Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  Pappajohn quickly brought him up to speed, handing him the blood sample “We know Sylvie was in Santa Monica the morning after the murder. If she was a witness, she may be hiding from the police. Or the murderers.”

  Ortego nodded. “Of course, Gus. We’ll run DNA on the sample. I’ll ask the lab to rush it. But, if Sylvie was picked up in Westwood, how’d she get there? Her car was parked in Bel Air, not far from where your daughter’s body was found, actually. Why didn’t she use that to get away?”

  Pappajohn threw up his hands. “I don’t know. Maybe the, uh, murderer kidnapped both women, and dropped Ana’s body—” His voice cracked. “If he heard Ana was still alive at the hospital, he may have gone there, and, in the crowd, Sylvie could have made a run for it?”

  Another smirk from De’andray, “You’re grasping at straws, Pops.”

  Pappajohn shook his head. “I know Sylvie was in that cab. The driver ID’d her. How and why she got there is your job to figure out.”

  “You’re right, Gus,” Ortego said. “And we will. Why don’t you come with me? We’ll drop the blood off at the lab. Let Dee here go home and get his beauty sleep, okay?”

  Pappajohn nodded as he stood. “I just have one thing for you to think about,” he said to De’andray. “The ME cremated her—against my religion and my wishes. You’re the detective. Ask yourself why. And while you’re at it, ask why that same ME just happened to end up a burn victim himself.”

  “Hey, miss, you can’t go in there!”

  Ignoring the triage nurse who’d jumped up to follow her, Sammy barged through the double doors into the emergency room’s care area. She looked past patients moaning on gurneys, doctors shouting orders, and technicians delivering supplies, and waved at Lou seated at the central nurses’ station.

  “Hey, Red!” Lou broke out in a broad grin.

  The triage nurse wasn’t so happy. “Look, lady, I said, you can’t—⁠”

  “It’s okay,” Lou intervened. “I’ve got her. She’s Dr. Wyndham’s—”

  “Good friend,” Sammy finished the introduction. Whether her status with Reed was more at this point remained to be seen, but there was no doubt that they were good friends. She’d figure out the rest later.

  The nurse pointed at Lou’s ID. “Visitor’s badge then. You know the policy.” She spun around and thrust open the double doors to exit back toward the triage desk.

  “Sure do,” Lou handed Sammy a pink visitor’s pass from the drawer, and started penciling in her name. “That’s Greene with an ‘e,’ right? By the way, I’ve been following your show. Any luck on finding the missing roommate?”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m here,” Sammy said. “Could you page Reed, I mean Dr. Wyndham? I need to talk to him.”

  “No problem. You can wait in the doctors’ break room.”

  Thanking him, Sammy headed toward the lounge. Pushing open the door with her shoulder, she collided with Michelle coming out, scattering charts on the polished linoleum floor. “I’m really sorry,” she said, stooping to help.

  “Sorry for bumping into me or sorry for driving Reed crazy?” Michelle grabbed the charts from Sammy’s hands as they both stood.

  “What are you talking about?” Sammy hoped the rising heat she felt on her cheeks wasn’t a blush. Had Reed said something about the other night?

  “You’re kidding, right?” Michelle glared at her. “I don’t get it. Weren’t you the one who broke up with him years ago? Now you storm back into his life and start messing with his head again.”

  Sammy tried to suppress her bubbling anger. “Messing with his head?”

  “He hasn’t been himself lately. And it’s affecting his work.” Michelle grimaced with impatience. “Don’t you care about him?”

  “Of course I care.”

  “Then why can’t you let him move on?”

  He has moved on. At least that’s what Reed had told Sammy. That he was now officially playing the field. Had he neglected to tell Michelle? Sammy took a deep breath and forced herself to remain calm. “I don’t know what he’s said to you, but Reed and I are still friends. And as far as moving on—well, I think that’s his decision to make.”

