Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  “Look, I’m not out to get Greene Progress,” Sammy said. “Or you. But—”

  “You are out to get Neil Prescott.” The voice came from behind Sammy. She spun around to see a tall, slim, impeccably dressed brunette walk up to her father and peck him on the cheek. “Hello, carino.”

  Her accent was exotic. Italian, Spanish, French? wondered Sammy.

  “Trina, glad you could join us.” Jeffrey stood up halfway and pulled out a chair for his wife who sat down gracefully, at the same time extending a hand to her stepdaughter.

  Close-up, Trina appeared to be a very young forty-something despite obvious traces of botox and plastic surgery. The giant diamond on her finger might be real, but Sammy was sure those oversized breasts straining against the tight silk blouse were enhancements.

  Sammy politely pulled her hand from Trina’s strong grip. “It may seem that way,” she explained, “but I’m actually after the truth.”

  “How utterly charming. And naïve.” Trina’s laugh was low and throaty. She turned to Jeffrey and stroked his cheek. “Reminds me a little of you when we first met. Must be in the Greene genes.”

  In deference to her father, Sammy held her tongue.

  “Samantha, dear, I’ve wanted to meet you ever since Jeffrey told me you’d moved here to do your little radio show.”

  “My name is Sammy, not Samantha. And ‘my little radio show’ is doing quite well, thank you.”

  Trina smiled warmly at a server who brought her a glass of Chardonnay. “So what were we saying, Samantha? Oh, yes, I’ve been telling Jeffrey, now that you’re in L.A., we should help you make friends, dear. Friends who can help you. Like Neil Prescott.”

  “Prescott’s not someone I want as a friend,” Sammy said. Unable to control her growing irritation at this insipid woman, she added, “And neither are you. Dear.”

  Trina’s dark eyes narrowed, while her tone maintained neutrality. “That’s certainly your choice. But seeing as you’re Jeffrey’s daughter, you do need to respect his choice too.”

  “Excuse me?” Sammy was genuinely puzzled.

  “Neil Prescott is our friend. Don’t make him your enemy,” Trina said quietly. “Don’t make us have to choose between our friends and you. That would be a very big mistake.” Resting her hand over Jeffrey’s, she stared directly at Sammy. “Have I made myself clear?”

  Sammy stared back. “Perfectly.” She stood and placed her napkin near her plate. “I think I’ve had about enough. Bye, Dad, I’ll be in touch,” she said with a modicum of warmth. Toward Trina, her tone turned frosty. “Nice meeting you, Mom.”

  Eager to avoid a second bone-crunching handshake, Sammy grabbed her purse and left. A glance at her watch revealed it was almost two. Barely time to make the drive downtown for her three o’clock meeting with Jim’s mystery caller.

  Ana resisted the impulse to share Courtney’s cognac. She’d raced back to the shelter, nervously checking the Vespa’s mirrors for evidence of a tail. As tempting as a chemical relaxant might be, she needed to keep her head clear.

  Now she watched Courtney standing in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing the knots from her blonde wig. “Think I’ll pass?” Courtney asked, adjusting her sunglasses.

  Ana studied the reflection. “You’re taller than Sylvie, but with the wig and glasses, you don’t look like Courtney Phillips either.”

  “I might just go blonde after this is over. Doesn’t make my skin seem so washed out.” Courtney pulled a lock of hair over her chin.

  “What are you going to tell Sammy Greene?” Ana was eager to get back to business.

  “Got any breath freshener?” Courtney asked, as she ran a wet finger over her teeth. “First, I’ll scope out the place, make sure I’m not followed.”

  “They’re handing out toothbrushes.”

  “If Greene’s by herself and I can trust her, I’ll say I’m Sylvie. See what she wants from there.” Courtney shrugged, “I was always good at improv.”

  “Maybe I should come with you.”

  Courtney slung an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “You’re safer here. No one knows who you are, and no one can find you.”

  “Nice of you to do this,” Pappajohn told Ortego as the detective aimed his red Mustang north on Sunset Boulevard at the entrance to Bel Air. After the scrap with De’andray, Ortego had offered Pappajohn a ride to the California Science Center. Because the site where Ana’s body had been found wasn’t far out of the way, Ortego suggested making a quick stop there first.

