Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (21 page)

“You boys busy?” From the doorway, the desk sergeant leaned into the precinct break room and waved to De’andray and Ortego. Still in their dusty suits, the two detectives sat at a wooden table laden with Styrofoam coffee cups and a half-empty tray of donuts. Breakfast at eight a.m. after a long night on call.

Before they could respond, their sergeant stepped aside and introduced Pappajohn. “Gus here’s retired Boston PD, on the job twenty-five years,” he said, in an obvious effort to establish instant camaraderie. “His daughter—” He looked at Pappajohn, at the same time wrapping an avuncular arm around his shoulder: “Anastasia?”

Pappajohn nodded confirmation.

“The vic from the fire.”

Standing behind both the sergeant and Pappajohn, Sammy winced at the cavalier use of the word vic, though she guessed that as an ex-cop, Pappajohn was inured to this kind of shoptalk.

“Gus has some questions. I’ll keep the rest of the squad out while you guys talk with him and—” he turned to Sammy.

“Sammy Greene. I’m a friend.”

“She’s with me,” Pappajohn’s sharp tone prohibited challenge.

The desk sergeant nodded. “Okay, then. I’ll leave you two in good hands.”

As soon as he’d departed, the detectives pushed their chairs back and came over to shake Pappajohn’s hand.

Mutt and Jeff, Sammy thought when the two introduced themselves.

“Damn shame what happened,” Ortego said with genuine sympathy. “Sorry for your loss, Gus.”

“Likewise,” De’andry repeated, though Sammy thought his flat tone seemed less than sincere. Frowning, De’andray spun to focus on her. “Have we met?”

From his lofty six foot two the officer made the barely five-foot Sammy feel like a small child. “Not that I know of.” Her laugh was forced. “I haven’t been in town long enough to get in trouble.”

De’andray’s serious ebony eyes continued to probe. “No, no. I’m great with faces. No it’s—wait a sec. What’s your name again?”

“Sammy Greene.”

“That’s it.” He nodded to his partner. “That night radio chick. Saw your picture on a couple of benches at the bus stops this month.” He brushed some dust off the front of his jacket, adding with evident sarcasm, “Mother Teresa of Canyon City.”

Sammy gritted her teeth. Was he accusing her of something? Feeding the poor wasn’t a crime.

“Coffee?” Ortego interjected, an apparent effort to defuse the tension. He found a couple of folded bridge chairs in the corner and carried them over to the table.

“Nothing, thanks,” Pappajohn replied, sitting down.

Her stomach growling, Sammy eyed a cruller. “I wouldn’t mind a donut.” She reached for one from the tray and took a bite. They’d left so early that breakfast had not been on Pappajohn’s schedule.

De’andray closed the door on the din in the main office and joined them at the table.

“So,” Ortego said, “how can we help?”

“I understand you both took the report at the hospital?”

Ortego nodded. “It was all pretty routine, Gus. We’re so sorry.”

“I’d like to see it.”

Ortego raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason? I thought the ME had shared his findings with you.”

“Yeah, but I’m trying to get a picture of what exactly happened that night. Where Ana went, how she ended up in that fire.”

Ortego’s expression didn’t change, but De’andray scowled.

“When did you two last talk?” Ortego asked.

Pappajohn exhaled. “It’d been a while. We’d, uh, lost touch after my wife died and Ana ran away.” He rubbed his temples. “I probably should’ve been home more, but my job—”

“We probably should be home from our jobs, too,” De’andray hinted with another dose of sarcasm as he pointedly checked his watch.

“And how long ago was that?” Ortego continued, ignoring his partner.

Pappajohn hesitated, “Eight, nine years.” He added quickly, “but, we’d e-mail once in a while. And Ana used to call Eleni, my sister, for birthdays, Christmas.”

Sammy thought she saw his eyes mist again.

“Said she was working as a waitress. Saving up money to become a nurse.”

