Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  Opening Keith’s first, she spent fifteen minutes reviewing the background information he’d sent. No matter how she considered the facts, she couldn’t find a way to mitigate Greene Progress’s responsibility in the buildings’ destruction. The winds alone couldn’t have toppled that tower. Either faulty installation of the active seismic-control systems had contributed to the buildings’ collapses, or there’d been active negligence in their operation.

  She clicked open Vito’s e-mail next and found a note with an attachment. “Read summary first. This is really big!” The attached document, titled “Playa Bella Partnerships,” was thirty pages long so Sammy scrolled to the end where she found three pages summarizing two specfic real estate deals involving land sold by the military—one in 1994 and one still pending.

  Playa Bella Partnerhsip #1 involved a large tract of undeveloped land in Newport Beach bought from the Marine Corps by Greene Progress for twenty million dollars, then sold two years later for ten times that amount. An asterisk next to the twenty million referred Sammy to the bottom of the page listing the assets on the property. What she saw there was a shock. Palacio Real Hotel sold to Mulholland Real Estate in 1993. The old hotel had been built on land leased from the Marines. Back to the top, she saw that the president of Mulholland Real Estate was none other than Jeffrey Greene.

  Playa Bella Partnership #2 involved two Navy golf courses sold to the city of Mission Alto. The plan was to build a world-class resort on the property. Apparently the city had solicited bids and Greene Progress was poised to get the deal.

  The second summary page listed the investors in both deals. At the top of the list was Neil Prescott. Another asterisk explained that Prescott had sat on the House Armed Services Committee for the past ten years with access to insider information about military-owned land available for sale. In addition, all loans made to Greene Progress came through the Savings and Loan owned by Prescott’s brother-in-law, Donald Graves.

  As Sammy read what amounted to a picture of corruption, cronyism, and criminality, the reporter in her grew excited by the notion that she was on the verge of exposing a real web of deceit. The daughter though, was sick at heart. For it was a web in which her father was clearly enmeshed.

  Almost worse than the fact that Prescott’s tips about military land sales were certainly unethical if not downright illegal, was the very real possibility that her father had built his mega fortune on substandard operations.

  Sammy leaned back in her chair, struggling with her conscience. Eight people had died in Canyon City, dozens injured, many more homeless families devastated by the tower collapse. To ignore their story would be tantamount to abandonment. She couldn’t do that. But if she blew the whistle, any hope of reconciliation with her father would be crushed. And he was the only family she had.

  She was tempted to ask Pappajohn for advice. He’d encouraged her to reach out to Jeffrey. But burdening the poor man with her problems when he struggled with his own crisis was out of the question. Better to call Jim. Now that she’d gotten to know him, she valued his wisdom. Maybe he’d know how to do the right thing.

  Sammy dialed the numbers to Jim’s cell on her cordless. It was too early for him to be at the station for tonight’s show. As soon as he picked up, Sammy launched into her spiel.

  “I got it,” she said, breathless with excitement. “I got the break I needed. Vetted by civil engineers from MIT. Enough to nail Prescott’s batzim to the wall tonight. But I need some advice.”

  “Sammy?” came a groggy voice. “Whoa. Slow down.”

  “You’re not still sleeping, are you? We have a show in six hours.”

  Jim grunted. “Give me a sec.”

  The sound of a deep inhalation, a held breath, and a slow exhalation produced a vision of the aging hippie smoking a joint. “Aren’t you celebrating Y2K a little early?” Sammy asked.

  “I’m medicating. Just got the news an hour ago.”

  “What news?”

  “You haven’t checked your messages?”

  Sammy looked over at her answering machine. “Nothing, why?”

  “Right before the close of trading today, they made the announcement. America First Communications is buying KPCF.

  Sammy gasped. “No way!”

  “Way. The program director called me right after. We’re out. Sammy Greene on the L.A. Scene is fucking cancelled. Finis.” Jim accented his announcement with another audible toke. “We’re being replaced by Frank Feral.” He added morosely, “And yeah, I’m celebrating—”

  “Dammit! And I was worried about protecting my father!” She leaped from her chair. “Stay sane, friend, I’m not taking this lying down. I’m going to go see dear old dad and make him take us back!”

