Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (37 page)

Checking that the bathroom door was still closed, Michelle found the drawer and pulled it open. To her surprise, it was filled with barrel-sized machinery including multicolored wiring and a functional timer. Leaning down to get a closer view, she could see some kind of lettering on the container that she guessed to be Arabic. An LED panel on one rim flickered with a sequence of colors.

Startled, Michelle jumped back and into the arms of a scrub-clad night duty tech. Struggling against his tight grip, she craned her neck to determine if she knew him, but realized that she’d never seen this swarthy man with a trim beard before. “Hey, I’m Dr. Hunt.”

The man seemed unconvinced, even as Michelle tried to free an arm to show him her ID. “What you doing here?” he growled in a thick Middle Eastern accent.

“Looking for one of my patients. Ex-patients,” stammered Michelle, pointing to the drawer. The machine’s LEDs flickered through a series of colors again that reflected off the screen of an unlit clock.“Is that a timer? Wait, that’s a—” In that instant she felt the tech’s hands move from her waist to her neck, slowly tightening around her windpipe. Oh, my God, he’s trying to kill me! Gasping for air, she scratched, clawed, and kicked with all her might. But she was no match for her assailant, and, in a few desperate seconds, the darkness closed in.

“You’re sure it’s her?” Sammy asked after they’d replayed the scene many times. She knew Pappajohn hadn’t laid eyes on his daughter for nearly a decade. The features of the girl on the video were grainy and distorted. Could he be seeing Sylvie, wanting so much to believe it was Ana instead?

“The blonde hair, she does look different,” Pappajohn said, shaking his head. “But your child, you never forget.”

Sammy let out a deep breath. “Gus, I need to tell you something, and I want you to try to be objective.”

Pappajohn’s brow creased. “Something about Ana?”

Sammy nodded, and plunged into a full account of the encounter with Courtney. “She wants to meet at noon. Says as long as we’re alone, she’ll take us to Ana.”

For a long beat, Pappajohn was quiet, staring at his hands.

“I’m sorry, I had to tell you.”

To Sammy’s surprise, Pappajohn didn’t behave like the grieving father clutching at newfound hope. Turning to her, once again he became the professional detective, unwilling to jump to conclusions without cold, hard proof. “What exactly did she say?”

“That Ana and her roommate had mixed up their purses at a party in Bel Air the night of the fire.”

“That fits. The pink purse in the apartment matched the one that was burned.”

“Ana kept Sylvie’s ID and tried to stay in hiding until she could contact you.”

“So the e-mail was from Ana.”

Sammy nodded. “Courtney told me to have you check your e-mail again.” She pulled the gold cross from the pocket of her jeans. “And to give you this.”

At the sight of the gift he’d bought his daughter long ago, Pappajohn’s cool cop exterior vanished and like a great dam bursting, the mourning father’s tears overflowed once more. He grabbed the cross from Sammy and clutching it tightly to his chest, cried out, “She’s alive! Zee!”

The bedside phone rang several times before Fahim sat up to answer it. Recognizing the number, he spoke in his native tongue, “Hello.”

“A complication,” the caller said in Arabic. “But we fixed it.”

Annoyed, Fahim placed the cordless back in its cradle and pressed speaker, checking the clock on the end table. Four forty-five a.m. He grabbed the glass of Scotch he’d emptied just a half hour ago, a few unmelted pieces of ice still at the bottom, and placed it like a compress on his forehead. “What kind of complication?”

“One of the doctors stumbled onto our equipment. We had no choice but to neutralize her.”

Fahim cursed. “Why call me?”

“The body’s still in the morgue. We need Alabaster Chemical Supply to come and do a pick up. We’ll put her in our empty crate.”

Knowing he too had no choice, Fahim responded coldly. “I’ll need at least forty-five minutes to get the truck, another fifteen to reach the hospital. I should be there before six. Have your men keep watch.” Without waiting for assent, he slammed down the receiver.

Eyeing the packed bags in the corner, he knew his plans to be far from L.A. before New Year’s Eve were off. Missing his morning flight to Las Vegas was bad enough. The thought of having to inform Miller made his blood run cold.

Pappajohn had regained his composure, though the roller coaster of emotions he’d ridden since arriving on Christmas Eve had taken its toll. His eyes were still red from crying, the lids drooping from fatigue, and, though Sammy had pestered him not to skip meals all week, he was beginning to lose his paunch.

