Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (22 page)

Right now, she’d have to settle for what she could learn by surfing the web. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to strategize her search. First rule of good reporting: when in doubt, follow the money. Though part of her hoped her father sincerely wanted a relationship, that his check was a genuine show of altruism, her experience argued for a hidden agenda behind his gesture.

What had her father said? That Neil Prescott had helped finance the renovation of the Canyon City tower? Why, she wondered? His stomping grounds were in Orange County and Beverly Hills. She doubted his motives had anything to do with caring about the unfortunate protesters either. Despite Jeffrey’s assertion that Prescott was a mensch, so far Sammy had found no evidence that he championed artistic or humanitarian activities or initiatives. In fact, she recalled, the man was usually front and center as an advocate for aggressive military expansion, both at home and abroad.

Your father and Congressman Prescott are pretty tight . . . where there’s rumor, there’s a fire—Jim’s words.

Did Jim know something specific or was he just pointing her toward a possible story? She’d already discovered that her father was one of the congressman’s biggest fund-raisers. While Sammy hated the idea, that was no crime.

She opened her eyes and jotted down what she knew so far. Prescott was somehow involved in the Canyon City City Hall project. How? Why? That was one trail to follow. As she clicked on the Netscape icon, Sammy wondered if her questions about the tower’s collapse would eventually lead to answers she’d rather not know.

For the first fifteen minutes, she carefully reviewed all the material she had already collected on Prescott, including the fact that he led the powerful House Armed Services Committee. One small article named the congressman as an investor in America First Communications, the national broadcasting empire that syndicated practically every top right-wing talk show host in the country. That would have gotten him on Jim’s radar. But, the deal just sounded like business. Not her politics, true, but not illegal.

Frustrated by the lack of web-based information on the man, Sammy pulled up her address book on the screen. Once a much lengthier list, she’d deleted most of the Washington crowd who’d turned their backs on her the moment the network let her go. Only her buddy Vito, sage of the network’s assignment desk, had been willing to stick his neck out and help her get the L.A. job. Luckily, he was home and happy to catch up. He was sorry about the fires, sorrier still about the horrible building collapse, and relieved that Jim was okay. Sammy and Vito were soon joking about how the hippie producer was an acquired taste.

“One of the few old-timers who’s managed to stay in the business and still keep his integrity,” Vito said. “Getting harder and harder each year.” The result? Jim was still at the bottom of the news food chain. Sammy didn’t bother to say she was there with him.

Instead, she changed the subject, explaining that she was digging into Congressman Prescott’s past and wondered what background Vito could share. With a warning to stay out of trouble, her old friend reluctantly promised to get back to her soon.

Hanging up, Sammy checked e-mail. Only one new message in her in-box. She recognized the sender as her father’s second wife, the one person who’d showed kindness when she’d last spent time here as a college student. Typical of Susan, her message was brief and to the point. Heard you on the radio. Welcome to L.A. Call anytime, 714-555…

Area code 714. Orange County. It’d be nice to see her again. Maybe Susan could offer some perspective on the changes Sammy had observed in her father. And his burgeoning career. Sammy copied the phone number into her book with a note to set up a visit the next day.

Shutting down her computer, she stretched her neck, trying to remove the kinks. Resting her eyes, she reviewed the morning’s run-in with the two detectives who’d been so unsympathetic, so callous. Was this the real L.A.? A city with no heart? A city indifferent to those who lived beneath the radar? Like Ana? Like the thousands of homeless she’d tried to help yesterday? Maybe Ana hadn’t followed the straight and narrow, but didn’t she deserve some modicum of respect as a human being?

The more Sammy considered it, the less she was willing to let it go. Ana was dead. Sammy couldn’t bring her back. Ana’s roommate could hold the keys to the poor girl’s last hours. Maybe Sammy could learn something that would help Pappajohn make peace with the reality of Ana’s death.

Where was Sylvie anyway? Why had she abandoned her car—and her roommate? It wasn’t hard to disappear in a city as big and anonymous as L.A. But why would Sylvie be hiding unless she was involved—or afraid?

