.

  Less than eight hours from the time Michelle had called the code until a report was posted. That alone was odd. Normally reports took at least two or three days. Unless, as he’d told Sammy, cause of death was so clear-cut, the ME figured he might as well finish the report and get home for Christmas.

  Reed read through Dr. Gharani’s descriptions. Third degree burns over 80 percent of the victim’s body as well as a frontal skull fracture. Assessment of the internal organs showed an enlarged liver, probably from chronic alcohol abuse. Reed skipped to the lab report on the second page where the toxicology screen listed a blood alcohol level of .18—well above the legal limit. The screen was positive for cocaine and Ecstasy as well. It certainly seemed clear to Gharani. An intoxicated young woman panicked and ran blindly down a dark road to escape the flames. She tripped and fell, cracking her skull and losing consciousness, helpless before the oncoming flames.

  Cause of death: Burns

  Manner of death: Accidental

  Tragic, but hardly suspicious, Reed concurred.

  He reached for the chart Michelle had tossed to his side. It was the first and only LAU Medical admission for Anastasia Pappajohn. He thumbed through the few pages until he found Michelle’s notes. She’d identified the frontal skull fracture and third-degree burns. However, unlike the ME, Michelle had also documented a TMJ dislocation, buccal mucosa lacerations, and zygomatic arch instability, which, she wrote, “may have been caused by impact trauma, possibly secondary to assault and battery.” Suspecting a crime, Michelle, like all licensed health professionals, was required to report her findings to the police. A record of her call to the West L.A. Precinct was appended in the chart’s Plan section.

  The cause of the injuries Michelle listed would be up to the police to determine. Reed wondered why an experienced ME like Gharani had failed to identify them. Incompetence? Negligence? Or cover-up? If
so, of what? Assault, battery, drugs, murder?

  Damn! He was thinking like Sammy again. Sighing, Reed walked over to the lounge phone and dialed her cell number. He’d just report the conflicting findings in the two records. Let Sammy come up with conspiracy theories. Stirring up controversy was one of her many talents.

  “Thanks, Reed.” Sammy ended the conversation, clearly disturbed. Even Jim moved his pained facial muscles into an expression of concern. Shaking her head, she pointed to the clock and slipped on her headphones.

  “Breaking news. Just came to my attention. There may be reason to believe that Ana Pappajohn, the victim of the Christmas Eve fire in Bel Air, was murdered,” Sammy announced, struggling to control her emotions. The police had been in such a hurry to label her death an accident, to sweep her life under the rug with the ashes from these Godforsaken fires. “So it’s even more important for anyone who has news of Sylvie Pauzé, Ana’s roommate, to come forward. If our lines are busy, please keep trying. We have to find out what happened.”

  Slipping her pen back into her purse, Sammy spied her father’s check. She hadn’t had time to deposit it. On impulse, she made a decision. “In fact,” she continued without missing a beat, “we’re offering a ten thousand dollar reward for anyone with information leading to the discovery and arrest of Ana’s murderer. Our number is—”

  De’andray spewed out a spray of his coffee. “Damn! I knew that girl was trouble.”

  Ortego slid into his seat on the passenger side of the unmarked car and rested a bag of donuts on the dashboard. “Who?”

  “Sammy Greene on the L.A. Scene’!” De’andray pointed to the car’s radio. “Accusing us of burying a possible homicide! Now she’s put up a reward for anyone with information on the girl’s death. And on her roommate, the one with that car.” He shook his head. “All of a sudden, everybody’s a detective. Probably got that Boston blue behind her, pulling her strings and ours.”