Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  De’andray sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and frowned. “Listen here, Greene.”

  “You know what?” Sammy said, glaring. “I’m done listening.” With that she turned and strode off, leaving a wary-looking De’andray behind.

  Outside she found Pappajohn waiting by the Tercel, one hand rubbing his upper abdomen.

  “My gut’s telling me De’andray’s off base,” Pappajohn muttered, his jaw set tight. “I think I would like to have a talk with your friend, Reed.”

  Even before Sammy had pulled off the West L.A. PD lot, De’andray was on the phone, calling his contact.

  “You have something I want and vice versa,” Kaye said, obviously expecting Ana’s call. “I’m sure we can make a trade.”

  My darling Teddy! “Where can we meet?” Ana asked, frantic to get Teddy back and end the nightmare. Let Kaye have her stupid client list. Teddy was all that mattered. Her father had been right. It’s the choices we make. Nothing was worth Teddy’s life.

  “Huntington Pier. I’ll pick you up at two thirty.” Kaye was off the line before Ana could argue.

  Ana’s eye caught the old analog clock hanging precariously on the diner’s wall—12:20. Just two hours to run back to the shelter where Courtney had stashed the Vespa and drive it forty miles south to the seaside rendezvous. Nodding at the friendly waitress, Ana stepped out onto the sidewalk and was hit by a sharp gust of warm wind. Santa Anas were back with a vengeance. She prayed they wouldn’t blow the Vespa right off Pacific Coast Highway.

  Teddy was growing nervous. His cerebral palsy may have led the other kids to call him a “gimp,” but the condition didn’t mean he was dumb. In fact, Mrs. Darden had told him his IQ tested at 140. “You’re a genius,” she’d marveled.

  He’d really liked the older lady who’d been his foster mom for the past year, had hoped this time to make a permanent home with her and her husband—at least until his mother took him back. Someday.

  Ana. He liked saying her name.

  “I’m finally getting my act together,” she’d told him on her last visit. “No more drugs.”

  “What about—the other stuff?” Streetwise beyond his years, Teddy guessed the nature of his mother’s work.

  “No more of that either,” she’d promised. “I’ll get a real job and take you home.”

  So why hadn’t his mother come? Even if she wasn’t ready to have him live with her, he’d expected a holiday visit. He wanted to thank her for the Game Boy. Thanksgiving they’d had turkey at the local IHOP—Ana and the Dardens. She’d made him promise not to open his Christmas package early. The Game Boy was cool, but he would gladly trade it for her being there, feeling her arms around him. And, now, in all the rush, he’d left her gift behind.

  Teddy scratched his head. Why had this social worker come to take him to another family today? Mrs. Darden had hugged him tighter than she ever had before, kissed his head, and handed him over without any real explanation. “I’m so sorry,” was all she’d said as she’d waved goodbye. Something in the kind woman’s face had made him leery. She looked sad. And worried.

  And, now, swerving down the freeway with this dark-haired stranger driving, Teddy was really confused. First there was the car. Teddy had made a hobby of knowing every model of automobile on the road. This woman’s brand new Porsche had to cost a whole lot more than most of the L.A. County social workers he’d met could afford.

  And then there was her accent. At Mrs. Darden’s she’d sounded like Natasha, Boris’s evil sidekick from the Bullwinkle show he used to watch on Nickelodeon. Now she was on her cell talking to someone in a soft voice, with hardly an accent at all. Was she an actress too? And where the heck was she going? They were passing Long Beach going south. The next exit would take them into Orange County. That didn’t make sense either. He was supposed to stay in L.A. Better let her know she’d gone too far. “Excuse me.”

  “Ta guile!” she yelled. Teddy had no idea what language she spoke, but the accompanying slap to his cheek knocked his glasses off, and nearly took his breath away, making any translation pointless.

  Lou must have read Pappajohn’s anguished expression because there were no jokes and no smiles. Without even his usual wink at Sammy, he paged Dr. Wyndham STAT and ushered Sammy and Pappajohn into the empty doctors’ lounge.

