Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (17 page)

“You mean his ‘Keep America Terrorized’ bill? They’ve got us thinking Y2K will be another Hiroshima.”

“That’s just politics. Neil’s a solid guy who loves his country. Like we all do.” Jeffrey folded his hands in his lap. “Sammy, I wish you’d let me help you. I know how much you want a career in broadcasting. I’ve got the connections now to make it happen.”

“I have a career in broadcasting.” Such as it is. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I guess we all have to find our own way. I just wanted you to hear the truth about Neil, and about me.” Jeffrey sipped from a steaming mug labeled Greene Progress, and added, “We’re here if you need us. Just say the word, and this,” he waved his hand around the lush office suite, “can be your home.”

Sammy smiled politely, and nodded, hoping her expression didn’t reveal her true emotion. I’m homeless.

The moment Sammy left his office, Jeffrey dialed Trina.

“It’s taken care of,” he said, trying to conceal his hesitation.

“Did you read her the riot act?” Trina asked.

“Not exactly.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Jeffrey sighed. Trina’s passionate, assertive nature was a thrill between the sheets, but could become overbearing outside the bedroom. Subtlety was not her strong suit. “In this case, you’ll just have to trust my instincts.”

“And they are?”

“When it comes to Sammy, you get a lot more flies with honey.”

 “Clear.” De’andray slammed the trunk door of the MINI Cooper shut, and coughed as the dust flew into his face. He frowned at the sound of Ortego’s laugh. “I don’t see anything funny, Chico.”

“That’s ’cause you can’t see you, Dee. You look snow white, bro.”

Glaring at his partner, De’andray brushed the ashes off of his scalp and cheeks. “We could use a little snow around here. My son thinks Santa’s sled’s got wheels.”

A flash of pain crossing Ortego’s face reminded De’andray that his partner hadn’t seen his own children for months. “Any word from the wife?”

Ortego shook his head. “Don’t know where she is. Don’t care.”

“I hear you.” Frowning, De’andray leaned against his unmarked car and rubbed his neck.

“I’ll call in the tow,” Ortego said.

“You don’t think anything else is up? Same address as the dead burn victim. Could be a roommate. You read the report from the crew that checked out her apartment last night. Anything unusual?”

“Place looked like a trick pad. That’s it. Bet this one,” he nodded at the MINI Cooper, “ran for it when our guys paid their visit.”

“Why didn’t she take her car?”

“How the fuck do I know? Maybe she was working a job around here last night,” Ortego chuckled, “and now she’s turning tricks at the evac centers. Bad pennies, man. She’ll turn up.” He walked over to the passenger side door of his car and opened it.

“She’ll have to do a good night’s work to pay off all these parking tickets.” De’andray slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “I’ll take you up on your offer. You call it in to parking services. Let them follow up with this Sylvie Pauzé. I’d love to crawl under the covers with my wife for a quickie before the kids wake up looking for their presents.”

“You really been married to the same woman for ten years?” Ortego asked as he buckled in. “Don’t know how you do it, Dee. Mine walked out the door a dozen times in less than three.”

“Like a good wine, Chico. Better every year.”

“Well, amigo, I wish you both Feliz Navidad,” Ortego said, his stony expression hidden by the darkness of the predawn night.

“What chutzpah,” Sammy muttered as she opened the door to her apartment. “The nerve of him.”

“Something I said?” came a voice from the living room.

“What? Oh gosh, no, Gus, I’m sorry, not you. I was, uh—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s almost eight. I’ve been up for hours.” He turned on the light. Showered, shaved and dressed in a clean shirt, he’d tidied up the living room, and even folded the linens on the couch.

“Wow, you’re the houseguest everybody dreams of.” Sammy lay her satchel on top of the TV and settled on the couch beside Pappajohn.

“Want to talk about it?”

Sammy saw Pappajohn’s pained expression, his sad eyes, the lines of worry carved into his brow. He was the one who should be asking for a listening ear, a supportive shoulder. “It’s really not that important.”

“I’ve sworn never to say those words again,” he whispered. “What’s the problem?”

Sammy sighed. “My father. I just got back from seeing him.”

“Took my advice, eh?” Pappajohn prompted. “And?”