Now, bundled in Sammy’s oversize terrycloth robe, he sat in front of the computer on Sammy’s desk, while she watched from over his shoulder. Double clicking on the Eudora icon, he entered the data for his e-mail account. Five messages sat in his in-box—the saved e-mails from Ana and Eleni and three new ones. With a trembling hand, he opened the first of these.

Dear Baba,

Sammy heard Pappajohn’s sharp intake of breath. “Gus?”

“Baba.” He pronounced the word in the Greek, with the accent on the last syllable, explaining that it meant Dad. “Anastasia hasn’t called me that since—” his voice cracked, “since her mother died.”

“That means it had to come from Ana,” Sammy said, excited by the implication. “What does it say?”

Pappajohn cleared his throat and read aloud:

I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. I am in major trouble. I think Sylvie was killed for something she knew. I’m forwarding the messages she sent the night she died. Please do not go to the police. They may be in on it. I hope to see you soon, Love, Ana.

“So this must be Sylvie’s.” Sammy pointed to the second unread e-mail with “PLAN B” on the subject line and a file attachment named Catherine Deneuve. “Who’s that?” she asked.

“French actress. My generation.” Pappajohn frowned, clicking on the file. “I doubt Ana’s heard of her.” Within seconds, it revealed a long list of names.

As Pappajohn scrolled through, Sammy recognized several well-known celebrities, businessmen, and politicians. Beside each were various comments: Coke, crack, meth, E, threesomes, domination, soixante-neuf. “It’s a client list!” And their drug and sexual pleasures, she thought, mentally translating the French. One famous actor favored tall, model types, a dot-com mogul preferred natural-no silicone, while someone called Fahim wanted blondes only, no Arab girls. Beside his name was an asterisk and the word sadist.

“Whoever trashed the apartment must have been after this list.”

Sammy had to agree. How many careers would end if it went public? How many might kill to prevent it?

Pappajohn nodded at the screen. “Looks like Congressman Prescott was a regular.”

Sammy leaned in, surprised there were no particular preferences beside his name. If it was Ana on the video, she must be the blonde who’d driven Prescott to the hospital that night. Sammy shook her head. Seemed the congressman was hiding more than just banking and real estate shenanigans. As soon as Reed released him from the CCU, she planned to get an interview.

Pappajohn had already opened the third message and started reading.

Eyes only, al-Harbi.

Op. Y2K

34.058710,-118.442183

31, 12, 99, 23, 59.

Sammy grabbed her notebook to jot it down. “What do you think it means?”

“Got me. Eyes only can be top secret. Op Y2K , Operation Y2K? I don’t have a clue about the rest. Phone number, address, safe deposit box, combination? Could be anything.” Pappajohn stared at the screen for a long time. “This one was forwarded first to a blind e-mail, then to Sylvie Pauzé, and then to me. I can’t determine the original source.”

“Any way to trace it?’

“Not from here.” He clicked forward, typed a short note, then pushed SEND. “But Keith and his buddies in Boston might.”

Sammy checked her alarm clock. 5:50 a.m. Six hours to the meeting. “There’s nothing more you can do now, Gus. Better get some sleep. You want to be rested and alert when you meet your daughter.”

Miller sat next to Fahim in the back of his parked Lincoln, listening with growing irritation. One day from his goal, and he’d been forced to take this predawn clandestine meeting in the underground lot of LAU Medical. This was not part of his carefully strategized plan.

“You disappoint me, my friend,” he said, anger crawling into his voice. “I thought you’d learned your lesson. The whore’s death was bad enough, but now a doctor?”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Fahim tried to explain. Perspiration rolling down his neck belied his calm tone. “The woman discovered the bomb.”

“Where’s the body?”

Fahim pointed to the Alabaster Chemical Truck parked nearby. “I’ll take care of disposal.”

Bowing his head as if in prayer, Miller was quiet for a long time, considering contingencies. He’d already planted “evidence” that would soon implicate Fahim al-Harbi as the terrorist leader behind the “horrible bombing that brought down the hospital on New Year’s Eve.” The phone message, the watch list notification, the money he’d wired to Dubai. He’d made sure the entire trail would be traced back to the Saudi. He’d even arranged for Fahim’s arrest the day after Y2K in Las Vegas.

