Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  “What a horrible accident. All those poor people. May God save their souls,” Ethel agreed, her features softening. “I give to Catholic Charities every year, you know.”

  “L.A. has its own Mother Teresas, that’s for sure. We are so grateful.”

  Smiling now, Ethel turned to her computer. “You wanted to know if the tower renovation had been started?”

  “I was told that it hadn’t, but I did see scaffolding there.”

  “Let me check.” Ethel pressed a few keys on her computer. “The main City Hall building was approved in July ninety-eight. Construction was supposed to start in January ninety-nine. But you wanted the tower, right?”

  Sammy nodded as Ethel continued to search.

  “Seismic retrofit. That’s a totally different application. Here we go. Number CC000102453. I’ll need to go in the back for the file.” She pushed herself away from her desk and headed for an exit at the far end of the room, returning several minutes later with a thick legal-sized manila folder. “Canyon City Hall tower renovation.” She laid the folder on one of the unoccupied desks and gestured for Sammy to have a seat.

  Sammy watched Ethel settle into her chair and resume typing before she sat down at the empty desk and began thumbing through the file. The initial project permit request was dated September 23. The form listed Greene Progress, LLC as the general contractor and Newport Savings & Loan as the construction lender. She pulled out her notebook to jot down the bank name and address in Newport Beach, Orange County, wondering if there might be a Prescott connection. Didn’t her father say that the congressman helped with the financing?

  Page after page of construction plans and multiple permit forms. Demolition, electrical, mechanical, plumbing, roofing, sandblasting. The specifications meant nothing to Sammy. She was looking for something, anything that might jump out at her. Finally, she found one inspection report labeled Seismic Codes and Provisions. Language about adequacy of tower stability. Two ruptures in structure. Request for additional plans to stabilize with active seismic control system. Sammy searched for the inspector’s name, but where the signature should have been, there was only an Approved stamp and date: November 23. She flipped through the file two more times, but could find no evidence that additional plans had been submitted.

  “Excuse me. Ms. Fitzgerald?”

  “Yes?”

  “It looks as though the project was approved in two months. Is that typical?”

  “Not for a complex project like the City Hall renovation. Permits and plan checks through normal city bureaucracy could easily take three times as long.”

  “So how do you go from six months to two?”

  Ethel’s long silence along with the troubled look on her face suggested she was waging some internal conflict. Though they were alone in the room, Ethel did a one-eigthy to make sure no one might be listening, then spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. ”Connections.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Case Management. It’s a little known unit set up two years ago to fast-track projects that are supposed to benefit the city.”

  “I guess the Canyon City City Hall buildings would qualify.”

  “Maybe,” Ethel said with a smirk. “But after twenty years in this office, I can tell you that’s not always how it works.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You won’t quote me?”

  “This is strictly off the record.”

  Ethel took a deep breath and lowered her voice again. “No standards. If you checked whose projects get expedited through the Case Management Unit, it’s always the contractors with political connections.”

  Like Greene Progress.

  “By sidestepping the usual permit process, these big developers avoid delays that could cost them millions,” Ethel added.

  “Was the Canyon City renovation project tracked through that unit?”

  “You’d have to talk with Lawrence Graves. He’s head of the Case Management Unit. He’ll be back from vacation next week. Third floor, room three seventeen.”

  Graves? Why did that name sound familiar? Sammy took out her notebook and jotted it down, then handed the folder back to Ms. Fitzgerald. “Anything else you can tell me?”

  Ethel put a finger up to her lips. “Don’t let him know you’re a reporter.”

  As soon as Sammy stepped into her car, her phone rang. It was Vito with news about Prescott.

  “You were right, kid. But I really had to dig for this one. Around a year ago there was buzz on the wires about a hotel collapse in Orange County. That’s what you probably remembered. Seems the congressman was a major investor in the project through a local savings and loan. Original plans called for a brand-new luxury hotel on the site, but the Orange County commissioners declared it a historic landmark and refused to allow a complete tear down. Somehow during the renovation, the whole thing just fell down like a bunch of LEGOs. The DA started a criminal investigation into the collapse, citing possible negligence, but it got dropped. The final report ended up calling it accidental and the story died. Prescott was off the hook.”

