Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (12 page)

Al-Salid slipped into an empty seat at a workstation in the far end of the room, smiling as he passed the tall, stiff, gray-haired man in the pressed white coat whose gaze remained fixed on the data reports and visuals popping up on three screens. Dr. Franklin Bishop was ex-military. Despite Miller’s reassurances, it was best to remain on guard.

Al-Salid typed a log-in for Hans Sanger, his manufactured German-American persona, on his own keyboard, and watched several fifteen-inch flat-panels facing him come to life, each recording images of hospital staff guiding patients to the safety of the core with its independent, filtered ventilation system. The core, he knew, on December 31 would baptize them with focused radiation from one carefully targeted dispersal device. A dirty bomb.

“Dr. Firestone, Dr. Firestone—”

Reed apologized as he reached out a strong arm to guide Prescott into a wheelchair. “We’ll get you moved to the Step Down unit as soon as this drill is over.” He attached Prescott’s nasal cannula to a portable oxygen tank and transferred the IV to the wheelchair’s IV pole. “Is your wife here?”

“She went home to get some sleep,” Prescott said. “Where’s your boss?”

“Dr. Bishop’s the medical director of our disaster response programs. Probably monitoring us right now from Mission Control.”

Prescott’s vital signs jumped, causing his monitor to eek out a beep. “Mission Control?”

“Level B3, in the basement. Dr. Bishop took me there when we first launched the Y2K response training. Looks like NASA Houston. High tech-equipment, computers, monitors, power center. Runs the entire hospital,” Reed explained. “Hospital security’s got a whole emergency operations center down there. We’re lucky to have Dr. Bishop’s army experience on board. Heard he commanded a MASH field unit in Desert Storm.”

Prescott didn’t respond right away. In fact, Reed thought the congressman seemed more than a little agitated. No surprise, with all this commotion, and what he’d been through the last twelve hours. And maybe before with that blonde.

Reed laid a comforting hand on Prescott’s shoulder. “Please don’t worry. You’re perfectly safe. With all the high-tech gear, Dr. Bishop said he can see and hear everything.” He pointed to a tiny camera mounted on the ceiling overhead. “Security wants to make sure everyone’s trained and ready in case something goes wrong on Y2K.” Reed began wheeling Prescott out of the cardiac unit. “Boy Scout motto: Be Prepared.”

Running late, Sammy cursed the midday traffic, which had slowed to a crawl. It seemed as if the entire city was out on the freeway heading for the airport. Rush hour usually started after four. Wasn’t anyone in L.A. working today? Swinging off the freeway onto Century Boulevard toward LAX and Terminal Two, she entered the parking garage, her frustration unrelieved. Not a single free parking space on the lower floors. Amazing how many people traveled on Christmas Eve.

Sammy carefully steered up the last ramp onto the uncovered roof where spaces were surprisingly plentiful. It was only when she drove into the sunlight that she understood why most had avoided this area. Not only was it unseasonably warm from the Santa Anas—ninety degrees in December—but the winds buffeted her Tercel like a Hot Wheels toy. Turning into a free slot, Sammy shut off the engine and struggled to push open her car door. Outside, she guessed that the fires still blazed, judging from the sky, browned by haze. From her high vantage point, she could see menacing puffs of black smoke clouds drift up between distant mountains to the north.

Racing toward the elevators, Sammy had a fleeting worry that the winds might whisk her off the edge of the building and blow her clear over the runways into the cold Pacific Ocean. Fortunately, the elevator doors opened quickly. Inside, she relished the respite, though not the annoying synthetic holiday music that accompanied her down to the ground floor.

Only as the elevator reached its destination did she recognize the tinny instrumental as “Let it Snow.” When the doors opened to the blasting furnace of smoky heat, she laughed at the irony. Christmas in Los Angeles, an oxymoron if there ever was one. For a moment, she missed the soothing comfort of a blanket of freshly fallen Vermont snow. And Grandma Rose’s Chanukah latkes.

Pappajohn’s flight was due in less than fifteen minutes. Sammy grabbed her purse from the X-ray conveyor belt and made a beeline for the arrival area. Poor Gus. How difficult this journey must be for him. He hadn’t often mentioned his daughter, but when he did, his references to Ana had always seemed a mixture of anger and regret.