  Sammy marched over to the other end of the room, grabbed a journal from the magazine rack and plopped down on the lumpy couch. Ignoring Michelle, she leafed through the tattered copy of JAMA. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

  She didn’t look up until she heard Michelle leave, slamming the door behind her. Alone, Sammy laid the magazine on her lap and closed her eyes, pondering Michelle’s accusations. She thought back to that weekend two years ago in Boston when she and Reed decided to call it quits. They’d had a good run. But the show was closed by bitter words, said in anger. And fear.

  It wasn’t exactly true that she’d ended the relationship. Though they’d ultimately both agreed, it was Reed who’d pushed her buttons with his upsetting question. What are you afraid of?

  Afraid of being abandoned the way her father had abandoned her? But Reed was not Jeffrey Greene. Unlike her father, Reed had always been there for her, offering himself in a way that was both selfless and self-assured, and totally consuming.

  Reed’s words so many years ago: I thought we had something special.

  Of course we do. We—

  Not special enough to deserve your full attention.

  Now that’s not fair. We both have lots to do.

  True, but I’m at the bottom of your to-do list.

  Was that it? Sammy wondered. Was her ambition standing in the way? Was she afraid of somehow losing herself in total commitment? All her life she’d worked hard to appear unflappable, becoming the self-assured, tough kid, keeping emotions bottled up, the paragon of self-control. Then she’d met Reed. He’d poked beneath the surface, sensed her vulnerability, and tried to help her understand there was nothing wrong with leaning on someone once in a while, that it wasn’t so bad to lose a little of that control.

  She smiled, thinking of the other night when they’d made love. She’d done just that—lost control. Reed was right, it wasn’t so bad. In fact, it felt wonderful falling asleep next to him again.

  Sammy sighed. It had taken many years, but she’d finally gotten over the guilt of her mother’s suicide. How long would it take to get over her fear to commit?

  “Earth to Greene.”

  Sammy opened her eyes. “Reed, I didn’t hear you come in. I was daydreaming.”

  “Since you were smiling, can I assume it wasn’t a nightmare?” He settled into a space next to her on the couch.

  “Definitely not a nightmare,” she said, studying his face. His thick shock of sandy hair needed a trim, his eyes were red and bleary, probably from all the extra duty he’d been pulling since the fires. She’d gotten used to that look, his near-constant state of exhaustion. She just hoped Michelle wasn’t right—that his work was suffering—and worse, that she was the cause. ”Hey, it’s good to see you.”

  “Me, too,” he replied. “So, Lou called me. What’s up?”

  Sammy reached into her purse and pulled out a paper bag.

  Reed raised an eyebrow as she handed it to him. “My lunch?”

  “Blood sample. We think it may be Sylvie’s. Ana’s roommate.”

  “We?”

  “Pappajohn and me.” Sammy began to relate what had ensued since the night Reed had called with the autopsy report.

  “My God, cremated?” Reed ran his hand through his hair. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it,” Sammy said. “You were right. There’s no doubt of a cover-up now.”

  “Hold it. I never said— How’d you jump to that conclusion?”

  “We tried to talk to Dr. Gharani yesterday. The people at the morgue claimed he’d left with some kind of family emergency. So we drove out to his house.”

  “And?”

  “And he wasn’t home.”

  “You said he had an emergency.”

  “Today, we went back for answer
s.” Sammy paused for effect. “Gharani’s house burned down last night. With him in it. He’s dead, Reed. I’d say that was a pretty convenient coincidence.”

  Reed whistled. “Wow. What do the police say?”

  “I think they’re finally paying attention. At least Detective Ortego seems to be. Gus is at the precinct now dropping off a blood sample we found for forensics.”

  Reed opened the brown bag and looked at the irregular piece of beige cloth. “And where did you get this?”

  Sammy told him about the cabbie’s response to her on-air request. “We know now that he picked up a blonde from a Westwood high-rise and took her to Ana’s apartment. That’s got to be Sylvie.”

  “And this is her blood?”

  “Evidently the young woman had scratches on her arms and legs. She bled on the backseat of the cab. Pappajohn cut out a couple pieces figuring we could get a DNA match.”

  “And here the we means me?”

  “Uh, well—”

  “You said Pappajohn was taking a sample to the police.”

  “True, but honestly at this point, you can’t blame him for losing faith in the system. On the other hand, I have complete faith in you.”