  “How convenient,” Sammy said. And how coincidental. Two buildings Prescott was involved with had literally collapsed.

  “By the way,” Vito added, “the general contractor was Greene Progress. Didn’t you say your father was in real estate? Any relation?”

  “Distant,” Sammy said, cringing. “Why’d the DA drop the investigation? Are we talking hush money?”

  It sounded as if Vito was shuffling papers. “Nope. Marshall Taylor, age fifty-six, died in a car accident last February in the San Joaquin Hills, on Route Seventy-three. Seven twenty-six p.m., it says here. Dark, foggy, and rainy. Visibility was poor. Seems an eighteen-wheeler was going very slowly and the DA couldn’t stop in time. Killed instantly. Anyway, nothing came out on Prescott. Or this distant relative of yours.”

  Sammy took a moment to gather her thoughts. Too many coincidences. Too many connections. She finally said, “Thanks, Vito. You’ve been incredibly helpful. As always.”

  “You going to follow up on this?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’m a reporter first.” And a daughter second, Sammy thought when she’d ended the conversation. With one eye on the road, she scrolled down her address book and speed dialed Susan’s Orange County number.

  Pappajohn’s call to the funeral home had been heartrending, reviving painful memories of saying goodbye to Effie years ago. Hard enough to bury your wife. You were not supposed to bury your children.

  The call to Eleni would be just as difficult. His sister had doted on Ana as a child. He dreaded telling his only surviving relative the horrible news of Ana’s death. Sitting at Sammy’s bedroom desk, his hand hovered over the phone before he decided to check e-mail. Staring at the computer, the black monitor reflected his haggard features with a ghostlike distortion.

  It had been years since he’d bought his first Apple IIe. Computers now were half the size and had a thousand times the capabilities. As compared to aging, old aficionados like himself who were twice the size and had half the capabilities of fifteen years before.

  Still, his IT buddy Keith McKay of Pueblo Software Systems had considered Pappajohn’s skills sharp enough to hire him as part-time consultant on Y2K preparations in Boston. Pappajohn’s income in the last six months had far surpassed what he’d earned in eight years as campus cop at Ellsford University. He’d even begun teaching Eleni basic computer skills, after convincing her that e-mails could save a fortune in long-distance calls from Greece. Now he wondered if she might have sent an online holiday message.

  Ignoring his depressing reflection, he pressed the keyboard and the screen whirred to life. He clicked open the Eudora icon and entered the data for his own e-mail account, then downloaded his accumulated messages, cursing the spam clogging his in-box. Sure enough, scrolling through the queue he found a note from Eleni wishing him a Merry Christmas and wondering why he hadn’t called.

  He a
llowed himself a small smile. Guess the tutoring had worked. But the idea of having to answer her renewed his pain. Should he tell her he was in Los Angeles? And why? Pappajohn rested his fingers in his lap. Finally, he typed a short reply, assuring her that he was fine, promising to write more in a day or two, and congratulating her on her computer skills. Ana’s passing was one piece of news that should not be delivered online. Best to finish his good-byes to his daughter here, then consider a flight to Athens to tell Eleni in person and mourn by her side. With no one left for him in the U.S., he might just move there himself.

  About to log off, he spotted a new e-mail wedged between the spam. At first the sender didn’t register. Then, the ID nearly took his breath away: AnaP, December 24.

  His hand shook as he clicked it open.

  Dear Baba. Don’t worry, I’m okay. I’ve been clean for over a year. I have more news. I’ll try to get in touch as soon as I can. Merry Christmas.

  Love, Ana

  He stared at the screen, his stomach churning, his body numb. Like a message from a world beyond, his daughter’s words taunted him from the Internet ether.

  I’m okay. Love, Ana.

  But she was not okay. His precious Ana was gone forever. He’d lost the chance to make amends for his stubbornness, his stupidity, to tell her that he loved her too. He’d buried his sorrow deep within him to get through the day, but now it surfaced like a gusher of grief.