“And I—I don’t know. It’s been so long and there’s so much baggage.” She plunged into a full account of the meeting, including the generous donation.

“He’s reached out to you. That’s a big step,” Pappajohn said. “Believe me, I know.”

It hung there for a long moment. Between them. The empty space each longed to fill. In Pappajohn’s case, Sammy understood, he was telling her it was too late for him and Ana.

“I guess I should give him a chance,” she said. “Still, I can’t help thinking the money’s a bribe. I mean he practically warned me off digging up any more dirt on Prescott.”

  “He obviously doesn’t know you very well.” Pappajohn smiled. “Why not take his gesture at face value?” he asked. “By the way. I listened to your show last night too. Most people just talk. You’re actually going out there and doing something for others today. I’d like to help.”

“Really?”

The smile slid away. “So many young people on the streets. Alone, hungry, scared.” He turned to gaze out the window. “How little I really knew her,” he said, his voice cracking. “I realize I can’t bring her back, but maybe I can reach out to some kid who—”

Sammy placed a comforting arm on his shoulder. “Thank you. We’d love to have you join us. But first,” Sammy rose and grabbed her satchel, “my father recommended a deli on Fairfax. I bought fresh bagels, a little Nova, cream cheese, and a half dozen eggs. Give me a minute and I’ll whip you up a nice omelet.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll get sick if you don’t eat.” Sammy started for the kitchen.

“Did anyone tell you you’re a pain in the tookas?” Pappajohn asked.

“That’s tuchas,” Sammy rejoined without turning around. “And yes, you did. Many times.”

She was gone! Kaye couldn’t believe what Yevgeny was telling her. Like a speck of ash swept away by these devil winds, somehow Ana had completely slipped through their fingers. Again. Along with the client list Sylvie stole.

“I looked everywhere. She’s not with any of your girls.”

“Did you check the house in Malibu?” she yelled into the receiver. It was a long shot, but Ana and Courtney Phillips had been roommates at Promise House, the expensive facility Kaye sent her girls for rehab. Sylvie had told her those two had gotten pretty tight, in the bonding sense, and that last summer the actress had invited Ana to a hideaway in the Malibu hills few people knew about.

“No one was there.”

Kaye felt a growing sense of panic. She had to find Ana before Miller learned the girl was still alive. Unfortunately, it was becoming clear that Kaye had but one option left. So far, Yevgeny had proved absolutely useless. She would have liked to reach into the phone and wring his neck.

Instead, she hung up without a goodbye and began to punch in the number to her LAPD contact. Time to call in the pros.

The first rays of sunlight teased the manicured gardens outside her Malibu mansion. Courtney’s bloodshot eyes, however, didn’t welcome the brightness. Slipping on a pair of sunglasses and fighting off nausea, she stumbled into the living room to let in some air. The stench of her own vomit roiled her already unsettled stomach.

Straining from the effort, Courtney managed to open a front window just enough to allow a few breaths. But the air was hardly fresh, she realized, choking with every inhalation. The heavy smell of smoke from the fires to the southeast had made its way to Malibu. If only she were back home in Colorado, where everything had been so unsullied, so real.

Squinting into the haze, she spotted something lying in the azaleas a few feet from the house. A dog? No, human. And female. Was she sleeping? Or—

Courtney slammed the window shut and hid to one side, peeking out to discern if the body moved. After a few moments, the woman rolled over and curled into a ball. Now her face was clearly visible. And familiar.

“I need a favor.”

“I thought that’s what you did for me,” the voice on the other end replied.

It took all of Kaye’s self control not to tell the SOB to go fuck himself. But she’d long ago made her deal with this devil and there was no going back. Unless she regularly fed him information on her johns, she knew he would back off on Vice and she could end up in jail. So she bit her tongue. “I just heard about poor Ana Pappajohn.”

“Name hasn’t been officially released. How’d you get it?”

“Does the CIA tell the KGB?” she asked coyly.

“Which one are you?” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “Okay so the girl’s dead. What’s the favor?”

“She had a kid. I’d like to make sure he’s okay.”

“I don’t see you as the madam with the heart of gold.”

“Nonsense. When it comes to children, I’m a soft touch. The boy has some kind of disability. Ana had to give him up when she was using. I’d like to find out where he is. Maybe buy him a Christmas gift. Can you get his address from Social Services?”