Knowing it was a long shot, Sammy grabbed the ragged yellow pages next to her desk phone and made a list of hotels and motels between Benedict Canyon and Santa Monica. After a dozen calls she gave up. If Sylvie Pauzé had checked into any of those establishments, she hadn’t used her real name. Another dead end.

Sammy stared at the phone for a long time, an idea tickling the edge of her brain. On impulse, she picked up the receiver and dialed LAU Medical.

“ER. Costanza.”

“Hey, Lou, Sammy Greene, Dr. Wydham’s friend.”

“Red, how could I forget you? You gotta promise me if you two ever break up, I’m next.”

“You’re number one on my waiting list,” Sammy forced herself to banter. “Listen, I need a favor.”

“Your wish—”

Sammy nudged a smile into her voice. “I want to send Reed a surprise birthday card. Believe it or not, I don’t know his zip code. Can you check your computer?” she asked, adding, “shhh, just between us, of course.”

“My lips are sealed,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m bringing it up now. In the Marina, right?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” She tried to sound definite. “Been there many times, but never paid attention to the address.”

“I hear you. Don’t even know my own cell number.” His voice brightened. “Got it. 11645 Admiralty Way, right? 9B. And the zip is 90292.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Lou, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Any time, beautiful.”

Sammy gently laid down the receiver. Poor Lou. Hope he finds the girl of his dreams someday. Another girl. Meanwhile, this girl was going to look in her closet for something really, really nice to wear.

Sporting just a bath towel, his thick waves of sandy hair tousled and wet, Reed opened the apartment door on the third knock.

“Very nice,” he said, admiring Sammy’s form fitting sheath and high heels. “And the dress is a winner, too.”

A faint flush exposed Sammy’s secret pleasure that he’d noticed her efforts. She’d last worn this dress at the spring correspondents dinner in D.C.

“Cool digs.” She peered past him at the spacious loft with its floor-to-ceiling view of the marina. Today, the Pacific was a froth of waves caused by the Santa Anas. “Didn’t realize residents lived this well.”

“Fellow.”

“Huh?”

“Cardiology fellow. Three years internal medicine residency, one year chief resident, now I’m a fellow.”

“That you are.” Sammy’s appreciative look lasered onto Reed’s half-naked body. Though she teased him, she was well aware that Reed had paid a heavy price, rejecting his family’s banking legacy to become a doctor. He’d worked hard and he’d done it all on his own. It was something Sammy had always admired.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” She held up a paper bag. “Blueberry bagels. For old times’ sake.” Her green eyes twinkled at the reference. When they’d first met at an Ellsford University party more than four years ago, Sammy just assumed her Brooklyn Jewish working class roots precluded a serious relationship with the blond-haired, New Hampshire WASP. But Reed had pursued the perky redhead until they’d become a steady couple. And though he’d learned to like brisket and chicken soup, he tenaciously held onto the blueberries in his bagels.

Now he raised an eyebrow. “Why does the phrase ‘beware of Greeks bearing gifts’ come to mind?”

“Friends of Greeks,” Sammy parried.

“How is Pappajohn?”

Sammy’s smile faded. “Actually that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said, walking through the half-open doorway into the apartment. “He’s having a rough time.”

Reed shut the door. “I guess I can put off sleep for a little while longer.” He rubbed his eyes. Holding up his towel with one hand, with the other he pointed past the kitchen alcove to the main room. “Have a seat, I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t dress up on my account,” Sammy said as he padded off barefoot toward the bedroom. With his demanding schedule, how did he ever have time to keep working out?

Alone, in the large open area, Sammy wandered around, stepping over medical books and journals stacked in every corner, searching for a place to settle. Despite the magnificent view, the loft’s décor could only be described as minimalist: a couple of beanbag chairs, a low glass coffee table, and a plain leather couch. Nothing on the sterile white walls. Doubtful Michelle, or any female for that matter, had had a hand in the selections. Sammy knew she no longer had a claim on Reed. Still, she found that observation oddly satisfying.

Minutes later, Reed returned looking handsome in tight jeans and a button-down shirt. He sat down on the couch and motioned for her to join him. “Okay, what’s up?”