  “Everyone’s hustling today. Santa Anas are stirring up again. Just heard that more fires broke out in South Coast and Laguna Hills. We may have to pick up the slack if those beach communities get evacuated,” Lou said. “UC Irvine Hospital is already shipping noncriticals to Long Beach Memorial.” He shook his head as he closed the door, leaving them alone.

  Sammy sat on the couch, but Pappajohn paced like a bear with a briar stuck in its paw. Back and forth, up and down, round and round.

  A few minutes later Reed entered, looking as haggard as Sammy had ever seen him. “So what’s up? Lou said it was an emergency.”

  His no-nonsense tone made Sammy wonder if she was right to have barged in on him, but one look at Pappajohn’s agonized features removed doubt. Pappajohn needed answers. And closure.

  “Here’s the thing.” Sammy quickly reviewed most of what had happened since she’d left the sample with Reed, including her early morning encounter with Courtney outside the station, the videotape from the night of the fire, and the new e-mail message from Ana. “It all pointed to Ana’s being alive. Then this morning, Courtney was a no-show and now that shmendrick Sergeant De’andray says the blood belongs to the roommate, Sylvie Pauzé. So, either Courtney is lying, or De’andray—”

  The creases in Reed’s forehead deepened as he listened. “De’andray compared the sample from the cab to the CODIS database?”

  “So he claims.”

  “If Sylvie’s ancestry was originally European French, it’s possible. Beta thalassemia is not uncommon throughout the entire Mediterranean basin.”

  At that, Pappajohn, stopped pacing. “Mediterranean? I’m carrying that anemia thing—trait.”

  Reed nodded. “I know. Your blood confirms that one of your hemoglobin genes is mutated. You have what’s called the thalassemia trait. But, the other blood in the taxi had a beta thal trait pattern, too.”

  A glimmer of hope arose on Pappajohn’s face. “My doctor said it runs in families. If Ana got the trait, could the blood have been from her?”

  Reed scratched his head. “Look Gus, my results are probably not as accurate as the county lab’s. They use the latest techniques. I haven’t done DNA testing since med school. I only had time last night for a quick check. And I can’t even access CODIS.”

  “I understand,” Pappajohn interrupted. “But what did it show?”

  “The two blood samples appear to belong to a male and female who share the same mutation for beta thalassemia,” explained Reed.

  “So Ana could be alive,” Sammy said.

  “Or Sylvie could have the same trait. Do you happen to know your wife’s blood type?

  Pappajohn replied without hesitation. “Double A. I know because one of the guys on the force donated blood after her cancer surgery since I couldn’t.”

  “That fits,” Reed said. “Anyone tell you whether she was Rh-positive or negative?”

  Pappajohn shook his head. “I don’t think so. Is it important? Her doctor died a few years after she did. I’m not sure how to get hold of his records.”

  “It’s a holiday weekend anyway,” Reed said after a delayed silence. “Let me finish running the taxi samples today and see if I can find any other matches.”

  Pappajohn sat down on the couch, closed his eyes and bent his head as if in prayer. When he looked up again, his cheeks were wet.

  Reed sat down beside him. “Honestly, I’m as confused as you are. If you had a sample we could confirm as Ana’s DNA, it might clarify things.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Pappajohn handed Reed the necklace with the gold cross. “I gave her this when she was a little girl. She wore it all her life.”

  Re
ed nodded. “I’ll have to look under the microscope for embedded skin or hair. If there is, I can probably do a DNA test. I won’t have time until things quiet down around here.”

  “Thank you.” Pappajohn caught Reed in a bear hug.

  Not wanting to provoke another painful slap, Teddy kept his mouth shut. By now he was convinced that the driver was no social worker, but he had no idea who she was or what she was doing with him. He just felt it couldn’t be good.

  Sitting as far from her as he could manage in the compact Porsche and holding his eye glasses lest she slug him again, he pressed his nose to the passenger window, trying desperately not to cry. Once they’d exited the freeway in Seal Beach, the passing signs were unfamiliar.

