Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  “Yep. Says here base isolation’s like a pillow that cushions earthquake waves so buildings shake less. Computers in the top floors move giant counterweights that oppose an earthquake’s force. Pretty amazing.”

  “It works.”

  Sammy looked up at Pappajohn. “You know about this?”

  “We had time to kill before the meeting. While Ortego grabbed some lunch, I took a tour of the science center museum. One of the rooms had an exhibit where kids could build towers out of blocks, then knock them down with a button that shook the table. They were having a blast.”

  “I used to love building sandcastles at Coney Island. When I was done, I’d run and jump right on top of them.” Sammy smiled at the childhood memory.

  “The museum had a poster explaining this base isolation thing. And a video of a computer-generated building showing how it stays up in a quake.”

  Sammy pulled up a Quicktime file on her PC and clicked PLAY. “You mean this one?”

  “Looks like it,” Pappajohn said. “The control system has sensors that read the quake forces and then send large weights in the opposite direction to keep the building from swaying. That’ll save a lot of lives someday.”

  “If it works right. But seven people are dead from the one that didn’t work in Canyon City. She clicked on a photo of the Palacio Real renovation. “It didn’t work there either. I wish I knew why.”

  Pappajohn furrowed his brow. “Keith and I were in the army together in Nam. He was a civil engineer before he became a rich computer CEO. How ’bout I give him another call and see what he thinks?”

  Sammy nodded, and returned to her research. At least Pappajohn had something more to do than wait.

  An hour later Pappajohn was back with a thumbs-up. “Keith’ll look into it for us. He’s got a couple of buddies at MIT who work in earthquake safety.”

  “Great. I’ll order in some Chinese for us before I leave for the station and—”

  The phone jangled. “That was quick.”

  Pappajohn grabbed the cordless. “Hello?” His expression registered surprise. As he listened, his features became a montage of shock, anger, then desolation. “Dammit to hell.” He shook his head. “Yeah, thanks,” he added, before slamming down the phone.

  “What happened?” Sammy asked.

  Pappajohn sat on the bed, hands between his legs, his head sagging on his chest. “The Russian at the INS? He’s dead. Suicided in his cell.” He looked up at Sammy. “Suicide, my ass!”

  Kaye erupted in a string of curses when Miller told her what had happened to Yevgeny.

  “I warned you. Your Russian goon interfered with my operation. We need to find Sylvie Pauzé.”

  “Yevgeny was close. He’d been following that Sammy Greene. She was—”

  “Yevgeny screwed up. The contact wasn’t Sylvie. Don’t you watch the evening news? It was all a publicity stunt by that so-called actress, Courtney Phillips. The paparazzi that didn’t take off after her got far too interested in my men. Lucky for us, Yevgeny gave them good cover and they could claim to be INS. So I guess I should thank you in some circuitous way,” Miller observed.

  Kaye felt confused, her bravado waning. “I didn’t see Yevgeny on the news. Or your boys.”

  “Thanks to a few calls to friends in high places.” Miller’s tone became ironic. “Shall I assume you don’t want his body back?”

  Kaye gritted her teeth. How much she hated this man. “No.” She’d tell her cousin that his nephew had disappeared. Bodies always led to questions, and quests for revenge.

  “Unfortunately, not only did we lose Sylvie,” Miller said, “now we’ve got the dead girl’s father and that chatterbox radio talk show host on our backs. I’m not happy.”

  Kaye envisioned her empire crumbling before her very eyes. Miller’s “calls to high places” could quickly put her out of business. And in prison. “I think I have a way to flush out the girl.”

  “Go on.”

  Kaye did a quick calculation. If she shared her scheme with Miller, she’d have to admit to deceiving him about Ana. At this point, she couldn’t risk it. He’d never forgive the double cross. On the other hand, whatever Sylvie had managed to steal from that Arab must be pretty important. If she could find it first, she’d not only have her client list back, but Miller’s treasure to hold over his head.

  “I need to do this alone,” she finally told him. “Sylvie trusts me. I can get her for you.”

  “All right,” Miller agreed. “You have twenty-four hours.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Thursday

  12:30 a.m.

