Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (27 page)

“It’s the simplest explanation,” Pappajohn said.

“Could the discrepancy be some virus related to Y2K?” It was a question Sammy figured Pappajohn could answer since she knew he was something of an amateur hacker. His computer skills had saved her life years ago at Ellsford University.

Pappajohn shook his head. “Not likely. This whole Y2K panic is just trumped up hoo-hah. A bonanza for IT companies. Last summer I actually got work consulting in computer security.” He forced a smile. “Guess they needed us geezers who know how to work the old machines.”

“I’ll lay odds this Y2K stuff is all about the election. Give the people something to fear, and they’ll vote for God, guns, and Republicans,” Sammy said. “It’s certainly scaring the callers on my show.” She half expected the conservative Pappajohn to come back with a snappy retort, but he didn’t seem to be listening. The lines in his forehead were deeply furrowed, as if he was trying to capture a thought.

“Okay, then how do you explain it?” she asked. The difference between Ana’s time of death in the ME report and an e-mail supposedly sent by Ana hours later. If not a virus or a computer glitch, what did it mean? Sammy had no idea. But something certainly wasn’t kosher.

Pappajohn’s gaze drifted to the ceiling for a long beat, then turned to her. “I honestly don’t know. Unless there’s modems in heaven, it’s either a software bug or a cruel prank.” He checked his watch. “It’s afternoon in Boston. My buddy Keith McKay at Pueblo Software Systems may still be in the office. By tracing back the ISP and IDing the IP address, he can identify which computer sent this message. And if this was a date error, Keith will be able to tell that too.”

“If not?”

“Then I want to talk to whoever’s pretending to be Ana.”

Sammy sat on the edge of her bed, her expression somber, wondering how to word the additional shocking news she had to relay. “Did you happen to catch my show last night?”

“Only the first hour.” Pappajohn sat up straight, stretching his legs. “Didn’t quite have the energy, honestly.” He yawned. “Got seven hours sleep. That’s a record since, uh, Ana—”

“Then you didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?” Pappajohn frowned. “Is your producer okay?”

“Yeah, the guy’s pretty awesome. Came and worked my show last night.” Sammy clasped and unclasped her hands. “You remember Reed. My boy—ex-boyfriend? He called at the station around two,” she finally began. “I’d asked him to get the preliminary autopsy report and compare it to the evaluation at LAU Med.”

“And?” Pappajohn pressed, not chiding her for violating protocol.

“I’m so sorry, Gus. The autopsy record doesn’t mention the jaw injuries the resident noted on the police report and the chart. Or the loosened teeth, or the cuts on the inside of Ana’s mouth. One of the molars actually penetrated her cheek and Reed thinks—”

“Somebody belted her,” Pappajohn finished. “You’re saying she was murdered?”

Sammy hesitated, avoiding eye contact. “It’s possible. Otherwise, why bother to whitewash the autopsy report?”

Pappajohn sat staring at his hands, his expression grim.

“And then there’s the tox screen.”

Pappajohn looked up at Sammy. “Drugs?”

“Afraid so. Positive for cocaine and Ecstasy.” She couldn’t miss the look of pain that flashed across Pappajohn’s face. Their eyes were drawn to Ana’s message on the computer screen.

I’ve been clean for over a year.

“Rehab is a crock,” Pappajohn said as he picked up the phone and dialed Boston. “Tox screens don’t lie, people do.”

Reed placed the stethoscope in his ears and pressed MUTE on the TV remote. “Can’t hear over the news,” he said, resting the diaphragm on Prescott’s chest and bending over to listen to his heartbeat.

“Is my husband okay?” Julia asked when Reed stood up again. He knew she’d been spending the better part of every day sitting on the couch in the suite, to all appearances the doting wife.

“If the latest labs are normal, we plan to send him home this afternoon.”

“Not soon enough.” Prescott grabbed the remote and revved up the volume. “Hey, look, Jules, they’re replaying the statement I taped yesterday.” He pointed to the wall-mounted screen. “Not bad looking for a man in a hospital bed, wouldn’t you say, honey?”

As head of the House Armed Services Committee, I, like all of us in our party, take Y2K threats to our country and our citizens very seriously—”

“Well done, Neil. You said what had to be said.”