  “No problemo.” Ortego scratched his buzz cut. “Dee doesn’t like to bend the rules. Even for a good cause. But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. That was something we all learned in Desert Storm.”

  “Same in Vietnam,” Pappajohn agreed. Only turned out not to be such a good cause after all.

  “This is it.” Ortego stopped his Mustang on a side street near the bottom of the canyon and pointed to a charred dune nestled in a blackened forest. The dust brown chaparral snapped and crackled like cornflakes beneath Pappajohn’s feet as he stepped out of the car. The stench of smoke hung in the air like a heavy, cheap perfume.

  Pappajohn leaned against the car and closed his eyes, imagining his daughter’s voice. Crying for help as she’d raced down the hill, running from the flames. In her final moments, had she been desperate and alone? Or had someone been chasing her?

  Ortego interrupted his nightmare. “Report said she was found in the gully here by a group of kids fleeing the fire.”

  Pappajohn opened his eyes to see where the detective was pointing. Rivulets of water still drained down the ditch.

  “That’s probably how she survived at all,” Ortego said. “The flames must have hopped over her some.”

  A gust of hot air brushed past his cheek as Pappajohn surveyed the burnt acreage. The few homes hidden in the charred brush were far enough away that the ferocity of the Santa Anas screaming through the canyon that night would have masked Ana’s cries for help. Some of these million-dollar dwellings had themselves been victims of the devil wind, their ghostly frames now twisted and stooped like blackened skeletons of old men.

  Ortego looked around. “Perfect place to dump a body.”

  Pappajohn took a deep breath and nodded. He slowly paced the perimeter of the area, traces of Pappajohn-the-cop suppressing the pain of bereaved father. Unfortunately, days of fires, winds, and water trails had long since erased all traces of footsteps or tire tracks. After a careful search, Pappajohn returned to the car, disappointed. “Nothing.”

  Ortego was sympathetic. “Maybe your lead on the roommate will pan out. In fact, why don’t I come with you? If it is this Sylvie, we’ll bring her in for questioning. Finally get you some answers.”

  Pappajohn’s big shoulders rose and fell. “Sure.” He clapped his new friend on the back. His voice was hoarse when he added, “Thanks.”

  “Did I wake you?” Sammy held her cell phone by one ear as she used her free hand to turn the wheel onto Exposition Boulevard. Driving past the University of Southern California’s imposing brick buildings, she couldn’t help thinking how different this campus was from the isolated, bucolic grounds of Ellsford University where she’d spent her college days. USC was its own city, surrounded by an even more giant metropolis. How nice of the landscapers to plant a few trees among the ivory towers.

  “Yeah.” Jim’s monotone interrupted her sightseeing. “So what’s the good reason?”

  “You used to work in TV, right?”

  “Not a good reason,” Jim muttered.

  “You still know people in TV news, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you get me some B-roll from the night Courtney was admitted to LAU Med?”

  “You woke me up for Courtney Philips? Forget—”

  “Don’t hang up!” Sammy pleaded. “Neil Prescott was admitted the same night as Courtney.”

  “And the connection?”

  “My boy—uh, my friend, Reed, says Pres
cott was brought in by a young blonde—not his wife, by the way—who sounds a lot like the woman the cabbie described.” Sammy summarized her early morning conversation with Sandoval. “It might be a long shot, but he picked up Sylvie less than a mile from the hospital. If we can get a shot of her on B-roll, maybe we can pick up her trail through our favorite politician.”

  “The dead girl’s roommate was screwing Prescott?” Jim’s voice had lost its grumpy edge.

  Sammy smiled, imagining him sitting up at her news. “Exactly,” she said. “And just maybe, Sylvie can tell us what happened to Ana that night.”

  “As much as I’d love to help your friend Pappajohn, this really does sound like a wild-goose chase,” Jim told her, “However, it would be nice to ID Prescott’s chippie.”

  “Chippie?”

  “Old timer’s term for working girl.”

  “Ah.” Sammy had reached the science center and pulled her car into the parking lot. “Got to go,” she said. “If you could have that for me ASAP, I’d be ever so grateful.”