  “Too late.” he said, his eyes welling with tears.

  “Too late for what?” Sammy’s voice came from the open doorway.

  “Just checking e-mail,” Pappajohn’s voice quavered, “and I . . . I found one from Ana.”

  With a sharp intake of breath, Sammy raced over to the desk. She rested a hand on Pappajohn’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort, at the same time glancing at the open message. “My God.”

  “Yes, it’s—”

  “Wait a sec.” Leaning over him, Sammy grabbed the mouse and scrolled up to the date. “This can’t be right. December 24.”

  “Must have written it sometime after midnight, just before she—”

  “Not the date. Look at the time. Ten fifty-five a.m.”

  Pappajohn squinted at the figures.

  “That’s in the morning, hours later. Ana was already—” Sammy stopped herself before saying the word dead.

  Pappajohn and Sammy turned to each other, in shock.

  “Come on, Aunt Eleni. Pick up!” Ana’s voice reflected growing agitation. It was the third time in a few hours she’d dialed the Massachusetts number. She had to get word to her father. Eleni would know how to reach him. Right now she didn’t care what Gus thought of her. Teddy would be back in L.A. in a few days. Ana needed her father’s help to keep him safe from Kaye.

  “No voice mail?” Courtney’s slurred words made it sound like ‘voyshmail.’

  Ana snapped her cell shut and shook her head. “Aunt Eleni’s not much on technology.”

  Courtney shrugged. “How about e-mail? Now that power’s back, I could see if my modem’s working.”

  “I don’t think she’s ever even been on a computer. Besides, I already sent my father an e-mail.” She looked at Courtney and her face dissolved into tears. “Teddy’s coming back on Thursday. The police think I’m dead and Kaye wants to kill me. What am I going to do?”

  “There’s got to be an answer,” Sammy declared. “When I was at the TV network, e-mail went down one day. When it came back up, all the e-mails had the same date and time. Maybe something like that happened.”

  “It’s the simplest explanation,” Pappajohn said.

  “Could the discrepancy be some virus related to Y2K?” It was a question Sammy figured Pappajohn could answer since she knew he was something of an amateur hacker. His computer skills had saved her life years ago at Ellsford University.

  Pappajohn shook his head. “Not likely. This whole Y2K panic is just trumped up hoo-hah. A bonanza for IT companies. Last summer I actually got work consulting in computer security.” He forced a smile. “Guess they needed us geezers who know how to work the old machines.”

  “I’ll lay odds this Y2K stuff is all about the election. Give the people something to fear, and they’ll vote for God, guns, and Republicans,” Sammy said. “It’s certainly scaring the callers on my show.” She half expected the conservative Pappajohn to come back with a snappy retort, but he didn’t seem to be listening. The lines in his forehead were deeply furrowed, as if he was trying to capture a thought.

  “Okay, then how do you explain it?” she asked. The difference between Ana’s time of death in the ME report and an e-mail supposedly sent by Ana hours later. If not a virus or a computer glitch, what did it mean? Sammy had no idea. But something certainly wasn’t kosher.

  Pappajohn’s gaze drifted to the ceiling for a long beat, then turned to her. “I honestly don’t know. Unless there’s modems in heaven, it’s either a software bug or a cruel prank.” He checked his watch. “It’s afternoon in Boston. My buddy Keith McKay at Pueblo Software Systems may still be in the office. By tracing back the ISP and IDing the IP address, he can identify which computer sent this message. And if this was a date error, Keith will be able to tell that too.”

  “If not?”

  “Then I want to talk to whoever’s pretending to be Ana.”

  Sammy sat on the edge of her bed, her expression somber, wondering how to word the additional shocking news she had to relay. “Did you happen to catch my show last night?”

  “Only the first hour.” Pappajohn sat up straight, stretching his legs. “Didn’t quite have the energy, honestly.” He yawned. “Got seven hours sleep. That’s a record since, uh, Ana—”

  “Then you didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?” Pappajohn frowned. “Is your producer okay?”