Best laid plans. Perhaps he could find another use for this patsy. A smile curled his lips as he raised his head to look at Fahim. “Okay, here’s the new plan. First, my men will help you dispose of that women’s body and her car. Then I want you and that truck back here at eleven p.m. Just when the night shift starts. You’re going to make another pick up. Understand?”

“But Las Vegas?” Fahim’s voice had become a whine.

Some gambler. Miller sneered, “I’m afraid you’ve just thrown snake eyes.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Thursday

December 30, 1999

Ana met Courtney outside the Internet café as the first rays of sunlight cast a pink glow on the smoky sky. She was surprised to learn that her father was in Los Angeles. “Guess I had to die to finally get his attention,” she said with a measure of sadness.

“At least yours came at all. As long as I brought in the money, mine never cared what I did.”

Ana gave Courtney a hug. “I care. No charge.”

A sudden softness flashed in Courtney’s blue eyes then retreated behind her actor’s mask. “Did you send the e-mail?”

“Yeah. Along with everything Sylvie had copied that night.”

“Good.” Courtney followed Ana onto the bus that would take them back to the shelter. “I’m ready to crash for a couple before I meet them.” They slid into an empty bench at the back. “Noon at Nate’s.”

“In Beverly Hills? Isn’t that too high profile? What if they’re followed?”

Courtney gestured at her homeless disguise. “I’ll scope out the territory first.”

Ana shook her head. “Maybe you shouldn’t bring them to the shelter. How about the diner on Lincoln and Broadway? I can hide in a booth until I’m sure it’s safe.”

Courtney made a face. “That place is rank.”

“It’s homey, it’s walking distance, and I can call Mrs. Darden from their pay phone. Teddy should be back in town this morning.”

Courtney shrugged, “Okay, but I was really looking forward to ditching these threads.”

“Not as much as me,” Ana said, pinching her nose.

By nine forty-five a.m., the police officer calling in to the Department of Child Protective Services had persuaded the supervisor to trace foster home records for the name and whereabouts of Ana Pappajohn’s son.

“Here we are,” he said when he’d come back on the line ten minutes later. “Theodore Pappajohn, age ten. Mother, Anastasia Pappajohn; father, unnamed. Mother voluntarily surrendered the boy into the system in nineteen ninety-five. Hmmm.”

“What?”

“It says here Theodore’s a special-needs kid. CP. Cerebral palsy. No wonder his file’s so thick. Hard to find foster parents who’ll take on the responsibility. Seems he’s been moved from home to home in the last four years.”

“Where’s the kid now?”

“Let’s see. He’s with the Dardens. Good solid family. No children of their own, but these folks have taken in a dozen with special needs since nineteen eighty-nine. Right now Theodore’s their only one. Lucky kid.”

Lucky indeed, the officer thought, jotting down the address before disconnecting. As he dialed Kaye’s private line, he couldn’t stop wondering why she was so interested in a dead whore’s son. Bait to flush out Sylvie? Nah, Sylvie didn’t seem the type to care. It had to be something else.

Determined to discover the real reason, he finished his call to Kaye, then picked up his jacket and, waving to colleagues, headed out to his car.

Forty minutes later, Courtney hopped off the bus at San Vicente. With her cap set low over her head to shield her from the warm Santa Anas, she walked south toward the twenty-four-hour delicatessen in the busy shopping district of Beverly Hills. Hardy socialites used umbrellas to block the soot and ash that flew by their delicately nipped and tucked faces as they made the rounds of Tiffany, Gucci, and Ferragamo.

Courtney leaned against one of the stores’ faux brick walls, stole a swig from her brandy flask, and observed the parade. Dressed in threadbare clothes, she was invisible to the same women who normally begged for autographs. Capping her flask after a few sips to take the edge off her withdrawal nausea, she set off back into the wind toward her destination.

Rounding the corner, she encountered an unexpected procession of homeless people crowding the middle of the next block, spilling into the street. Many carried makeshift banners and signs that read: Exile and Murder, Take Back Beverly Hills, and Homeless Rights, not Wrongs! Some shouted epithets, “Murder, Genocide!” and “We’re back and we’re not going away!” A police car skidded around the turn a few feet from Courtney and sped toward the gathering.