  “You get something solid on Neil Prescott, and I’ll be ever so grateful.” Jim laughed before Sammy disconnected the call.

  Her car’s clock read 3:05. Sammy locked the door and hurried off toward the modern science museum, anxious to meet the woman she hoped would finally lead her to Sylvie.

  Yevgeny found space for his Escalade in a far corner of the science center’s lot, then jumped out and surveyed the area until he spied his quarry. Darting between rows of parked cars, he observed the petite redhead running toward the modern brick buildings that housed the museum and IMAX theatre. The thick, smoky air had obviously kept the crowds away. Missing were the usual snaking lines wrapped around the circular movie palace.

  Yevgeny stepped behind a bushy ficus for cover when Sammy stopped at the ticket counter. As soon as she entered the theater, he rushed over to purchase his own entry pass.

  The woman in the glass booth pressed a button activating a microphone. “Like I told the young lady, show’s already started. Next one’s in forty minutes.”

  “It’s okay,” Yevgeny said. “I just want to find a place where I can breathe.”

  “I hear you on that one.” She slid open the door of a plexiglass slot, pushed through a ticket, then shut it again, insulating herself from the outside air. “Inside and to your left.”

  Yevgeny walked into the lobby and found the theatre, its marquee advertising a nature film about undersea predators. How appropriate, he thought, as he entered the darkness where a pair of hammerhead sharks swam across the giant movie screen. Waiting for his eyes to accommodate in the dim light, he failed to notice the two dark-suited men leaning against the back wall, intent on finding prey of their own.

  From an end seat in a middle row, Sammy tried to avoid looking at the giant shark, swimming, it seemed, directly toward her. Except for the rare trip to Coney Island, growing up in Brooklyn hadn’t provided much opportunity to feel at home with the sea.

  A moment before, the theater door had opened, sending a wave of light across the cavernous room, exposing the fact that it was at least a third empty.

  Scanning the auditorium, Sammy caught sight of a familiar balding salt-and-pepper pate in the front row where she’d told Pappajohn to sit. Good. She was glad he’d managed to get to the theater on time. She strained to peer around a tall teen in front of her, but if her eyes didn’t deceive her, the man sitting beside Pappajohn looked a lot like Detective Ortego. Sammy smiled. Guess the two finally bonded during their time together today. It might help to have another cop around if the woman they were meeting made a run for it.

  So where was this mystery caller? She’d refused to say exactly where she’d be seated. Just that she’d be somewhere inside.

  One of the sharks on the screen lunged toward a school of bass, its wide, sharp jaws about to snap shut on as many as it could snare. Turning away, Sammy spotted a solitary blonde seated several rows ahead, opposite an exit sign. Sammy rose, and slipped into a seat directly behind her. Leaning towards her ear, she whispered, “Are you Sylvie?”

  “Greene?” the blonde whispered back.

  “Yes.”

  The blonde twisted her neck to check out Sammy. “I’m not Sylvie, but I know the truth about Ana and—” She stopped in mid-sentence, looking past her, alarm blooming on her face. “I told you no cops!”

  How did she—? Sammy turned to where the blonde was staring. Two suited men, who could have been G-men from central casting, were moving quickly toward her row. “They’re not—”

  The blonde wasn’t listening. She’d flipped open a cell phone and pushed one button. Obviously speed-dialing someone. “I’m outta here.” Erupting from her seat, she made a direct run for the exit.

  At the same time, a burly man in a black Nike sweatsuit charged down the far aisle to the front row, dashed across and out the door, followed by the two G-men.

  Stunned, Sammy stood and called out to Pappajohn. “Gus!”

  “Hey lady, keep it down!” someone in the audience yelled.

  The reprimand was moot. Pappajohn and Ortego had already reached the exit seconds ahead of Sammy who raced to follow them into the lobby and out to the parking lot.

  Years of chasing crowded New York buses compensated for Sammy’s short strides. She soon passed Pappajohn whose wheezing made it hard for him to keep up. Ahead, she could see the blonde scurry between parked cars with the G-men and Ortego only a few feet behind. She’d lost sight of the burly man during the chase.