  “I don’t know, Sammy. I can’t just order a DNA screen on someone not checked in as a patient.”

  “I thought you could do it yourself. I mean you worked in Dr. Palmer’s immunology lab at Ellsford. Didn’t you do genetic screens there?”

  “Sure, but that was different. It was a research lab. Everybody did their own thing. It’d look awfully strange to have a cardiology fellow doing tests in the lab here. Besides, I’m up to my eyeballs in work. We’ve had a run of patients with heart disease exacerbated by the fires, not to mention Prescott’s relapse.”

  “Relapse? What kind of relapse?”

  Reed sighed. “I guess I’m more tired than I realized. You didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Hear what?”

  “Off the record, okay?”

  Sammy made a crossing motion over her heart.

  “Last night the congressman had another episode of coronary spasm. Dr. Bishop put in a second stent. Luckily there was no heart damage.” Reed shook his head. “But I can’t help second-guessing myself. Maybe I blew it the first time.”

  “Is it unusual to have a second attack like that?” Sammy tried to sound sympathetic.

  “Not necessarily, if there’s some precipitating factor.” Reed’s eyes narrowed. “Come to think of it, Prescott was listening to a TV anchor’s report. Seems a certain local talk show host claimed he might be involved in the Canyon City tower collapse.”

  “Now I’m responsible?” Sammy felt her temper flare. “Maybe a heavy dose of guilt was the ‘precipitating factor.’ ”

  “I didn’t intend to imply—” Reed appeared contrite. “Frankly, I don’t know if the man’s capable of guilt.”

  “Meaning?”

  “As long as I’m speaking off the record, Prescott’s got an unbelievably devoted wife and yet I’m told he was brought to the ER by a young blonde.”

  Sammy’s eyebrows rose to attention. “Shall I hazard a guess? Mrs. Prescott’s not a young blonde?”

  “Not a blonde at all. Though she’s a very attractive and elegant brunette. In her fifties.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Sammy reached into her purse for her notebook and a pen.

  “Sammy!”

  “If I can check the security cameras in the ER bay, I won’t need you as a source.”

  “We don’t have cameras out there. With Y2K, internal security for the Schwarzenegger Hospital has been the administration’s priority. The ER’s part of the old hospital and hasn’t been wired up yet.”

  Sammy started to put away her notebook. “Wait a sec, that was the night Courtney Phillips came in as a patient, right?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, paparazzi, TV cameras were all over the place. Maybe Jim, my producer, can get some of the B-roll. Before radio, he worked at a local TV station.” She jumped up and kissed Reed on the cheek.

  “What was that for?”

  “That,” she explained, “was for always being there for me.” She leaned closer, this time kissing him on the lips. “And that’s for checking the DNA,” she said as she sprinted out of the lounge.

  Signal beeping, the large white van backed carefully toward the Schwarzenegger Hospital loading dock where al-Salid, clipboard in hand, stood with two of his men. All sported Facilities uniforms.

  Fahim, wearing a shirt that matched the Alabaster Chemical Supply logo on the side of the van, hopped out of the driver’s seat and opened the rear doors. Quickly, al-Salid’s men moved in with a heavy-duty dolly and loaded a sofa-sized crate with hazmat labeling marked Flammable, Formaldehyde. In less than fifteen minutes, the crate had been deposited in the morgue’s storage room, and the van’s space yielded to the linen service truck’s daily delivery.

  Sammy raced into Massimo’s popular restaurant in Beverly Hills, as always, at least twenty minutes late. She knew her father was a stickler for punctuality and hoped he wouldn’t be angry. He hadn’t answered his phone when she’d tried to call to explain her delay.

  Jeffrey Greene was sipping a Chardonnay, immersed in the Wall Street Journal, as Sammy slipped into a seat across from his at their table. “I can’t believe this traffic,” she complained. “And I thought D.C. was bad.”

  Jeffrey looked up with a wan smile. “You need to allow an extra half hour to get anywhere around here.” A waiter came over with two plates of food. “Hope you don’t mind. I ordered us both the linguine allo scoglio.”