  He tried to glean clues about his situation from the two telephone calls the woman received. Unfortunately, her end of the conversations were mixtures of foreign words he’d guessed were curses, stuff like: “I know my time’s almost up—” “Don’t worry, you’ll get what you want—” “I knew you’d call—” “You have the list—”

  By the time she’d completed the second call, they’d arrived at a long, gated road. A key card admitted the Porsche. Teddy could smell the sea before he saw it. Stealing an anxious glance at the fake social worker, he slipped his glasses over his ears and turned his gaze outside as the car rolled by rows and rows of sailboats and motorboats. The wind was kicking up and the massive vessels bobbed up and down in the marina like bottle corks.

  They drove past the docks, then down a dirt road until they stopped near a wooden pier at the end of which was a white and silver cabin cruiser named Lucky Lady.

  “Is that yours?” Teddy blurted, too awed by the size of the boat to stop himself.

  For the first time, the woman smiled at him. “All mine,” she said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Teddy nodded.

  “Would you like to see it?”

  Teddy stared at her, expecting another trick, but she continued smiling, so he gave a quick headshake.

  She came around to his side of the car and helped him out.

  Standing on the pier, Teddy inhaled the salt air and marveled at the beauty of the ocean. In all his years living in Los Angeles, he’d rarely seen it. There were some outings to the beach when he lived at the group home, but it always seemed as if he was putting the staff out by requiring special attention. His wheelchair took up extra space, and not all the kids could fit in the van. Feeling guilt, he’d feign indifference, electing to stay behind with the babies. Perhaps that was why, despite his doctors’ pronouncements to the contrary, he’d struggled so hard to learn to walk. His crouched gait with knees flexed may have earned him the nickname pigeon, but it gave him mobility and independence that was worth ignoring a few unkind remarks.

  Clutching the railing, Teddy haltingly, but proudly, followed the woman up the dock onto the boat.

  As soon as Pappajohn had excused himself to make a pit stop, Sammy turned to Reed. “I want to thank you too,” she said. “I know how busy you’ve been. I shouldn’t have asked you—”

  “I never could say no to you.” Reed pulled her toward him in an embrace, gently brushing her lips with his. She reached her arms around his neck and rose to meet him on tiptoes just as his beeper went off. Sighing, they both lingered for a moment, drawing apart so Reed could check the source of the call. “CCU. Got to go.”

  “Guess I’ll take a rain check,” Sammy said. “Any interest in a New Year’s Eve party at my father’s? I’m told his place in Newport has an awesome view of the Pacific.” She smiled. “I’ll even dress up again.”

  Reed reached out to smooth a few copper-colored tendrils from her forehead. “Unfortunately, I’m on call until Y2K. With the fires, the freaks, and the terror alerts, I’ll be up to my eyeballs in work here on New Year’s Eve. But, I’ll take that rain check for the first.”

  Sammy stood on tiptoe once more to give him a quick good-bye kiss on the lips. “It’s a date. We’ll start Y2K together.”

  Sammy glanced over at Pappajohn as they drove back to her apartment. Since meeting with Reed, his sullen expression had turned pensive. “I know that look. What’s bugging you?”

  Pappajohn took a deep breath. “All these discrepancies. The blood results. The autopsy. And, did you notice that the police report had Sylvie’s computer on the floor—but not smashed? Someone’s gone to a whole lot of trouble to cover up this murder.”

  Sammy realized Pappajohn hadn’t mentioned Ana’s name, as if invoking it now might undo the possibility of her being alive.

  “I’ll bet dollars to donuts, Gharani’s death was no accident either.”

  Sammy couldn’t disagree. Even if the cops were simply dragging their feet, the discrepancies, the unauthorized cremation of the girl’s body, the mysterious deaths of the ME, and that Russian thug suggested something sinister. “Ana’s e-mail said Sylvie was killed for something she knew. The answer’s got to be in the messages she forwarded. If it’s the client list, every one of the men on it could be a suspect,” she said. “Except for Congressman Prescott of course. We all know where he was that night.” And with whom.

  Pappajohn nodded. “And that eyes only message. Something tells me there’s a clue there too.”

  “So what do we do now?” Sammy asked, pulling into a parking space in front of her apartment.

