Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  Leaning forward, she squinted into the night. Ahead the rear lights of the few cars appeared as ghostly halos in the gloom. Behind, there was only darkness. With the radio silent and the air filter closed to keep out the stench of smoke, she couldn’t help feeling an eerie isolation in her four-wheel cocoon. Perhaps the callers to her show weren’t so crazy after all when they imagined monsters in the night.

  After fifteen minutes of tense driving, she spotted a road sign for her exit. Culver Boulevard, two miles. Thank God.

  Glancing into her rearview mirror, she noticed a pair of bright headlights weaving in and out of the lanes behind her. Either the driver had trouble seeing the reflector lane markings or he was drunk. Either way, he was an accident waiting to happen and she was glad she’d be off the freeway soon.

  A sudden gust buffeted the car with such ferocity that she had to wrestle the steering wheel not to get pulled out of her lane and lose control. “Shit!”

  Struggling to stay within the faded white lines of the highway’s right margin, Sammy didn’t notice the headlights closing in. It wasn’t until she felt the first bump that she checked her rearview mirror and saw a huge SUV emerge out of the ashy darkness like a phantom. The impact pressed her back against the seat.

  What the—? Crazy L.A. drivers! Sammy rolled down her window to hurl a few choice words, but the SUV had retreated several car lengths behind.

  Stunned, she watched as seconds later, the five-thousand-pound machine barreled forward, swerving into her lane, and shoving her car sideways, onto the freeway’s shoulder. Despite the darkness, she sensed that she was dangerously close to the guardrail and the drop-off beyond.

  Sammy screamed when the SUV slammed into her driver’s side a third time. The son of a bitch was going to run her off the road. Frantic, she tried moving out of the giant vehicle’s way. She could never hope to outrun the behemoth. And if she accelerated, she was likely to miss her exit. Her intended turnoff was barely visible through the gloom a few feet ahead. She jammed on the brakes when the SUV came up alongside yet again. Not expecting her to slow down, the Suburban passed her car and the exit.

  Adrenalin pumping, Sammy jerked the steering wheel to the right, and swung onto the off-ramp. Alone for the next two miles, Sammy sped through the streets of Canyon City towards KPCF, checking the rearview mirror as she drove, but all she could see around her was the darkness, shielded by a curtain of ash.

  By the time she reached the radio station, she’d convinced herself that while the driver had been crazy, it was more than a little paranoid to assume he’d been after her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Wednesday

  12:20 a.m.

  “I see what you mean,” Sammy said to Jim, “the lines haven’t stopped blinking.” She waved away his offer of coffee and grabbed a bottled water. After her close call on the 405, she wouldn’t need caffeine to stay alert tonight.

  “Amazing what a ten-thousand-dollar reward will draw out of the tar pits,” Jim returned. “Maybe I should put on a blonde wig and say I’m Sylvie!”

  “You’re too good looking,” Sammy teased as she rolled her neck and shoulders to work off her tension. “If you could screen out the UFO people and the Y2K freaks, I’d be eternally grateful.”

  “That would eliminate almost everyone.”

  Sammy rolled her eyes as she flipped on her mic.

  “We’re back. Thanks to all who’ve provided clues or leads about Sylvie Pauzé. Please, though, before anyone else calls, remember, the reward is only for information that leads to actually finding Sylvie, in person, with confirmed ID. We’re not paying out just because your brother dressed up in a blonde wig and says he’s Sylvie, okay?”

  Sammy winked at Jim. “Or, if we have to fly to Neptune to meet her. If you have a legit lead, keep trying to get through. We really want to talk to you. Steve, in Alhambra?” She pressed the button to patch in her caller’s voice.

  “I don’t have a clue about this girl you’re looking for,” he began.

  “Thanks for your honesty. And you’re calling because?”

  “I think everyone’s too casual about Y2K.”

  Sammy groaned silently.

  The caller continued, “Do you know how much we depend on computers? Air traffic, street lights, banking, even your grocery store?”

  “So, maybe we do a little arithmetic for a few days. And use cash. You’re talking like Y2K will bring nuclear winter.”