  “What are you talking about?” Jim sounded confused. “This has Prescott’s fingerprints all over it!”

  “Prescott’s still in the CCU. No, it’s my father. He said he could help me with my broadcasting career. I didn’t take his carrot, and I’m not standing for his stick!” Without waiting for a response, Sammy clicked off and dialed Jeffrey’s office.

  “Mr. Greene just went home to Newport,” his assistant told her. “The Laguna Hills fire is spreading north. He plans to be back in the office tomorrow. Would you like me to page him?”

  “No thanks.” Sammy hung up and grabbed the notepad where she’d jotted down her father’s address. Newport Beach. South about thirty-five miles. If she left now, she might get there—with L.A. traffic—in an hour and confront the son of a bitch. Grandma Rose was right when she’d called Jeffrey a gonif. Her father was a thief—not just in business, but in life. She’d wanted so much to believe in him again, but now he’d stolen that from her too. And that loss was something Sammy could never forgive.

  Franklin Bishop found Julia Prescott dozing in a chair in the patient waiting room. Even asleep she was as beautiful as he remembered the fresh-faced sixteen-year-old. Living up to the promise he’d made to her father years ago, he’d stayed away, though it broke his heart. He’d never gotten over the fact that he hadn’t stood by her when she’d been pregnant, but Donald Graves, Sr., was not a man he’d been able to fight in his teens. By the time the Army had put some guts under his belt, it was too late. Julia had already become the wife of Neil Prescott. He never forgave himself for letting her go.

  A fortuitous meeting when he’d returned from the Army, a broken man, had changed his life again. Julia had convinced him to consider returning to work. He always knew the jobs at Baylor and then LAU Med hadn’t come his way by chance. Now he woke Julia with a gentle tap on the shoulder.

  “Oh my God, Franklin, is Neil—?”

  “Neil’s doing fine. But you look exhausted. Why not go home, get a real night’s sleep? Neil’s getting the best attention here.”

  Julia’s smile was thin. “After all these years, I’ve become the quintessential devoted wife.”

  Something in her tone made him blurt out the question. “How devoted?”

  She hesitated, as if groping for an answer. “I’m married to one of the most powerful men in the U.S. Congress, Frank. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the perks. Makes the commitment bearable.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Devoted enough.”

  “I am sorry,” Bishop said softly.

  “We were young.” Blinking, she looked away.

  Bishop nodded, leaving regret unspoken. He sat down on the chair beside her. “You’ve heard the accusations about the tower collapse.”

  “Of course.”

  “You think it was an accident?”

  “What are you suggesting?” A scowl furrowed her brow.

  “Just wondering.” He told her about his midnight caller.

  “Probably one of Neil’s handlers,” Julia said. “They watch out for anything that could tar Neil’s reelection with innuendo, especially now. Besides, if Neil goes down, so could his party—and that wouldn’t be good for the country. If you watched his TV spot, you know that Neil’s obsessed about nati
onal security. He’s convinced this administration is too lax. We need change at the top.”

  Bishop rubbed his temples. “Those are talking points. Is that what you really think?”

  “Me?” Her laugh was bitter. “Like I said, I’m just the dutiful wife. I’m not paid to think.” She brushed her hand against his, then pulled away. “Maybe thinking is what they were warning you against. Sometimes it’s better, safer, not to.”

  Before she hit the freeway Sammy left a message with the LAU Medical operator to have Reed call her as soon as he got the DNA results. She hoped his news would confirm what she and Pappajohn now felt to be better than even odds: that Ana was alive.

  Driving south on the 405, she was surprised to see how few cars were traveling in her direction. She passed a sign for Huntington Beach and realized she’d almost reached her destination in under thirty-five minutes. A new record for a freeway that at rush hour, often resembled a parking lot. By contrast, northbound traffic was bumper to bumper, many of the cars and trucks loaded with household belongings.