  Sammy nodded, noting the dish had a variety of seafood, including shrimp. Keeping kosher was one tradition they’d both rejected after leaving Grandma Rose’s sphere of influence. Sammy reached for a slice of warm bread and dipped it in the peppered olive oil between them. “So, I’m glad we were able to meet.”

  Silence from Jeffrey.

  Sammy swallowed a second piece of bread before trying again. “You said I could talk to you about Neil Prescott.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “I wish you would.”

  “The Palacio Real. Tell me about the collapse.”

  “What about it?”

  “Was it an accident?”

  Jeffrey took a bite of shrimp before responding. “Of course. There was a full investigation.”

  “I heard it was dropped after the prosecutor died,” Sammy said in a neutral tone, waiting to gauge the effect on her father.

  Leaning forward, Jeffrey’s hazel eyes bore into her own. “What the hell are you implying?”

  “Nothing. I’m just trying to get some background.”

  “Let me explain something. Everyone in this town wants to be rich, and everyone who’s rich wants to be powerful. First it’s show biz, and then it’s politics. That late prosecutor planned to throw his hat in the ring for Neil’s congressional slot. Hoped to build a straw case that would get his name in the running. Tried to dig up dirt on Neil and me, but he couldn’t. Nothing. Sammy, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Neil Prescott is a good man.”

  “Is it true his brother-in-law’s savings and loan financed that project?”

  “Listen, kid, you haven’t been here long enough to understand how this town works. Connections. The only way to succeed. I needed financing to renovate that hotel. Neil Prescott’s brother-in-law owns a savings and loan. That’s not a crime. Donald Graves gave me the best deal.”

  Graves? Frowning, Sammy pulled her notebook from her purse and flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “Is he any relation to a Lawrence Graves who heads the city’s Case Management Unit?”

  “They’re cousins. How’d you know about that?”

  “I’m a reporter.” Sammy read from her notes. “Case Management, a little known unit set up two years ago to expedite certain projects.” She looked at her father. “Now I understand how the Canyon City remodel got the green light so fast. By sidestepping the usual permi
t process, big developers like Greene Progress avoid delays that could cost millions.”

  “You don’t think the mayor of Canyon City might want to promote a quick renovation? I don’t see a damn thing wrong with cutting through layers of bureaucracy.”

  Sammy opened her palms. “Can’t argue with that. But the plans for the, uh, seismic-active system never got turned in. Or reviewed.”

  “You mean the active-seismic-control system? We did turn them in. Probably weren’t filed in the right folder.”

  “Aren’t those systems supposed to keep buildings up?“

  “They should. If the ground starts to shake, they counter the quake forces and stabilize the building. But seismic control isn’t relevant to Canyon City. There wasn’t a quake when the tower fell.”

  “But the system had been installed, right? I thought you said the tower renovation hadn’t been started?”

  Jeffrey coughed into his napkin. “I was referring to the structure itself. You saw how cracked it was. Even an operational seismic-control system couldn’t prevent an unstable tower from falling, and ours hadn’t even been tested yet. Maybe if we’d had time to work on the tower’s framework, strengthen the unreinforced masonry, things might have turned out differently.”

  Sammy returned her notebook to her purse. “It’s just curious. Two tall structures, both financed by Newport S and L, both renovated by Greene Progress, both collapse unexpectedly. Neil Prescott was one of the common elements, the other was—”

  “Me?” Jeffrey’s tone was cold. “You certainly don’t pull your punches. Rose’s granddaughter to the core.” He wiped his mouth with his linen napkin. “I may have been behind the eight ball twenty-five years ago, but I run a multimillion-dollar business now. And it’s a clean shop. Renovations are tricky. Greene Progress has a terrific construction record. Go to Building and Safety and check it out.”

  “I have,” Sammy said. “And it is. Except for these two cases.”

  Jeffrey laid his napkin on the table and took a deep breath. “Before you go running to your listeners, blaming your own father for the deaths of those poor people, understand the reason we moved so quickly. That tower was at risk. We just weren’t fast enough.” He cleared his throat, seemed genuinely sad.