Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  “God, no, why?” Sammy cried.

  “I tried to warn you. I wasn’t going to let you take us down. I even got Neil to buy your station to get you off the air. But you wouldn’t quit.” Kaye’s finger moved on the trigger.

  “No!” Sammy took a step back and lost her balance as the yacht began rocking again.

  Jeffrey leapt forward to stop Kaye, a second before she fired the bullet.

  The quarter-mile trek down the dirt road ended at a dock where a dozen sailboats and motorboats bobbed in the black water. There were no lights anywhere. The whole place seemed deserted. Probably, Pappajohn figured, in anticipation of the fires expected to move this way. The tiny sliver of moonlight was obscured by smoky ash, slowing their progress. Every few yards, Ortego struck a match to illuminate the path ahead, but the flame lasted mere seconds as warm winds whistling through the masts extinguished it.

  At the far end of the dock, Ortego pointed to the slip where the Lucky Lady was moored. “Here we are.” He drew the Glock from his shoulder holster and motioned for Pappajohn to follow him on board. Santa Ana winds were in full fury, and it was all the men could do to maintain balance as the cabin cruiser rocked and rolled in the choppy waters of the marina.

  Inside, it was dark and silent. With deliberate slowness, they tiptoed through the ninety-foot yacht. In the galley they found a plate of cookies and an empty glass on the counter. Someone had been here recently. Pappajohn hoped they were still here.

  Ortego carefully opened the door to the main cabin. In the dim light filtering through the porthole, Pappajohn could see a couple of cardboard boxes filled with files on the inlaid teak floor next to an empty safe. All four walls were paneled with the same expensive wood, the large bed was covered by what Pappajohn guessed was a mink duvet. Nothing too good for Madam Kaye.

  Two smaller forward cabins were equally opulent and empty. Passing through the marble-paneled lounge, Pappajohn nearly tripped over the piano in the darkness. His heart pounded as he tried not to cry out.

  Through the silence, he thought he heard voices coming from below. He motioned to Ortego, pointing at the deck with his index finger to indicate a lower floor. Ortego nodded and tiptoed out of the lounge with Pappajohn staggering behind.

  On the bottom deck, the voices were louder, but still muffled. It was the shout of “No!” that galvanized them into action. Ortego released the safety on his revolver and held it ready in his right hand as he and Pappajohn sped toward the sound. At the end of a long hallway, a cabin door was partially open, and a woman was aiming a gun.

  “Sammy!” Pappajohn screamed as the gun went off. Before he could see what had happened, Ortego pushed past him and took his own shot.

  A second later, Pappajohn found Ortego standing over a dark-haired woman’s supine body, one bullet through the forehead, her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. A pool of blood formed around her head like a crimson halo.

  “The madam,” Ortego said in a monotone. “Not as pretty dead as her mug shot.” He pulled out his cell. “I better call it in.”

  While Ortego was on the phone, Pappajohn turned his attention to Sammy who lay on the floor, not far from the dead woman.

  “You okay?” he asked, helping her to sit up. Though she nodded, he noted her eyes were dilated with unspoken fear.

  “Trina! Trina is Madam Kaye! She tried to kill me, Gus!” Sammy gasped in ragged staccato. “My father!” Sammy indicated the middle-aged man writhing in pain beside her. “He saved me.” A red stain had begun to blossom over the right shoulder of Jeffrey’s tan running suit. “Is he—?”

  “Just a bad flesh wound,” Pappajohn said after a quick assessment. “What the heck were you doing here?”

  Sammy pointed to the dimly lit corner where Ana was still cowering. “Gus, Ana’s alive!”

  Pappajohn glanced at Ortego who had dropped to one knee, checking the pockets of the dead woman’s slacks, Pappajohn presumed for positive ID. “Emilio, you were right!” he cried as he rose and stumbled over to his daughter.

  “Baba.” Ana’s voice sounded tentative, as if afraid of his reaction.

  Pappajohn couldn’t believe his eyes. Her hair was back to its natural color, she was older and thinner, but she was here, now, his Ana. Tears overflowed as he hugged her close. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

  “Forgive me.” She stepped away to reveal her son who’d been hidden behind her. Her own tears tracked down her cheeks as she introduced him. “Baba, meet Teddy. Theodore, your grandson.”