  Switching on the radio, Sammy heard the weatherman report heavy winds and new fires along the Pacific coast north from Laguna Beach to Newport. The governor had declared Orange County a disaster area, warning residents in the fire zones to evacuate. Even in the dim light of dusk she could see distant plumes of black smoke and wondered, watching the northbound caravan, if she’d been wise to attempt this trip tonight.

  Radio static made her scan the stations, searching for a stronger signal. The only one coming in loud and clear was a national talk show. A conservative talk show. A caller from Alabama was hysterical about warnings filling the news all week—that a major terrorist attack in the U.S. was imminent.

  “The FBI is sitting on this,” the caller’s voice was high pitched. “But it’s gonna happen, I can see the signs. I’m heading for the hills before Y2K. Got a bunker in North Carolina. Filled up the place with enough food and water to last a month.”

  “Federal Bureau of Incompetence, they are,” the host agreed. “We have to protect ourselves, become freedom fighters, because our government isn’t going to do it for us. Kevin in Sacramento, what’s the word?”

  “America for Americans. We didn’t have these problems before the president opened our borders. If we make it through Y2K, next November we’d all better vote for a God-fearing leader with some real values.”

  “Amen to that,” said the host. “The whole world is holding its collective breath until midnight tomorrow. Will two thousand be the start of Armageddon, or can we make it instead, the new American century?”

  Despite what to Sammy was repellent politics, the program, from a broadcast professional’s standpoint, provided significant entertainment. She listened in disgusted fascination as the host fielded a few more calls. He encouraged the fears and prejudices of his audience on the air reminding her of a polished evangelical snake oil salesman out to prey on the unsuspecting—and the oversuspecting—for a buck. When did our airwaves devolve from freedom of speech to freedom to spew?

  “America for Americans. The clock is ticking, and you better pray I’ll be back with you tomorrow night. This is Frank Feral, the man who is to the right of Rush and to the left of God, signing off.”

  Frank Feral! This manipulative SOB was replacing her show? Not a chance, she vowed, flipping the radio dial to off. Flooring the accelerator, she sped into the wind.

  Ten minutes later Sammy barreled through an open gate, and, skidding on the gravel with each turn, maneuvered her way up a long, steep driveway. At the top of the hill, she came to an abrupt stop in front of her father’s three-story sprawling modern glass-and-wood mansion. Every light in the place seemed to be on, making the structure appear like an unearthly temple against the dark night sky.

  Stepping out of the car, she was assaulted by the stench of smoke carried on powerful wafts of wind. Although she knew her father’s home overlooked the ocean, as she stood at the glass paneled front door waiting for her knock to be answered, all she could see on the horizon beyond was a wall of murky blackness created by fires she knew were heading this way.

  A knock at the door woke Pappajohn from a half sleep. Too keyed up since learning that Ana might be alive, he’d laid down on the couch, ticking off possible suspects and motives for Sylvie’s murder. The effect must have been like counting sheep, Pappajohn realized as he rose to answer the door. It was quarter after six on his watch and pitch dark outside. He’d been asleep since five.

  Pappajohn peeked through the peephole. “Emilio? I left you a message on your phone,” he said, opening the door to invite him in.

  “Yeah, I got it and decided to swing by. I live in Venice. Not too far.”

  “De’andray said you were off today.” Though Ortego was dressed in casual clothes, Pappajohn caught a glimpse of his pistol in the shoulder holster beneath his windbreaker.

  “Actually, Dee’s the reason I’m here.” Ortego rubbed his buzz cut like a genie and let out a long, loud breath, “Jeez, it pains me to say this, Gus. Honestly, I trusted the man. Like a brother. But, I can’t deny it any more. He’s dragging his heels on this investigation. What I’m not sure of is why.”

  Pappajohn’s eyes narrowed. “You have a theory?”

  Ortego nodded. “I think someone’s paying him off.”