Reed wondered if he imagined the hint of bitterness in her voice. The betrayal of unhappiness. The unhappiness of betrayal. Why would such an attractive and independently wealthy woman stay with a man who’d cheated on her? Why had his mother stayed with his father? Fear perhaps? The fear of loss? For other women like Sammy the fear of loss led them to leave rather than risk abandonment. To strike out on their own because there was no trust given to lose.

“Yet another victim in the Canyon City tower collapse,” the news anchor now reported. “Although an official investigation has not begun, last night one of our local radio talk show hosts suggested this horrible accident might have been prevented. Sammy Greene on the L.A. Scene named U.S. Congressman Neil Prescott—”

“What the—?” A chorus of monitors began beeping as Prescott’s face contorted into a spasm of agony. He made a fist across his chest and gasped, “Hurts.”

Two nurses rushed in wheeling a crash cart.

“What’s happening?” Julia cried, jumping up from the couch.

Reed squinted at the EKG monitor. The S-T changes indicated myocardial ischemia. He placed a nasal cannula in Prescott’s nose and attached the other end to the wall oxygen unit. “Morphine IV, stat!” he ordered one nurse. “Get Dr. Bishop! He’s down the hall,” he directed the other.

“We may need to do another angioplasty, Mr. Prescott,” he said, forcing a calm tone. “Your blood vessels have gone into spasm again.”

“Oh, my God.” Julia sat down, her face ashen. “Another heart attack?”

Within seconds, Bishop ran in, listened to Reed’s report, and nodded. “We’ll take care of him, Julia. Don’t worry.”

Prescott grunted through his pain, “No! Not a heart attack! Can’t! Have to go home!”

No one seemed to be listening as two orderlies arrived to move his bed from the room toward the elevators.

Sammy marched into the West L.A. precinct and found De’andray buried in papers at his desk.

“Not you again!” the detective groaned, looking up. “One of these days I’d like to get out of here before noon.”

“Not until my daughter’s murder is investigated,” Pappajohn boomed from the doorway.

“Gus,” whispered Sammy, aware that the roomful of police officers were all staring.

“I don’t give a damn,” he growled, as he headed for De’andray. “I’ve had enough. Ana may have been a working girl, but she had a father. A father who wants to know who beat her up and left her to die alone in the street.”

De’andray stood up to his full six-foot-two height, towering over both Sammy and Pappajohn. “How about we take this private?” Without waiting for assent, he led them into a conference room whose walls and whiteboards were decorated with crime-scene photos and mug shots. No pictures of Ana anywhere, Sammy noted, with a measure of puzzlement and relief.

De’andray opened the folder he’d carried in with him and removed a fax. “The autopsy report. Just came in this morning.” He tossed it onto the table, took a seat, and pointed to two chairs on the opposite side.

Pappajohn picked up the document while Sammy drew her own chair closer so she could read over his shoulder. As Reed had relayed to her, the report showed no mention of injuries beyond the frontal skull fracture that had supposedly knocked Ana out.

De’andray leaned back and shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing suggesting murder there.”

Sammy shook her head. “We know the ER doctor had concerns about a possible beating. That’s why she made a police report. Yet the injuries documented in Ana’s ER chart aren’t in this autopsy report.” She grabbed her notebook from her purse and flipped it open. “Nothing about jaw looseness, teeth embedded in the cheek, fracture of the, um, xylophonic arch.” She wasn’t sure she’d gotten all the terms Reed had mentioned exactly right, but her point was to highlight the discrepancy.

De’andray’s dark eyes narrowed. “How did you happen to see the ER chart?”

“I didn’t see it.” Sammy was reluctant to implicate Reed. “I . . . uh . . . my source is reliable.”

“Your source! You think ’cause you have a damn radio talk show, you’re a detective? Offering a reward for leads to a possible suspect? You’re pushin’ it, honey. We don’t cotton to vigilantes in this part of the West. Even if it’s all to boost your ratings.”

“Now, hold on,” Sammy sputtered. “I’m an investigative reporter, and, I know the law. According to the fourth amendment, I have a right to investigate. Including murder.”

“Better put the word alleged in your dictionary then, or you may need a lawyer when you’re hit with a libel charge.” De’andray turned to Pappajohn, “And you. You used to be a cop. You should know better. We can’t have civilians running around town playing policeman. The medical examiner says right here,” he tapped the autopsy report, “cause of death was accidental. Case closed.”

“No, sir!” Pappajohn banged his fist on the table. “Sammy’s right. Those findings reported by the ER doctor were missing from the ME’s version. Damn well sounds like a cover-up to me!”