First-class passengers had disembarked by the time Sammy reached the gate. Flight must’ve come in early, she guessed, scanning the waiting area for her old friend. About to check at the counter, she spotted him, shuffling slowly up the ramp with a small carry-on slung over his shoulder. Sammy hadn’t seen Gus Pappajohn since graduation from Ellsford University three and a half years ago. Still, this man was a shock. He appeared as if he’d aged a decade, the salt-and-pepper hair turned the color of slate, his mustache almost white. And though he’d kept his ample paunch—probably from his penchant for Greek sweets—it was now accompanied by stooped shoulders.

“Ya’sou,” Sammy greeted him softly as their eyes met. His twinkle had vanished, she noted, though he managed a weary smile.

“Shalom,” Pappajohn returned, sticking out his hand for a shake.

Sammy drew him into a hug instead. “I’m so sorry.”

Pappajohn pulled away, nodding.

“How did Eleni take the news?”

“I didn’t want to spoil her holiday, he said, his voice cracking. “Besides, what could she do here? She’ll know soon enough.” Changing the subject, he pointed to his carry-on bag. “I brought you some kourambiedes, though after that rough flight, they’re probably all broken up in pieces.”

“Yeah, the Santa Anas have really kicked up. The weatherman’s predicting more “devil wind” for the next few days.”

Sammy reached to take his bag, but Pappajohn shook his head, and continued his trek to the exit. “I’m fine.”

“My car’s across the street.” Sammy guided him. “This airport’s a maze.”

“You seem to know your way around. How long have you been out here?”

“Two months tomorrow. I’m a quick study,” Sammy said as they stepped out into the heat and smog and headed for the garage elevator. “You’ll never guess who else is here.”

Pappajohn nodded again. “Are you living with him?”

Sammy’s expression reflected surprise. “Uh, no. We broke up a couple of years ago.”

Seeing Pappajohn’s puzzled features, she added, “Reed. Reed Wyndham. My old boyfriend. He’s at LAU Med doing a fellowship. We’re, uh, just friends now. Who did you—?”

The elevator arrived.

“I meant your father,” Pappajohn said, following her inside. “You told me he was out here.”

Sammy focused on the lighted numbers moving from two to six. The elevator doors opened and she waved a hand to urge Pappajohn out onto the roof. “Yeah, guess I did,” she finally answered. “No, I’ve got my own place. But, I’ll give him a call. It’s, uh, on my list.”

Sammy unlocked the passenger side of the Tercel and squinted at Pappajohn. The haze and the winds were obviously irritating his eyes too. Sammy noted they were a trace watery.

Pappajohn opened his door, but didn’t get in before adding, “You should. Now while you still can—” The rest of his sentence was lost in the wind as he coughed and slid into his seat.

An hour later, Sammy had located the North Mission Road address in Boyle Heights and angled into a visitor’s space behind the L.A. County morgue. Two men in blue jumpsuits were unloading a body bag from a coroner’s van.

Sammy gasped, stealing a glance at Pappajohn whose sullen expression hadn’t altered since they’d left the airport. He’d insisted they drive straight downtown despite Sammy’s suggestion that he rest after his long flight. He had to see his daughter, he’d repeated. After Sammy had reluctantly agreed, Pappajohn had sat, grim and silent, staring out the car’s side window for the rest of the trip.

Now Sammy worried that the sight of the body bag would cause Pappajohn’s stoic pose to crumble. But he maintained his composure and stepped out of the car even before Sammy had turned off the ignition. He was already inside talking to one of the clerks when she entered the foyer of the three-story brick building adjoining the massive L.A. County Southern Medical Center.

“Oh yes, here it is.” The middle-aged black woman ran a manicured finger down a list of names on her clipboard. “Anastasia Pappajohn. Admitted nine-o-six a.m. this morning.” Looking up at Pappajohn, her expression registered confusion. “That’s odd,” she said, “usually takes two or three days to complete the autopsy, but I guess with everybody called in for overtime, you know, ’cause of the fires and all, there’s already a disposition—I mean a—”

“I’m a cop, I get the jargon,” Pappajohn said flatly. “So you’re saying, I don’t need to identify my daughter?”

“Well, it seems that’s been confirmed and the case is closed.”

“Can I see her at least?” Pappajohn asked, his voice so soft that Sammy could barely hear, though the stoop of his shoulders proclaimed his grief.

The clerk must have recognized it too because she dropped her matter-of-fact tone, her expression now empathetic. “Of course. I’ll need to get one of the staff. Please,” she said, pointing to the two red leather couches in the middle of the room, “have a seat.”