“Nurse? Well, she was working, all right.” De’andray snickered. “You knew your daughter was into drugs, didn’t you?” He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Let’s see.” He flipped through the pages, “Misdemeanor drug possession in ninety-six. Second arrest last year.” He looked at Pappajohn with palpable disdain. “As an ex-cop, you got to know L.A. is a mean mother of a town for a kid on her own. How come you refused to fly out for her arraignment?”

Pappajohn reacted as though he’d been physically wounded. “I . . . I thought a little tough love might teach her a lesson.” His voice trailed off. “Besides, the officer I spoke with out here said she’d be sent to mandatory rehab. No jail time.”

“Promise House?”

Pappajohn appeared confused.

“The state sends druggies to some outpatient clinics downtown. Promise House is luxury Malibu. Sea views, catered meals, massage and yoga overlooking the Pacific. Rehab to the stars,” De’andray explained. “Any idea where she’d get the cash to pay for that?”

Though Pappajohn shook his head, Sammy knew he’d figured out the truth already. He’d lost Ana in this city of dreams and nightmares. Sammy also knew how much he blamed himself. Having to suffer De’andray’s obvious scorn seemed unfair. She glared at the tall detective.

Ortego leaned forward and gripped his partner’s forearm to cut him off. “Look I know it hurts,” he interceded. “Dee here’s a dad. I’m a dad too. But, we’ve got to face it, your daughter wasn’t such an innocent.”

“What happened that night?” Pappajohn sounded close to the boiling point.

“She was found on Roscomare near the bottom of Benedict Canyon, probably running from the fire—”

Sammy didn’t know why, but Ortego looked over at her.

“—in high heels and tripped. Hit her head. Knocked unconscious and—well, you know the rest.”

“She didn’t have a car?”

“Not according to DMV records.” Ortego glanced over at his partner as if to see if it was okay to reveal information. “There seems to have been a roommate. Sylvie Pauzé. She owned a car, so maybe they drove together.”

“This her?” Pappajohn handed Ortego the snapshot he’d just found.

“Where’d you get this?” Ortego asked after studying it for a moment.

“At her apartment.” Pappajohn explained that they’d gone there that morning to see where his daughter had lived.

De’andray exploded. “Jesus Christ, man. That’s a crime scene. You of all people should know better.”

“The only police tape was in the trash, inside the apartment. Which I entered with a key,” Pappajohn shot back. “And I was careful not to disturb anything, just in case forensics wanted a second look. I assume you guys know the place was tossed.”

De’andray shook his head in disbelief. “Second look? You have any idea how overloaded the system is with these fires? Not to mention relocating all those homeless squatters.” He aimed his obvious disgust at Sammy as if she were somehow responsible for what happened yesterday. “Homicides, armed robberies, freeway riots. Pauzé had a rap sheet even longer than your daughter’s. Looting a trick pad’s got to take a backseat to real crime.“

“You don’t think someone was looking for something?”

“Sure, coke, meth, pootie tang—”

Pappajohn jumped out of his chair. Sammy grabbed his arm, whispering, “Gus!”

Pappajohn wrenched free and glared up at the taller De’andray, unbridled anger oozing from every pore.

Sammy interrupted, “At least tell us where we can find this Sylvie. She might know where Ana was that night, how she came to be by herself in the fire.” She appealed to Ortego. “You certainly can appreciate that a parent needs closure.”

A tense silence followed as Ortego looked from Sammy to Pappajohn, and then to De’andray. Finally, he rose and left the room, returning minutes later carrying a manila file from his desk. “We’ve told you all we know. It was an accident. Accidents—well, they never provide closure.”

Pappajohn grabbed the folder from Ortego’s extended hand, then sat back down and started leafing through the pages, with Sammy peeking over his shoulder.