  The blonde aimed for a red motor scooter hidden between two enormous vans. With a graceful leap, she hopped onto its seat and started its engine, accelerating onto the sidewalk, avoiding her pursuers as she fled back onto the pavement and toward the exit to the street.

  Sammy heard a screech of tires as a black Escalade straddled the driveway. The driver turned out to be the burly man who now jumped from his truck and ran toward the blonde, just as Sammy and the G-men approached from the other side. Ortego and the G-men fanned out along the asphalt to limit the woman’s escape, then encircled her.

  Believing the blonde was trapped, Sammy slowed her pace. But a moment later, she stood openmouthed as a line of SUVs, trucks, and motorcycles carrying men and women holding photo and video cameras, swooped onto the grounds of the science center.

  With the flourish of a striptease artist, the blonde slid off her sunglasses and wig, revealing brunette locks and her true identity. Courtney Phillips! Sammy held her breath while Courtney swerved her scooter onto an open stretch of sidewalk and weaved through the photographers. Laughing, Courtney hung a reckless left onto Figueroa Boulevard, narrowly missing an oncoming bus. Amid a chorus of angry horns, she sped off, leaving even the paparazzi on motorbikes unable to follow.

  Cursing in what Sammy thought to be either Polish or Russian, the burly man reached inside his jacket for what looked like a gun and pointed it in Courtney’s direction. Ortego gestured for Sammy to stay back. The G-men pulled out their guns and approached him from both sides, shouting to drop his weapon. The gun clattered to the asphalt.

  For a split second, it appeared he might make a run for it, but he lost his chance as Ortego crept up from behind, and, in one swift motion, grabbed the man’s thick arms and cuffed him. One of the G-men patted him down and removed another handgun from the waistband of his sweats, then checked inside his wallet, Sammy assumed, for ID.

  After several minutes of agitated discussion between Ortego and the G-men, inaudible to Sammy, Ortego threw his hands in the air and stepped away. Shaking his head, he joined her on the sidewalk. They watched the G-men haul off their quarry, shoving him into a parked van.

  Panting, Pappajohn caught up with Sammy and Ortego. “What’s happening? Feds?”

  “INS,” Ortego said.

  “What are they doing here?

  Ortego appeared sheepish. “My partner called them.”

  “De’andray? Why?” Pappajohn asked between wheezes.

  “Seems Sylvie
had overstayed her visa. It’s not really LAPD’s gig to do the work of La Migra, but, like I told you, Dee’s got a rod up his ass when it comes to rules. When I told him where I’d be today, he alerted immigration. Just in case we got lucky.”

  “So who’s the guy in the sweatsuit? And why was he after Sylvie?”

  Ortego shrugged. “I’d guess Russian mob. We’ll find out more after they process him and I can do some questioning.” He shook his head. “If Dee hadn’t called them in, we’d be interrogating el bastardo right now.”

  “Damn it!” Pappajohn cursed. “And on top of that, we’ve lost Sylvie!”

  “She wasn’t Sylvie.” Sammy said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You talked to her. What’d she say?” Ortego asked.

  Sammy looked at Pappajohn, whose face betrayed disappointment. No point in upsetting him further. “Nothing. It was all a publicity stunt.”

  Or was it? Sammy wondered as she accompanied Pappajohn back to her car. Courtney had seemed sincere, though she was an actress. An actress who didn’t need more publicity. I know the truth about Ana—

  Sammy was now as desperate as Pappajohn to learn that truth.

  “What’s taking so long?”

  Sammy turned from her computer to face Pappajohn standing in the doorway of her bedroom. Anxious to continue her research on the tower collapse, she’d insisted on coming straight back to the apartment from the science center, and waiting there for Ortego’s call. The detective had promised to let them know when he was ready to interrogate the Russian. “You asked me that an hour ago,” she said, shifting her attention back to the screen.

  Pappajohn walked over and sat behind her on the bed. “What’s so riveting?”

  “A website on seismic safety. It describes base-isolation and active-seismic control systems,” she said, scrolling down the pages. “New ways to keep buildings up in an earthquake.”

  “Oh?” Pappajohn stood to peer over Sammy’s shoulder.