  “You really think our computer systems are secure?”

  Sammy had to acknowledge his point. “Maybe not enough.”

  “That’s an understatement. What happens if terrorists decide to hack into our Defense Department systems?”

  “I liked War Games too,” Sammy countered, “but, I’m sure the government has done everything it needs to protect us from Matthew Broderick.”

  “Make your jokes. Me? I’d like to wake up on January first. Alive.” He clicked off.

  Sammy whistled. “That was scary. Why don’t we go to a break and hit the fridge for some comfort food, okay? After all, if we’re doomed in three days, we can afford a few extra calories, right? Sixteen after.”

  She turned off her mic and buzzed Jim. “I take it back. Give me the UFO folks, please.”

  “I can’t entirely disagree with him. You really trust our government to do what needs to be done?” Jim shook his head. “With blowhards like Neil Prescott out there stirring up fear, instead of really doing something to keep us safe.”

  “Is that why you’re pissed at Prescott?”

  “You do know he’s trying to buy this station.”

  “I know he’s with America First Communications.”

  “America First syndicates almost every top radio talk show in this country,” Jim explained. “Every conservative radio talk show.”

  “Sadly, I know that too.”

  “Did you know that America First owns almost every top radio station in the major U.S. markets?”

  Sammy shook her head. “Isn’t that illegal? I thought you couldn’t own more than one station in each market.”

  “The rules have changed. America First is the largest communications conglomerate in the United States, and it intends to use its ample budget to get out its message. Its very conservative message.” Jim rubbed his temples. “And we—KPCF—are in the way.”

  The satellite phone’s ring interrupted Miller’s new nightly vigil of Sammy’s broadcast. Finally. Enough time wasted tracking Sylvie Pauzé. He swiveled his chair to view the Santa Monica Mountains adorned by the glow of flickering fires like a necklace of red Christmas lights

  “You got her?”

  “No, sir. Lost her. Place has more security than the White House.”

  “What?” Miller banged on his cherrywood desk. “Where the fuck is she?”

  “We don’t know, sir. She left her phone at the house. They had a Vespa in the back. Went down the hill through the trees. We couldn’t follow.”

  “A Vespa?” Enraged, Miller clicked off, reached over and pushed a button on one of his office lines. “Get me a trace on a cell phone for a Courtney Phillips,” he told an assistant. “Yes, that Courtney Phillips. Now!”

  “You okay?” Ana whispered as she lay back on the cot lined up among the hundreds of others in the gymnasium of Santa Monica High.

  Courtney, still in her blonde wig and now hiding behind large sunglasses, scanned the sea of cots filled with refugees from the fires in the Santa Monica Mountains. “It ain’t the Ritz.”

  “You think they can find us here?” Ana worried aloud. “How’d they track me to your house anyway?”

  “Must’ve been your cell phone. Good thing we left it behind.”

  “Did you bring yours? I can try Aunt Eleni again.”

  Courtney shook her head. “Too risky. I shut mine off and removed the battery. If they could trace your phone, they can figure out who owns the Malibu house and trace mine. We’ll find a safe place to make a call in the morning.”

&
nbsp; Leaning on her elbow, Ana sat halfway up on the cot. “How bout the library? I can send another e-mail to my dad from there. It opens at nine.”

  Courtney nodded. “Fine with me. If your father was a cop, maybe you should send him Kaye’s client list and that code, too.” She tossed her blonde hair. “Those guys were obviously after something Sylvie had. Where’s the disk and the copy?”

  Ana patted her pelvis.

  “Good job, girlfriend.”

  In the dim light, Ana didn’t see Courtney’s wry smile.

  Kaye’s girls might be ladies of the night, but the madam was generally in bed by eleven. At her age, insufficient sleep could visibly overcome expensive monthly botox. Yet, here she was, forced to stay awake, listening to that nosy reporter until three a.m. What trouble would she stir up next?