“You want me to deliver the gift?”

“That won’t be necessary. Just find out where the boy lives, and I’ll take care of the rest.” Like I always end up having to do,” she grumbled, slamming down the phone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Saturday

Christmas Day, 1999

Smoke from still-raging fires had turned the Christmas morning sky over Canyon City into a sepia blur. City Hall was locked up and empty for the holiday, but the large parking lots on either side of the office building were packed with flimsy tents hastily erected by homeless activists hoping to embarrass a local administration blind to their needs. Strong Santa Ana winds blew hard against the tent flaps, exposing those trying to catch a few last winks of sleep on mattresses of canvas and asphalt.

Declared a historical landmark over twenty years before, City Hall’s renovations to highlight the structure’s classic Spanish-mission architecture had only recently been completed. Several hundred people marched noisily around the main two-story building, shouting slogans and carrying placards under the watchful eye of a few yawning officers who leaned on their motorcycles at strategic vantage points along the route. The police, tasked to keep the protest peaceful, stayed away from the last remaining construction zone—Greene Progress’s restoration and seismic retrofit of the building’s bell tower scheduled for completion by spring. Not really a difficult assignment when other units were out working the fire evacuations.

Two news helicopters monitored the marchers. Several protesters carried effigies of both the Los Angeles and the Canyon City mayors while others waved giant papier-mâché puppets of pigs at the TV cameras to protest corporate greed. The rotors of the copters added turbulence to the wind gusts from the Santa Anas, at times blowing the vulnerable tents and marchers completely off balance.

“Quite a scene,” Sammy observed, as she laid out the escargot and the paté. She and Pappajohn, along with Jim and a few other station volunteers, had been working since just after breakfast, setting up serving tables for the midday meals. To her surprise, her father had kept his promise. Less than an hour ago, three shiny black Humvees had stopped by and delivered tray after tray of gourmet food. Not the kind of fare these homeless folks were used to, but, she had to admit, a nice gesture.

“More police here than people,” Jim groused, ignoring Pappajohn’s disparaging glare.

“What time is Jésus getting here with our eats anyway?” Sammy asked. KPCF’s sales manager was bringing a more traditional holiday menu—turkeys, stuffing, and an assortment of pies, many donated by patrons of Sammy’s radio show.

Jim smiled. “Give the guy a break. He was only born this morning.”

Sammy blinked, momentarily confused. “Ha. Gee, Jim, I thought you were an atheist.”

“I follow the teachings of Gautama Buddha, but I’ll be the first to cheer when Jésus arrives. In fact, I think I see him coming now, hallelujah!” He bowed in the direction of the parking lot’s driveway. “Edible food.”

Sammy spied the station’s rickety van with Jésus at the wheel. She waved for him to stop next to their tables and let the van serve as a buffer against the winds. Rolling her eyes at Pappajohn, she wrinkled her nose at Jim.

No one paid attention to the Canyon City police van that had arrived just behind the KPCF junker and parked facing the construction fence around the bell tower. Like the news vans, it only had windows beside the driver and front seat passenger. Two young, trim men with buzz cuts and blue Canyon City PD uniforms exited those seats, and, after scanning the area, leaned against the vehicle, immersed in conversation.

Inside, out of sight, Miller, Fahim, and al-Salid sat in front of a console of keyboards and monitors that filled the cargo area and resembled the cockpit of a 747. Unlike his urbane and expressive compatriot, the clean-shaven al-Salid was somber and restrained, his eyes darting from one video screen to another as they displayed a panorama of the entire scene, including an overhead shot of rooftops around the block.

Fahim gestured toward one TV. “You can see street numbers from that one.”

“Our satellites can spot a fly,” Miller said. “A good fact to remind the prince when you return.”

Al-Salid motioned at another monitor displaying the tower and spoke a few sentences in Arabic to Fahim.

“Winds are starting to make the tower sway,” Miller responded in Arabic, without turning to face his colleagues. “Normally, the computers managing the active seismic-control system in the apex should help counteract the wind’s force. Normally.”

“I did not know you spoke our language so well,” Fahim stammered in English.“You are a man of many talents.”