  “—from the Federal Emergency Management Agency, FEMA. Many of the families have been relocated to trailers in downtown Los Angeles with food, clothing, and other supplies provided by L.A. County working with the Red Cross and other charitable foundations. If you’d like to make a donation, please send a check to the American Red Cross. Twenty-eight after.”

  Sammy clicked off her mic and shook her head. “Too little, too late,” she muttered. “They wouldn’t have been in Canyon City if people had bothered to care before the tower collapsed. A dozen are still in the hospital.”

  Jim’s voice came through the intercom. “Speaking of hospital, my buddy from channel two is dropping off a dub of the Courtney Phillips parade outside the LAU Med ER.”

  “Thanks. Though if I never see or hear of Courtney Phillips again it’ll be too soon.”

  “Maybe she does know something about Ana. After all, they were in the same hospital on the same night,” Jim said. “Why not ask her to meet you at the station? I’ll keep goon watch.”

  “Maybe I should. But if it was just a publicity stunt, she won’t bother to come.” Sammy glanced at the clock and leaned over toward her mic, switching it back on. “Wake up, L.A., it’s only nighttime. Winds’ve died down a bit, and LAFD has let most of the residents of the Santa Monica Mountains return to what’s left of their homes. Latest tally, over three hundred homes totaled, and four deaths from the winds and the fires. FEMA should set up a permanent presence in this town.

  “We’ll take your calls in a minute. Got some updates first. We’re still looking for Sylvie Pauzé to help us learn more about fire victim Ana Pappajohn. If you can lead us to Sylvie, please call tonight. 310-555-KPCF. Ten thousand bucks to whoever brings us the prize. Courtney, think how many hours in rehab that’ll buy you,” Sammy added, only half joking.

  “And, remember to send your checks for the Canyon City victims to the Red Cross. By the way, I’ve done a little research on the City Hall tower. Turns out the renovation was financed by none other than Mr. Get-the-homeless-out-of-Beverly Hills himself, Congressman Neil Prescott. Through his brother-in-law, Donald Graves of Newport Savings and Loan. My guess, these big machers helped grease the bureaucratic wheels to expedite a go-ahead on the project. Looks like they’d already started retrofitting something called an active-seismic-control system without final plan approval from Building and Safety. Now that’s efficiency. Or is it a crime? Forty-four after.”

  Agitated, Dr. Bishop switched off the radio by his bed. Since hearing Sammy question the Canyon City tower incident on her show the other night, he’d been drawn to her coverage, fascinated by her suppositions. Her research had provided some intriguing information. Active-seismic-control systems could keep buildings up. That he knew. But could a poorly designed or implemented control system have the opposite effect? Accidentally or on purpose?

  He massaged his temples in a vain attempt to reduce the pounding pain. Headaches he’d hoped had finally stopped, lately recurring with greater intensity. Just as they had right after— Shutting his eyes, he flashed back to a desert night eight years ago. Hot winds blowing then too when, shortly after midnight, he’d been awakened to care for a critically injured young soldier. The search-and-rescue team had said an apartment house in southern Iraq collapsed, trapping hundreds of civilians. Faulty construction, they’d claimed, though much later he’d discovered that the build
ing had been brand-new and thought to be earthquake safe.

  The soldier’s whispers long buried in Bishop’s memory now rose like an ethereal moan. Murder. His last gasps, desperate pleas that someone hear the word he struggled to repeat. Resonator.

  Bishop’s calls to headquarters had been stonewalled. Warned to drop it. Everything about that mission had been classified. All he’d been able to learn was that weapons tests had been conducted in the neighborhood of the collapse. A neighborhood far from the battle lines.

  Through his pulsating pain, Bishop thought of the disembodied voice on the phone four nights ago.

  What is it you want?

  Your silence—As long as you don’t decide to be a Boy Scout—

  Resurrecting old fears. Bishop wondered if he wasn’t going mad, imagining conspiracies that were never there. He drew a deep breath, considering what to do. One thing was certain. He’d need to be careful. Last time he’d demanded an investigation, it had ruined his career and nearly cost him his life. This time, he’d have to be sure of his facts before making accusations.