  Broadcasting allegations that Sylvie—Ana—was murdered to all those listeners night after night did not please Kaye. Though perhaps the reward might draw Ana out of hiding. For the past twenty-four hours, Yevgeny had tailed Sammy Greene with no results. If Ana didn’t make contact, her LAPD friend better come through with Plan B.

  Kaye’s cell phone vibrated the moment Sammy broke for commercial. Miller again. “Has she called you?”

  “No.” Good. Miller didn’t have her either. But his persistence implied he was after something big. Something worth killing for. What had Sylvie stumbled on while servicing that stupid arms dealer?

  “Call off your bulldog. He’s as discreet as an elephant and keeps getting in our way.” Miller’s tone had a threatening edge.

  “I’ll pull him on one condition,” Kaye said.

  “Go on.” They both knew Kaye would blow the whistle on Fahim for murder if it served her interests.

  “If you get her, I get back what’s mine. No questions asked.”

  “Deal.” Miller agreed, adding, “When we get her.”

  Kaye felt confident enough to let irony seep through her reply. “Isn’t that what I just said?” She laughed and clicked off.

  With one ear focused on the radio now that Sammy had returned, she speed-dialed Yevgeny. Her message was short. “They’ve made you, you asshole,” she shouted in Russian. “Stay farther back. Hide!”

  Not long after Sammy began her show that night, and hours after Medical Examiner Gharani had returned home and fallen asleep, the black Lincoln reappeared on Westbourne Drive. Hot blasts of smoky air had chased the hip residents of West Hollywood indoors, leaving the street deserted when the two occupants of the sedan stepped onto the sidewalk and quietly walked around to the back of Gharani’s bungalow. With the expertise of accomplished burglars, they jimmied the lock on the door and tiptoed inside and up the stairs to the bedroom.

  One man grabbed a pillow and before Gharani could awaken, covered his face. Despite a reflexive struggle against suffocation, Gharani was dead within minutes. The killer replaced the pillow while his partner slipped on latex gloves, removed a cigarette from a plastic bag, and lit one end from his lighter. Leaving the lit end open for air, he used the plastic bag to protect his lips and DNA while he puffed. Once the smelly tobacco had burned down a half inch, he carefully positioned the unfiltered cigarette inside Gharani’s sagging lips to allow smoke to settle into the dead man’s oral cavity. Then he placed the cigarette against the sheets and, motioning for his colleague to open the windows and let in the gusty winds, waited until the bed ignited.

  Unobserved, they quickly returned to the car and sat watching through the tinted glass, only pulling away from the curb when the entire house was engulfed in flames.

  The escape from the mansion had left Courtney jumpy and anxious. Unable to sleep, she abandoned her cot and wandered from the gym into the smoky gloom outside. Hoping she wouldn’t be recognized in her blonde wig and shades, she settled down near a half dozen fellow insomniacs listening to weather updates on the radio. According to the announcer, a new fire had just broken out in West Hollywood, and a couple of her favorite clubs on the Sunset Strip were being evacuated. Bummer. She wondered how much more of the city would burn before this nightmare ended. Closing her eyes, she rested her head in her arms.

  “Hey turn on KPCF,” someone suggested. “That new girl’s giving the man a hard time about kicking us out of Beverly Hills.”

  Courtney heard the sound of radio static until it stopped at the requested station.

  “Sammy Greene on the L.A. Scene,” the host was saying, “Back with hour three. Two renovations, two collapses. The Canyon City tragedy on Christmas Day. Rush job or con job? And, is there a connection between the Canyon City tower and the Palacio Real Hotel that collapsed less than a year ago? Maybe, and Neil Prescott may be that bridge.”

  “Yeah you tell ’em, Sammy,” a voice near Courtney chimed in.

  “First, though, just letting you know we’re still taking tips that’ll lead us to Sylvie Pauzé. Ten-thousand-dollar reward if we find her. Call our producer, big Jim, at 310-555—”

  Courtney sat up straight. Whoa! Why were they looking for Ana’s roommate on the radio?

  “Man, I could use ten thousand dollars,” laughed a toothless woman in a ragged housedress seated next to her shopping cart.