  “First, I’m going to catch up with Keith. And then I think I’ll give Emilio a call. Ask what he thinks about those DNA results.” In a much softer voice, Sammy heard him say, “I need to know, one way or another,”

  “Gus? Glad you rang,” Keith said as soon as he heard Pappajohn’s greeting. “I’ve got some interesting stuff for you. First, on this seismic safety business. I sent you the background. Check your e-mail. Cc’ed a copy to your friend Sammy.”

  “Will do. Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker, so she can hear this.” Pappajohn punched the speaker button, placed the cordless phone in the cradle, and waved Sammy over to his seat on the sofa.

  “Hey, Keith,” Sammy said, settling down next to Pappajohn.

  “Am I speaking to the famous Sammy Greene?”

  “Infamous is more like it.” Sammy made a face at Pappajohn, who merely shrugged.

  “Believe me, with Gus, that’s a good thing,” Keith said. “Anyway, I understand you’ve been researching seismic safety measures.”

  “I’m trying to understand why they didn’t work in two projects out here in California.” Sammy mentioned the collapse of the Canyon City tower and the Palacio Real Hotel. “They both had active-seismic-control systems yet they still fell down.”

  “Two options,” Keith said. “Either, construction was poor and the buildings so destabilized that any ground vibrations or winds could topple them. Or, the forces were so incredibly strong—like a huge quake—that they overwhelmed the seismic-control sensors’ instructions to the counterweights.”

  “There were no earthquakes in either case. You think these Santa Ana winds are strong enough to bring down a building?” Sammy asked.

  “Theoretically if they were gale force. Most likely I’d go with option one,” Keith said. “Poor construction.”

  “Any other info?” Pappajohn asked, ignoring Sammy’s frown.

  “Yeah, that eyes only message? Whoever sent it has maximum-grade security. I worked for hours and still can’t figure out where it came from. I’m on deadline with my Y2K clients, so I’ve had to let it sit for a while. I’m going to send it over to a buddy at the NSA first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, let me give you some advice, Sammy.”

  “Yes?”

  “Deep waters. Watch your step.”

  “Que paso?”

  Courtney opened her blue eyes to face several pairs of brown ones peering at her with concern. She was shivering, despite the windbreaker someone had thrown over her. Teeth chattering, she said, “I don’t speak Spanish. No hablo español. Shoo! Go away!”

  “You are sick?” one of the women asked in strongly accented English.

/>   Courtney hugged herself and shook her head. “No sicko. Okay? Go!”

  Another homeless woman removed her shawl and laid it gently on top of Courtney’s shaking body. “Es muy frio aqui.”

  Courtney rolled her eyes. “Grassy ass, okay? Now leave me alone.” She surveyed the packed cell, filled with women of all shapes, sizes, ages, and colors. The few who were well-dressed were easily identified as streetwalkers, though, unlike Ana, they seemed outfitted for the low-rent district. Most of the others wore plain clothes that they’d probably found at secondhand stores.

  “Dee-a-beh-tes?” the first woman asked Courtney.

  “Quieres un poco a comer?” another probed.

  “No.” Courtney held up two shaking hands. “Nothing. Nada. Kapish?” All she needed was a drink. Maybe someone had managed to sneak in a little alcohol. Courtney gestured with one hand as if sipping from a cup.

  Two of the women looked at each other, obviously confused. Finally, one nodded, reached inside her billowy housedress and pulled out a small plastic baby bottle, half filled with formula, from between her pendulous breasts. She extended it to Courtney with an apologetic expression.

  Courtney shook her head, and gently pushed the bottle back. “Where’s your baby?”

  “No se.” Teary eyed, the young woman pointed at a uniformed guard walking down the hallway. “They take.”

  Courtney patted the mother’s arm. “Bastards.”

  All the women nodded. The word didn’t need translation.

  The moment Pappajohn ended his conversation with Keith, he left a message on Ortego’s cell. He told Sammy he wanted the detective’s take on the conflicting DNA results as she retreated to her bedroom to check her own e-mail. She had two messages waiting—one from Keith and another from her Washington colleague, Vito.