  Pappajohn looked from Ana to Teddy who offered up a sad smile. “Have you come to take us home?”

  Choked by emotion, Pappajohn pulled the boy into a bear hug. “Theodore, my gift from God,” he said hoarsely. “If your mother is willing, I would love to bring you both home with me.”

  Ana nodded. “Teddy and I almost died tonight for some crazy code my friend stole from an Arab john. I never want to see this town again.”

  “Is this it?” Ortego asked, holding up the Jazz drive.

  “That’s the client list Sylvie took from Kaye.” Ana explained Sylvie’s double-dealing, how she’d copied Kaye’s client list as insurance in case she got caught. “The night she died, she was spying for Kaye. I think she was killed because of the text message she sent from the Arab’s phone. He may have tried to stop her.”

  “You still have it?” Ortego demanded.

  “The message? No, I gave it to Kaye,” Ana said. “She hid it inside her blouse.”

  Oretgo rushed over to the dead woman and fished between her breasts until he found the paper and put it in his chest pocket.

  “Poor Sylvie,” Ana said. “She didn’t deserve to die.”

  “That bitch Sylvie got exactly what she deserved!” Ortego’s tone and expression had turned ugly.

  Pappajohn felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise with a sense of foreboding. The sudden change in Ortego was the same kind of transformation he’d seen just before his former colleague, Donovan, had shot him in the gut.

  Ana paled. “You’re the cop on Sylvie’s voice mail. The one she was working with!”

  Pappajohn realized his intuition had kicked in too late. Ortego had already pulled out his Glock and was pointing it at Jeffrey and Sammy. “You two move over there with the family reunion.”

  Sammy glanced at Pappajohn as if to ask what she could do, but he just stared straight ahead. With obvious reluctance, she helped her still bleeding father limp over to the bed.

  Pappajohn glared at Ortego. “So it was you. Not De’andray. You were the dirty cop.”

  “Bingo. Sylvie Pauzé kept me up to date on the latest dirt from her clients and I kept her out of jail. Tit for tat.” Ortego’s voice was calm and cold. “Kaye thought she had me on her payroll. Never even guessed I was making an extra killing from her top whore.”

  “So you knew all along it was Sylvie, not Ana who died.” Pappajohn shook his head.

  “Not til you started playing P.I., amigo. Even Miller didn’t know. Wish I could’ve seen his face when I told him. Anyway,” Ortego tapped his chest pocket, “he’ll be glad to get his info back. Can’t have military secrets floating around Southern California now, can we?”

  Sammy turned to catch Pappajohn’s eye again. This time he shook his head imperceptibly. Too dangerous to try an attack. Ortego was young and a veteran. And the only one with a gun.

  Ortego must have read his thoughts. “That would be stupid, Gus. Tell you what. I really am a nice guy. You promise to keep your mouths shut and maybe you can get out of here,” he said as he backed toward the cabin door, his gun raised. Stepping over the threshold, he saluted, adding, “Or not.” Then, with a scornful laugh, he slammed the door shut and locked it.

  Under a storage bench in the galley, Ortego found what he was looking for. A dozen signal flares. He carried them into the forward cabin nearest the engine and arranged them on top of the two cardboard cartons sitting on the teak floor. After opening the porthole to provide a flow of oxygen,
he struck a match, igniting the top edge of each carton. Within seconds, the flares began sizzling, showering a spray of embers into the air. Once the papers caught fire, the Santa Anas swooping in would fan the flames already licking at the walls. With luck, long after he was gone, the gas line would rupture and blow them all to hell.

  The fury of the winds outside was so deafening and Ortego so intent on his task, that he never heard the cabin door slam shut, automatically locking him inside until it was too late.

  The silence was broken only by Jeffrey’s heavy breathing. Pale and weak, eyes closed, he lay on the bed, his uninjured arm nursing the blood-soaked bandage improvised from Pappajohn’s shirt.