Trying not to miss details, Sammy told him what she and Pappajohn had found at Ana’s apartment and the reaction of the detectives. “They’re not investigating the break-in. They’re not even looking for Sylvie.”

“Sylvie?”

“The roommate. Said they’re too busy with more important cases. Can you believe that?”

Reed shrugged. “I know from what’s been going on at the hospital, there’s been a rash of violent crime since the fires. These crazy winds have caused all kinds of fallout, not to mention yesterday’s accident at Canyon City. And then there’s Y2K. Everybody’s got their hands full this week—doctors, firemen, LAPD. I guess they feel a case like Ana’s can wait until things die down a little.”

Sammy shook her head. “LAPD will never take her death seriously. Even Gus said so. You should have seen how they treated him. Made him feel like two cents. Here the poor guy’s just lost his daughter and this one cop—named, uh, De’andray, practically called him a lame father to his face.” Sammy smiled sadly. “I know from lame fathers. Maybe Gus should have tried harder when Ana ran away, but he didn’t abandon her as a kid.” Sammy paused. “Anyway, I thought maybe you could help him get some closure.”

“How can I help?”

“A small favor.”

Reed’s eyes narrowed. “I knew I should never have answered the door.”

“I just need a copy of Ana’s autopsy report. What’s the big deal?”

“Can’t Pappajohn get it from the medical examiner?”

“The clerk says it won’t be off the computer for a week.” Sammy snorted. “Y2K.”

“I thought the ME told him the results.”

“Claimed her death was an accident, but something you said. Or rather,” she looked at him intently, “something you didn’t say, makes me wonder if there’s been a cover-up.”

Reed exhaled, exasperation visible in his face. “I know you love conspiracies, but what could I have said—or not said—that could possibly suggest a cover-up?”

“In the hospital morgue, when I asked if the fires caused Ana’s death, you hesitated.”

“Only because the ME has to make the call, based on the autopsy,” Reed explained.

“And how long do autopsies usually take?”

Reed didn’t answer.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t surprised when I told you the autopsy was done and the case closed in less than twelve hours?”

“I admit it was faster than usual, but I just told you everything’s mixed up this week. No doubt the coroner rushed some cases to get their stats up by the New Year. Like it or not, the ME’s office serves the city. Without the numbers, the powers-that-be won’t approve next year’s budget.”

“So if they rushed, they might have missed something?”

“Like what?”

“TMJ dislocation.”

“Where’d you get that?”

Sammy told him what she’d read in the detectives’ report. “Could that mean she was beaten?”

Reed looked away for a moment as if considering how to answer. “Michelle wasn’t sure. The jaw dislocation and the skull fracture could be related to her fall. Like I said, the medical examiner makes the final determination. Not an ER resident. Or a cardiology fellow.”

“The report of Ana’s apartment break-in didn’t mention a skull fracture,” Sammy declared as if it were an “aha” moment. “It’s got to be a cover-up.”

Reed ran a hand through his thick waves. “Why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what’s this really about?”

“I want to help Gus. If Ana was assaulted, he needs to know the truth.”

“How can that possibly help him?”

“If someone murdered her, don’t you think he’d want to get the killer?” She took his hand in hers. “My God, Reed, when you lose someone you love, you spend a lifetime wondering what you could have done to save them.” Reed had been so supportive as she’d struggled to come to terms with her mother’s suicide. “It takes years to let go of the guilt. Doing something—anything—helps.”

Reed pursed his lips. “Guess you’re right.”

“Then you’ll get the report?”

“I’ll try. I’ll check with the ME’s office when I go in to the hospital tomorrow morning.”

Sammy leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “You always were a good guy.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I’m a gitina shima.”

She was caught in a dark forest of kindling bursting into flames all around her, stoked by winds that knocked her off her feet onto the sizzling brush tickling her legs. Wind and fire all around her, no matter how fast she ran, she was unable to escape. Filled with smoke, her lungs felt as if they’d burst. “Help me!” Her throat had been rubbed raw from screaming. Finally, too exhausted to continue, she lay down on the ground and prayed. “Please don’t let me die! Save me!”

“It’s okay. I’m here.”

A pair of cool hands reached out for her, pulling her upward. “That’s it. Sit up slowly.”