  “I could use ten thousand anything. Damn, I wish I knew that Sylvie chick,” a bearded man in a dirty sweatsuit said. He looked at the woman. “You wanna tell them you’re Sylvie and we split the ten?”

  “You don’t think they’re gonna check? Man, you’re stoo-pid.”

  Courtney waited to hear more from Sammy Greene, to learn why she was looking for Sylvie. But the talk show had drifted back to comments about the homeless protest in Canyon City.

  Guess she’d have to test the waters herself, Courtney finally decided, spotting the pay phone on the corner. Ana was too scared to make the call. But Sylvie Pauzé could. Playing the part would give Courtney a chance to practice her French accent. She’d find out what Sammy Greene’s game was and whether it was safe for Ana to play.

  Pappajohn nearly fell off his chair when the phone rang. He’d been sitting in front of Sammy’s computer, the radio tuned low to her show. Jim’s sonorous voice at three a.m. must have lulled him to sleep. No surprise. The past few days had been exhausting and filled with untold grief, though now it was overlaid by a profound determination to take action, to find out who had killed his daughter. Hurrying over to the bedside table, he grabbed Sammy’s cordless.

  “Hi, Gus.”

  Pappajohn checked his watch—3:35 a.m. in L.A., 6:35 a.m. in Boston. “You’re up early.”

  “Promised I’d check on that ISP,” Keith said. “We’re on the homestretch for Y2K at Pueblo. Deadlines looming. Haven’t been able to get to it til now.”

  “I understand. Learn anything?”

  “Well, I can’t tell from here who literally typed in the message, but I did figure out when and from where it was sent and who logged in.”

  Pappajohn held his breath as the sound of keyboard clicks filled the background.

  “ISP is Adelphia in Santa Monica, IP address is Santa Monica Library at six-oh-one Santa Monica Boulevard, and time sent is ten fifty-three a.m. 24 December. But—” Keith paused.

  “But what?” Pappajohn pressed.

  “The login’s not Ana.”

  Not Ana.

  With the phone pressed to his ear, Pappajohn lay back on Sammy’s bed and closed his eyes. He’d expected that answer. No last chance—for either of them.

  “The system has a record of all the logins,” Keith reported. “This message comes from an account whose login is assigned to a Sylvie Pauzé.”

  Jim was surprised to see a line blinking on the business office phone. He had a few minutes before the news ended, so he pressed the button. “KPCF.”

  “Finally.” The woman’s whispered voice sounded impatient.

  Jim increased the input volume. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, heard about the reward.”

  Another opportunist. “Sorry, business office is closed. Call back tomorrow af
ter nine. Or call on the request line tomorrow night at midnight for Sammy Greene.” He moved a finger to click the caller off.

  “Yeah, good luck getting through. Been trying for hours. Don’t you want to find Sylvie Pauzé?”

  Something about the woman’s tone kept Jim from hanging up. “Yes, we do.” He waited.

  “Then tell Greene to meet me at the California Science Center, IMAX theatre, three p.m. show. I’ll be the blonde sitting inside. No cops.”

  The call was disconnected, leaving Jim staring at the phone for a few moments before pulling out his cell and dialing Sammy’s number.

  Pappajohn scribbled the information on the pad on Sammy’s night table. “Thanks Keith. I owe you one. And more.”

  “Don’t mention it. Hey, Gus?”

  “Yes?”

  “How are you doing?”

  Pappajohn let out a long, deep breath. It was a question he’d been asked over and over the last few days. “I’m doing,” he said.

  “Well, let me know if there’s anything else you need,” Keith offered. “And, remember, there’s a job waiting for you here when you get back.”

  Pappajohn replaced the handset in the charger and walked back to the desk with renewed determination. Sitting down at the computer, he clicked on his e-mail account. With no new messages in his in-box, he opened the saved one from Ana. For a long time he simply stared at the words,

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

  I have more news.

  Maybe that was the key. If Sylvie had sent this, perhaps she was asking Pappajohn to find her. And finding her would unlock the mystery of Ana’s death.