  “Yeah, the guy’s pretty awesome. Came and worked my show last night.” Sammy clasped and unclasped her hands. “You remember Reed. My boy—ex-boyfriend? He called at the station around two,” she finally began. “I’d asked him to get the preliminary autopsy report and compare it to the evaluation at LAU Med.”

  “And?” Pappajohn pressed, not chiding her for violating protocol.

  “I’m so sorry, Gus. The autopsy record doesn’t mention the jaw injuries the resident noted on the police report and the chart. Or the loosened teeth, or the cuts on the inside of Ana’s mouth. One of the molars actually penetrated her cheek and Reed thinks—”

  “Somebody belted her,” Pappajohn finished. “You’re saying she was murdered?”

  Sammy hesitated, avoiding eye contact. “It’s possible. Otherwise, why bother to whitewash the autopsy report?”

  Pappajohn sat staring at his hands, his expression grim.

  “And then there’s the tox screen.”

  Pappajohn looked up at Sammy. “Drugs?”

  “Afraid so. Positive for cocaine and Ecstasy.” She couldn’t miss the look of pain that flashed across Pappajohn’s face. Their eyes were drawn to Ana’s message on the computer screen.

  I’ve been clean for over a year.

  “Rehab is a crock,” Pappajohn said as he picked up the phone and dialed Boston. “Tox screens don’t lie, people do.”

  Reed placed the stethoscope in his ears and pressed MUTE on the TV remote. “Can’t hear over the news,” he said, resting the diaphragm on Prescott’s chest and bending over to listen to his heartbeat.

  “Is my husband okay?” Julia asked when Reed stood up again. He knew she’d been spending the better part of every day sitting on the couch in the suite, to all appearances the doting wife.

  “If the latest labs are normal, we plan to send him home this afternoon.”

  “Not soon enough.” Prescott grabbed the remote and revved up the volume. “Hey, look, Jules, they’re replaying the statement I taped yesterday.” He pointed to the wall-mounted screen. “Not bad looking for a man in a hospital bed, wouldn’t you say, honey?”

  As head of the House Armed Services Committee, I, like all
of us in our party, take Y2K threats to our country and our citizens very seriously—”

  “Well done, Neil. You said what had to be said.”

  Reed wondered if he imagined the hint of bitterness in her voice. The betrayal of unhappiness. The unhappiness of betrayal. Why would such an attractive and independently wealthy woman stay with a man who’d cheated on her? Why had his mother stayed with his father? Fear perhaps? The fear of loss? For other women like Sammy the fear of loss led them to leave rather than risk abandonment. To strike out on their own because there was no trust given to lose.

  “Yet another victim in the Canyon City tower collapse,” the news anchor now reported. “Although an official investigation has not begun, last night one of our local radio talk show hosts suggested this horrible accident might have been prevented. Sammy Greene on the L.A. Scene named U.S. Congressman Neil Prescott—”

  “What the—?” A chorus of monitors began beeping as Prescott’s face contorted into a spasm of agony. He made a fist across his chest and gasped, “Hurts.”

  Two nurses rushed in wheeling a crash cart.

  “What’s happening?” Julia cried, jumping up from the couch.

  Reed squinted at the EKG monitor. The S-T changes indicated myocardial ischemia. He placed a nasal cannula in Prescott’s nose and attached the other end to the wall oxygen unit. “Morphine IV, stat!” he ordered one nurse. “Get Dr. Bishop! He’s down the hall,” he directed the other.

  “We may need to do another angioplasty, Mr. Prescott,” he said, forcing a calm tone. “Your blood vessels have gone into spasm again.”

  “Oh, my God.” Julia sat down, her face ashen. “Another heart attack?”

  Within seconds, Bishop ran in, listened to Reed’s report, and nodded. “We’ll take care of him, Julia. Don’t worry.”

  Prescott grunted through his pain, “No! Not a heart attack! Can’t! Have to go home!”

  No one seemed to be listening as two orderlies arrived to move his bed from the room toward the elevators.