  After tending to Jeffrey, Pappajohn stood up to listen for signs that Ortego was in the vicinity. Nothing. With the boat swaying erratically, Pappajohn staggered like a drunk to the cabin door and tried opening it. As expected, it was locked. He muttered a Greek curse.

  “I wish I still had my cell phone,” Ana said. “We could call for help.”

  “Mine’s in the house,” Sammy sighed. “I never thought I’d need my purse for a quick trip to the boat.” Gazing up at the ceiling vents, she gasped, pointing. “Gus!” Black smoke was pouring in, making visibility in the already dimly lit cabin impossible.”The boat’s burning!”

  “Ortego must have set a fire,” Pappajohn wheezed. “We have to get out of here! Fast!”

  Sammy’s eyes were tearing.

  Everyone had begun to cough and gag.

  Clutching Teddy, Ana sobbed with fear. “Baba, I don’t want to die!”

  Out of the smoky darkness, Jeffrey whispered, “In my pocket, I have a key.”

  Ortego was trapped inside the forward cabin. The door wouldn’t budge. Several blasts from his revolver could not dislodge the bolt lock. Flames had begun to consume the teak walls of his prison. In desperation, he tried closing the porthole, hoping to keep out the oxygen fanning the fire, but the metal and glass was too hot to touch. Painful blisters formed on his hands when he pulled them away.

  As the fumes began to make breathing more labored, he clutched his chest, knowing it was just a matter of minutes before the carbon monoxide rendered him unconscious. Then the flames would incinerate him. Even if what his LAFD buddies had told him was true—that death from fire is usually quiet and painless—he refused to wait. Praying for mercy, he placed the revolver next to his temple and fired the last shot.

  Ana and Teddy stumbled from the cabin, with Sammy and Pappajohn supporting Jeffrey. The boat’s violent rocking slowed their progress as they felt their way toward the hazy light of the emergency exit sign. The smell of smoke was everywhere. They all choked, but Pappajohn’s wheezing sounded like agonal gasps. Moving toward the upper level, they heard the crack of a single gunshot.

  “He’s shooting at us!” Ana screamed.

  “Shh!” Pappajohn ordered, his voice low and hoarse. “Stay down. Footsteps.”

  The sound of heavy footfalls approaching was now unmistakable. They pressed against the walls, hoping Ortego had not returned.

  “Sammy Greene?” A familiar voice.

  “De’andray?” Pappajohn called. “Over here!”

  Like a dark angel, the tall detective appeared out of the murky gloom. “Hurry!” he shouted. “We don’t have much time.”

  A sudden lurch of the boat caused Teddy to lose his balance and fall headlong onto the deck. De’andray swept the young boy in his arms. “I’ve got him,” he yelled to Ana. “Let’s go!”

  With De’andray’s help, they reached the upper deck, and, within a minute, stood on the dock. “Time to breathe later. Move!” De’andray continued to urge them forward until they’d left the pier for a grassy knoll beyond. “Hit the ground,” he ordered as he gently put Teddy down on his side next to Ana.

  Lying prone on the grass, Sammy couldn’t resist sneaking a backward glance. The Lucky Lady was enveloped by flames.

  “Cover your heads,” De’andray yelled, as, with a loud, resonating blast, the yacht blew into smithereens, some pieces of its fiberglass hull landing and fizzling out a few feet short of their resting spot.

  Pappajohn, still struggling to breathe, was among the first to stand and canvas the scene. Teddy, Ana, Sammy, Jeffrey. All okay. He offered De’andray a handshake and an expression of gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you. How did you—?”

  De’andray smiled and nodded. “My job.” He looked at Sammy. “You really owe your thanks to your friend, the doctor. Reed Wyndham.”

  Two hours later, Sammy was darting between cars like a New York cabbie. Traffic was still thick on the northbound 405 since the Laguna/Newport fires had spread up to Huntington Beach. Even from the South Bay she could see their bright glow against the night sky behind her. No wonder everyone in Orange County seemed to be joining her flight.