  At a little past midnight, the fire shelter was more than half empty. Most evacuees had returned home; only the truly homeless now remained resting on the uncomfortable cots. Unable to sleep, Ana and Courtney sat in the facility’s lounge, listening to Sammy’s show on the radio.

  “We’ve got to get you to Greene,” Courtney said. “Someplace where there’ll be no cops. Maybe at KPCF?”

  “Too dangerous.” Ana lowered her voice. “Teddy’s coming back tomorrow. Whoever’s after me will be watching the station. I can’t risk getting caught,”

  “You can’t keep running. Eventually, they’ll find you. Even here. Sammy Greene can help you get to your father.”

  Ana sighed. “I know, I know. But, I’m scared, Courtney. I just want to pick up Teddy and leave this town. Once and for all.”

  “And go where? Those guys at the theater had big mother guns. They’re not playing hide-and-seek.”

  “You’re right,” Ana said. “Guess I don’t have much choice.”

  Courtney glanced over at a skinny man dressed in a dirty shirt, baggy pants, and a woolen ski cap covering his eyes, sitting on the floor in the far corner of the lounge, rocking back and forth, muttering to himself. She leaned closer to Ana. “I’ve got an idea. Give me twenty minutes to change into costume and Courtney Phillips will be ready for her next act.”

  Trina carried two glasses of Pinot Noir back to the bedroom, surprised to find Jeffrey looking worried. He’d turned off the radio, and was furiously surfing through the TV news channels.

  “What did she say this time?” Trina asked as she handed Jeffrey his glass.

  “That our seismic-control system caused the Canyon City tower collapse.” He shook his head. “Dammit! Why not plant a nuclear bomb in the Greene Progress offices? Would’ve achieved the same effect!”

  Trina’s dark eyes narrowed. “She said that?”

  “Pretty much. And that my collaboration with Neil Prescott led to fraud and negligence.” Jeffrey looked directly at Trina. “I thought I could handle this myself.”

  Trina sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand on his arm, just as Prescott’s face appeared on the TV screen. Jeffrey turned up the volume to listen to the congressman’s taped warning of the dangers of terrorism in the new millennium.

  “He is good,” Trina said. “If we get a new regime in the White House, I could see him in the cabinet.”

  “From your beautiful lips.” Jeffrey shook his head.

  Prescott’s photo, displayed behind the headline news anchor, drew their eyes back to the TV. “According to LAU Medical Center Chief of Cardiology Franklin Bishop, Congressman Prescott had a setback in his heart attack recovery yesterday and is now in the Coronary Care Unit of the Schwarzenegger Hospital.”

  Jeffrey slammed his fist on the mattress. “Shit! If Neil doesn’t make it, neither will Greene Progress.”

  Single file, Courtney and Ana jumped off the bus a few blocks from an all-night Internet café on Montana Avenue. Afraid the Vespa might be recognized after its star turn on the evening news, Courtney had insisted they ride public transportation from the shelter. True to her word, she had completely transformed herself. For twenty dollars and a half-empty bottle of Korbel, the homeless man was more than willing to exchange his rags. Her slim frame hidden in the baggy pants, the ski cap covering her dark mane, Courtney was easily mistaken for one of the denizens of the night. The stench emanating from the clothes only added to the authenticity of the part as the few bus passengers moved as far away from her as possible. Even Ana chose a seat across the aisle.

  “Okay,” Courtney said once they’d arrived outside the café. “You go in and send your e-mail. I’ll hop on the next bus to Canyon City and catch Sammy Greene when she leaves the station. We’ll meet back here around five. You gonna be okay?”

  Ana looked around the almost deserted street and nodded. “I think so. You?”

  “You kidding? You’re not the only pro, you know. After all these years playing airhead teeny boppers, I finally get to stretch my instrument with a meaty character role.” Seeing Ana grin, Courtney waved and turned to go.

  “Wait,” Ana reached her arms back behind her neck and unclasped her necklace. She placed the gold cross in Courtney’s palm and guided her fingers closed. “Tell Sammy Greene to get it to my father. If he doesn’t believe the e-mail, he’ll know this is from me.”

  “Good idea,” Courtney said, secreting the necklace in her pocket.