  Pappajohn noted Ortego’s tortured expression and felt an instant camaraderie. Years ago, as a Boston cop, a colleague he’d depended on had betrayed his trust. When Pappajohn had discovered a couple of narco officers squirreling away part of the take from their drug busts and selling the stuff on the street, he and his friend, Chief Donovan, had launched a sting to catch the bastards. Except that Donovan had been in the game up to his eyeballs. The sting had been a setup that caught Pappajohn unaware. He’d ended up with two bullets in his gut and a reputation as a stool pigeon, forcing him to take early retirement from the Boston force.

  Now Pappajohn gave Ortego’s shoulder an avuncular squeeze. “I’ve had bad vibes from the guy, too, but you’d better be sure before you turn him in. Shit happens.”

  “That’s why I came to talk to you before I do anything. I think I’ve caught a break in your daughter’s case, and I’d like to take you with me. I’ll explain everything on the way.” He looked around the tiny living room area. “Where’s Sammy? She’s been a part of your investigation. She might as well come too.”

  “She’s gone to see her father,” Pappajohn said, grabbing the house key she’d left him. “We can catch up with her later.”

  Ortego smiled. “Sure thing.” He wrapped an arm around Pappajohn as together they left the apartment and headed for his car.

  Between the holidays and the fires, the hospital genetics research lab was as deserted this afternoon as it had been during the night. Reed walked over to the corner where three hours earlier he’d left the gel electrophoresis apparatus plugged in. Good. The blue tracking dye had migrated to the bottom of the shallow dish, indicating that the separation of DNA fragments from the single hair root he’d found embedded in the chain of the gold cross was complete.

  It didn’t take long for Reed to appreciate the findings. The DNA from the cab and the hair caught in the necklace were identical.

  Reed had to tell Sammy. He picked up the wall phone to request an outside line.

  “Dr. Wyndham?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a message for you from a Sammy Greene,” the operator reported. “She said not to disturb you while you were busy.”

  Reed smiled. Sammy Greene changing her ways? “That’s it?”

  “No, let me read this,” the operator replied, rustling the paper on which she had written the message. “Going down to Newport to see my father. Call my cell if you get the results today.”

  A minute later a single ring was followed by: Due to the Santa Anas and the fires we are experiencing a number of outages in the area. Please try your call later.

  Wondering whether to wait until Sammy returned from Ne
wport, Reed decided it might be wise to let the police know they needed to double check that CODIS report.

  Hanging up, he asked the operator for the number of the West L.A. police precinct and another outside line. This time the call went through and Reed found himself talking to Detective Montel De’andray.

  Jeffrey Greene opened the door, a legal-sized file in one hand, a look of surprise on his haggard face. Though his warm-up suit was Gucci, tonight he looked less crisp, more frazzled than usual. “Sammy? I was expecting Trina. She should have been home hours ago.”

  “And I’m glad to see you too, Dad,” Sammy said, barging into the vaulted foyer without waiting for his invitation.

  Jeffrey shut the door and turned to his daughter. “Of course I’m glad to see you. But didn’t you hear the news? The fires from Laguna are heading up this way. I was just trying to get my important papers together to store in the safe on my boat. Governor’s already declared a disaster—”

  “Shtup the governor,” Sammy retorted. “I’ve got my own disaster. The one you declared!”

  Fahim stood on the steep buff overlooking Zuma Beach, watching the last rays of smoke-muted sunlight dip below the horizon, listening to the crashing of waves on the Malibu shore sixty meters below the craggy rocks. The wind rose in sudden, impetuous gusts, whipping up swirls of surf here and there until the ocean’s surface resembled threatening storm clouds in a winter sky. The waves would typically have been an irresistible temptation for young, muscled swimmers on surfboards. But now, with the smoke from the nearby mountain fires blanketing the coast, the beach was deserted.

  Enveloped in darkness, Fahim heard a car whip around the hairpin curve off Pacific Coast Highway and pull into the scenic turnout where he’d parked the Alabaster Chemical truck. Miller’s men driving the dead doctor’s Honda Civic. The sound of heavy footsteps approaching made him turn.