De’andray’s deep exhalation was an obvious display of frustration. “Why? Why would he go to all that trouble just for a—” he didn’t finish his sentence.

“Say it!” Pappajohn shouted, jumping out of his chair. “For a prostitute. Say it!” He rose and strode toward De’andray, fists clenched.

The door opened and Ortego stepped in between them. Nodding toward the hallway, he gestured at De’andray. “Call for you on line two.”

De’andray seemed about to speak, then stood and walked out without a word.

Ortego turned to Pappajohn. “Sorry my partner upset you. He’s been pulling extra duty for a week now with the fires and the homeless and all. His wife’s pissed that he’s not around for the holidays. You know how that goes.”

“Yeah, I do.” Pappajohn sat down again.

”Maybe I can help,” Ortego said gently, taking the seat his partner had vacated. “How ’bout you tell me what’s going on.”

Sammy quickly itemized the disparities between the two examinations they’d discovered.

Ortego frowned. “That does sound strange. Honestly, though, the ER doctor never said anything to me about loose teeth. Or that xylophone thing you said.”

“Then why call you in the first place?” Sammy asked. It wasn’t routine for police to be called in on accidental deaths.

Ortego nodded. “I hear your concerns. Did she knock herself out and die in the flames? Or did she die first from something else, and then get burned? Wasn’t a question the docs in the ER or the police were qualified to answer. Frankly, after the fire did its work, I don’t think anybody really could. In the end, it’s the ME’s report we have to rely on.”

Pappajohn clasped his hands tightly in his lap. Ortego reached over and gave his arm a comforting squeeze. “We’re all really sorry. I appreciate what you’re going through. But, as a fellow cop, you know what you’re asking is almost impossible. We’ve searched the site where she was found and the nearby area. We’ve interviewed the kids who called it in. We’ve talked to her doctors. We got a damn fast report from the ME. There’s nothing left roadside for us to gather. Everything was burned out by the fires. Only residual drainage in that gully kept her from dying on site.”

Pappajohn remained stone-faced and silent.

“Tell you what, “Ortego said. “I’ll give, uh—” he turned the autopsy report over, “Dr. Gharani a call. See if he can reexamine your daughter’s face and teeth. Just in case he did miss something. You never know.” He rose from his seat, indicating the meeting was over.

Pappajohn stood and shook his hand. “Appreciate that, Detective.”

“Emilio.”

Pappajohn nodded.

“Good, then, Gus.” Ortego began ushering them through the precinct.

“Oh, one more thing,” Pappajohn said when they’d reached the exit. “Were you able to locate the roommate?”

“APB’s been out for two days, but nada.” Ortego threw up his arms. “Vanished into thin air. Not a clue.” He turned to Sammy with a disapproving glance. “In the meantime, senorita, you don’t have to do our job for us. We’ll find her. Okay?”

Sammy merely smiled. Sometimes investigative reporters could open doors closed to the police, she thought. Like the cabbie. If he panned out, she’d send him Ortego’s way. If not, no harm, no foul. No point in further provoking De’andray. Instead, she waved goodbye and watched Ortego disappear back inside.

“So, what do you think?” she asked Pappajohn as they walked to the car.

Pappajohn took a long deep breath and then stared at her, his expression transformed from one of resigned despair to fierce determination. “They’re right. They should be able to do their job. But I’ll be damned if that’ll stop me from doing mine. I have to know if Ana was killed. If Dr. Gharani’s going to take a closer look, he’s going to do it with me standing right there beside him.”

“What’s the name again?”

The caller sounded impatient. “Anastasia Pappajohn. We don’t know the kid’s name. First foster placement through Social Services should be in nineteen ninety-five. Just check your computer.”

“As soon as the department servers are up again. They’re doing the Y2K refit this week,” the clerk explained.

“No paper records at all?”

“Sure, but I can’t get into the file room. The Omni lock to the place is on the computer system. I’ll have to ask my supervisor for a special key.”

“Get him on the phone. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help the police”

“Can’t. He’s in Hawaii til Thursday. Better call early. We’ll have to go through a stack of card files. If this Anastasia’s anything like our typical clients, she’s probably moved a lot since ninety-five. Without those welfare checks coming in any more, they keep getting evicted. It’s awful, really. We have to go out and pick up their kids, find foster homes, go to court and—hello? Officer? Are you there?” the clerk shouted into the receiver,