  “I guess it’s kept me alive this long. Maybe it’ll bring you luck too.” Ana glanced around to make sure no one was watching before giving Courtney a quick hug. “P-U. Now go out there and break a leg.”

  Sammy was relieved when the clock on the wall displayed 2:57 so she could sign off for the night. If only her pleas for leads to Ana’s murder had paid off tonight. Instead, “Sylvie sightings” burned up the station’s phone lines, like a three-alarm blaze. By the end of her show, twenty-two new tips had come in, none of them promising.

  Shuffling into Jim’s booth, she shook her head in disappointment.

  “Patience is the greatest of all virtues. Cato the Elder,” he said gently as he clicked from the commercial into the news. He reached over to the side of his counter. “I have something for you.”

  Jim picked up a videocassette and extended it to her. “Dean dropped it off while you were on the air.”

  The B-roll from the TV cameras. The night Courtney was brought to the hospital. Sammy leaned over to give Jim a hug, but he held up a hand. “Not yet, I’m still achy.”

  Sammy backed off, placing the tape in her bulky purse. “Thanks.”

  “Anything I can do to help.” Jim nodded at the speaker broadcasting news of the congressman’s relapse. “Seems Prescott’s having a rough time of it lately too. Maybe facing mortality will give him a new perspective, soften him up a bit, and,” Jim waved his arm around the studio, “save our skins here.”

  “Now that really would be a mitzvah.”

  Jim winked, and, with a small salute, turned back toward his mic.

  Sammy slowly pushed open the station exit door and peered into the darkness before stepping outside. Tonight it wasn’t the Santa Anas that made her pause, it was fear of who might lurk in the shadows that had her on edge. After the scene at the science center, she’d been on 24/7 high alert. Like being back on the streets of Brooklyn as a kid.

  In the dim light of the parking lot, she could barely discern the outline of a homeless man curled up, fast asleep on the ground near one of the large recycling bins. Otherwise, the area appeared deserted. Considering whether to wake the poor man and invite him into the station for shelter, she decided she might as well let him be.

  It was almost dawn. Knowing Jim, he’d make sure in the morning that the man had a hot meal and a couple of bucks to start the day. The stench carried on a draft of wind as Sammy rushed past to her car, made her think Jim ought to offer
the KPCF shower facilities to the poor guy as well. Just to be sure, she’d call him when she got home.

  Sammy reached her car, and slipped her key into the lock, quietly opening the door. Turning to sit in the driver’s seat, someone leapt out of the gloom and pulled her back up. Startled, it took her a second to recognize the homeless man, his fetid breath reeking of alcohol, just inches from her face. With a force that belied his slim build, he held his arms around her, pinning her against the car.

  Not again. Terrified, Sammy flashed back to the day five years ago when she’d been attacked on the streets of a New York slum. She refused to be easy prey this time. Struggling against the malodorous man, she tried slipping from his grasp. Cries of “Help!” were forming in her mouth when a female voice ordered her to “Shut up, I won’t hurt you!”

  Staring directly into the face of her assailant, Sammy realized that the smooth skin and delicate features of her assailant belonged to a woman. And, once the shades and ski cap were removed, Sammy knew which woman. Courtney Phillips!

  “Are you meshuga? You scared the hell out of me!” She stepped back a foot and brushed her clothes with her hands. “And yanked my chain earlier today.”

  “Hey, sweetie, you’re the one that screwed me,” Courtney said, keeping her voice low. “I said no cops and you brought the fucking cavalry.”

  “I wasn’t the one who called the—” Sammy started to protest.

  “I don’t have time to chat,” Courtney interrupted. “I’m not here for me. I’m here for Ana Pappajohn. She’s alive.”

  Sammy felt her pulse race. “How do you know Ana?”

  “Long story. We were in rehab together a few years back.” Courtney did a one-eighty glance around the lot. “Listen, the girl’s in trouble.” She quickly explained how Sylvie had grabbed Ana’s purse with ID at the party, that she’d gone into hiding. “Ana needs to talk to her father.”

  Sammy shook her head. “You’ve already sent us on one wild-goose chase. I’m not setting up Gus Pappajohn for another disappointment.”