  Impatient to reach the hospital, she weaved her way into the carpool lane and accelerated to seventy-five miles per hour. De’andray had expedited their questioning by the Newport cops and firemen responding to the marina blast, verifying their story, then remaining at the crime scene to help with the evaluation, but the delay had made Sammy anxious. She glanced at her father slumped in the passenger seat, his eyes closed. With no available ambulances, and hospitals south diverting patients, Pappajohn had suggested she get him to LAU Med. “You okay?”

  Jeffrey’s lids fluttered open. “Just drive. I’ll be all right.”

  “I guess I should apologize. For what I said earlier.”

  “That I was a rotten father? You’re right.”

  Sammy reached over and squeezed her father’s hand. He offered a weak grin, then shut his eyes again.

  Wheezing from the backseat made Sammy peer into her rearview mirror where she saw Pappajohn snoring like a hibernating bear between Ana and Teddy, his thick arms tightly hugging them as they slept against his chest. Maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks.

  Pulling into the LAU Medical emergency room lot, it occurred to her that the story had come full circle. A week ago she’d been here to learn the identity of the Bel Air fire victim. Now she’d solved one mystery, only to discover another. They still didn’t know who’d murdered Sylvie or the signficiance of the text message that may have led to her death. Some kind of code? Ortego had mentioned military secrets.

  Whatever it meant, solving that puzzle would have to wait until her father’s wound was treated. Pappajohn’s wheezing was growing louder, too. Parking the car, Sammy’s only thought as she raced inside the ER, was getting care for her family—Jeffrey and Gus.

  At eleven p.m., the late shift CCU nurses were too busy taking report to pay much attention to the uniformed ambulance driver in the Dodger cap who’d come to move Prescott to an outside rehab facility. As far as they were concerned, the congressman hadn’t required the unit’s specialized attention for the past two days. He was out of the woods and doing fine. It was only his VIP status that had kept the hospital risk manager from demanding his bed be vacated for a more acute patient. And since no one had questioned the order, no one considered Prescott missing until the day shift—hours after the Alibaster Chemical truck had picked him up and delivered him to safety.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Friday

  December 31, 1999

  At three a.m., Miller turned off his radio with a satisfied smile. Not only had the pickup gone smoothly, but thanks to American First Communications, Sammy Greene’s show was officially off the air. And the best news of all had been the reports of the massive explosion on the luxury yacht in the Newport Marina.

  No survivors. According to police, names of the deceased would not be released before family notification. That was routine. Nomatter. If Ortego had followed orders, every one of those loose ends would have gone down with the Lucky Lady.

  No point in waiting up for confirmation. Not with all the cell phone outages in North Orange County due to tower damage in the fires. Ortego had called him that afternoon, the moment he’d learned of Kaye’s duplicit
y—that the bitch knew all along it was Sylvie not Ana who’d died in that fire.

  Nothing to worry about now. Less than twenty-four hours to go. Miller glanced at the clock on the bedstand, smiling as he imagined the director’s consternation. Years of preparation, two dress rehearsals, all aimed at a single midnight performance—one that would make this nation understand what chauvinistic advocacy alone could never convey—that they must be afraid. Very, very afraid.

  Reed cursed as he stubbed his toe on the desk in the darkened call room.

  “Thought you said you’d wake me tomorrow,” came a groggy voice from the lower of the two bunk beds.

  “Today is tomorrow, Sammy,” Reed said, flipping on the light to locate his white coat and stethoscope “I’m late for morning rounds. Then I’ve got an ER shift. You go back to sleep.”

  “It’s all right. I’m awake.” Sammy sat up, bumping her head on the top bunk. “Ow!” She gave a dazed laugh. “Think I can see my father now?”

  “Best to wait til the afternoon. It’ll be a few more hours before the anesthesia wears off. At least the surgeon got all the bullet fragments out of his shoulder.”

  “And Gus?”

  “Still wheezing, but he sounds better. He’s got some mild S-T elevation on his EKG.”

  “Heart attack?”

  “Don’t think so. Could be coronary vasospasm from all the stress or the smoke inhalation. Troponins are normal so far.”

  “And that’s a good thing?” Sammy asked, confused by the medical jargon.

  Reed nodded. “But just to be sure, I’ll ask Dr. Bishop for a second opinion when he comes in for evening rounds.”