Five minutes later, an older bespectacled man in a crisp white coat approached Pappajohn and shook his hand. “I’m Dr. Gharani, assistant chief medical examiner. Let me first say how sorry we are for your loss.”

Lips drawn tight, Pappajohn merely nodded,

“Reception said you wanted to see your daughter.”

“Yes.”

Gharani removed his glasses and rubbed the deep furrow between his weary looking eyes. “Okay,” he said with obvious reluctance, “but, please understand, I’m a father, too. Your daughter— she’s been through a terrible, terrible fire. If you wanted to forego—⁠”

“No, I need to do this.” Pappajohn was firm.

“All right, then.” Gharani slipped his wire frames back on and led Pappajohn toward the elevator to the basement. Sammy introduced herself as a family friend, and, with a nod from Pappajohn, followed them into the car.

Ana paced back and forth near the merry-go-round, the sense of urgency growing in her gut. Nearly ten minutes late. Where the hell was Kaye? Anxious to share her fears and hopefully get help, Ana had hiked from the library to Colorado Avenue, arriving at Pacific Park just before the four p.m. meeting time.

Located on the Santa Monica Pier, this amusement park’s roller coaster, Ferris wheel, midway games, oceanfront specialty food outlets, and seaside shopping attracted hordes of tourists and locals alike. Now it seemed as though all of L.A. sought relief from the fires. Though flecks of soot still floated down from the blazing hills to the east, at least here, over the ocean, the salty sea breeze made it easier to breathe.

A chilly marine layer of clouds had moved in over the pier in the last half hour. The moisture would help the firefighters, but the approaching sunset with its drop in temperature made Ana shiver. She’d hurried over to a vendor selling hot drinks and paid for a tall decaf—she’d had enough caffeine for one day. Back at her post, she circled the carousel once again. No sign of Kaye. Just the happy faces of children waving to mothers and fathers from astride fancifully painted horses and chariots. Her heart leapt at the sight of one little boy with the same tousled brown hair that framed her own Teddy’s round face. Oh God, she missed him, how she wanted him in her arms again.

A tap on the shoulder made her spin around.

“Ana?” The man towering over her had bulging biceps and a thick Russian accent.

Who—? How did—? Ana was instantly suspicious. “Where’s Kaye?”

“In the car. Come.”

Ana frowned and took an uncertain step backward, leaving a few feet between her and the man. Her alarm bells had gone off full tilt. Shaking her head, she said, “I’ll meet her here. That’s what we agreed.”

His intense stare made Ana’s whole body tighten. The Russian grabbed her arm, “Come now!”

Looking around at the crowd, Ana made a split-second decision. With her free hand, she threw her hot coffee in the man’s face. Pain registered in his expression, and the moment he released his grip on her arm, she scrambled past him, and sprinted out onto the pier. With a loud roar, only seconds behind her, the Russian appeared between Ana and the ramp that led off the pier to Ocean Avenue.

Desperate to escape, yet not wanting to call attention to herself, Ana threaded her way through the oncoming throng of pedestrians in the opposite direction. As she hurried, she stumbled and fell, then picked herself up, narrowly missing a woman and her baby. She staggered to her feet, breathless. The man was still on her tail, closing the gap between them. She could see an earpiece glued to his left ear. Talking to someone on his cell phone?

Spying a photographer posing a wedding party in formal attire, Ana slipped behind the group, then ducked into the busy arcade. The sound inside was deafening as teenagers challenged each other at video games that pinged and buzzed. Surveying the huge area for somewhere to hide, Ana located a space between two unoccupied video displays. Her heart thumped wildly, her palms were wet with fear. She wanted to scream for help, but she knew that would only bring the police and right now she didn’t know who she could trust. Instead, she crouched down, peeking out every few seconds to see if she’d been followed.

   She froze when she spotted the Russian scanning the room. Please don’t look this way. Less than ten feet to her right, a sign pointed to the Hall of Mirrors. The moment he turned in the other direction, Ana rose and made a mad dash for its entrance, racing past the befuddled checker. Inside, the mirrored halls were dimly lit and the passages narrow, heightening the illusory experience and making it difficult for Ana to see exactly where to go.

She chose one path and bumped up against a young couple laughing at their deformed reflections, first tall and skinny, then short and wide. Apologizing, Ana rushed past them, her pulse racing. Like a lost lab rat, she traveled the bewildering maze of mirrors, frantically seeking an exit until she heard her name.