Sammy read through the officers’ interviews with EMTs and hospital ER medical staff. Severe third degree burns over most of her body and an occipital head injury. The story on paper was straightforward and consistent with Ortego’s narrative. Only one item caught Sammy’s eye. Michelle’s comment that Ana had “temporomandibular instability.” She’d have to ask Reed what that meant. Maybe that was what he’d hesitated telling her.

Pappajohn lingered on the few photos of his daughter in the file. Ana on her driver’s license, looking beautiful as a blonde. Ana on the gurney, her charred face hidden by an oxygen mask and breathing tube, her long bleached-blonde hair scorched and singed. Sammy turned away after a quick glance. What a horrible way to die.

The one-page DMV report included a smudged black-and-white photocopy of the registration and title to a 1990 red MINI Cooper convertible found abandoned on Anzio Road at 5:45 a.m. on December 25. The duplicated license of its owner, Sylvie Pauzé, had just the minimal data—age: twenty-nine, hair: blonde, eyes: blue, height: five feet three. Same pretty face as the girl in the picture they’d discovered in the apartment.

The statement on the break-in had even less to add. Officers called to investigate that busy night found the place trashed and abandoned. Sammy read through the sketchy notes: Bedroom ransacked, computer knocked over, multiple pills on nightstand (note to forensics), clothes and shoes dumped on closet floor.

No obvious clues. Nothing to indicate who might have done the job or why. Maybe De’andray was right—just looters taking advantage of the chaos brought by the devil wind that night.

When he’d finished his review, Pappajohn threw the file onto the table. He rose and stuck out his hand to shake Ortego’s, adding a curt, “Thanks. You’ll let me know when forensics does their job?”

“Sure, leave us where to call.”

Sammy scribbled her cell number on a slip of paper from her satchel and handed it to the stocky detective.

De’andray frowned. “Hey, Gus,” he said coldly, “when did you come in anyway?”

Pappajohn returned the icy gaze. “Christmas Eve. After noon.” He pulled himself up to his full five foot ten inches. “Too late.” Waving to Sammy to follow, he spun on his heels and strode from the room.

At the door, Sammy glanced back. Ortega had grabbed the remaining donut, but De’andray was watching her, his dark eyes narrowed, his expression grim.

Can you believe that momzer?” Sammy declared when they were back in the car. “Bastard actually accusing you of—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“It’s his job. I would’ve done the same thing.” Pappajohn’s voice remained even.“It’s the part of their job they’re not doing that pisses me off.”

”You mean not investigating the break-in?”

Pappajohn, who had been staring out the passenger-side window, turned to her, his face now etched by pain and resignation. “And they won’t,” he said with a weary fatalism, “because deep down, they don’t think Ana matters.”

“Then we’ll make them. We’ll go and—”

Pappajohn spread out his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I know you mean well, Sammy, but I’m tired. Right now I need to make arrangements to bury my daughter.”

Sammy looked at him with concern. Clearly the last two hours—the last two days—had taken a great toll on her old friend. “Okay, Gus.” She started the engine and backed out of the LAPD lot. “Let’s do that.”

This time the middle-aged clerk at the medical examiner’s office greeted Pappajohn by name. “Didn’t you get my message?” she asked as she spotted them in the hallway. “I called the number you left with Dr. Gharani.”

“What message?” Sammy’s phone hadn’t vibrated.

The woman’s umber features reflected genuine regret. “With Saturday’s accident and all the fires, everything’s even more backed up than before Christmas. Dr. Gharani said to tell you he’s sorry, but it could be another day or two before we can release your daughter’s body.”

Pappajohn simply nodded, though from the way he clenched his jaw, Sammy knew he was upset. She reached out a hand, but he pulled away, heading for the bench and a moment alone.

“What about the final autopsy report?” Sammy asked when he was out of earshot.

“At least a week. Most of our transcription staff is off until after New Year’s. The government’s worried about the computers. You know.” The clerk lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Y2K.”

Sammy did her best not to roll her eyes. “Yeah. So, how’d you get the short straw to work on a holiday?”

“Don’t matter to me. Chanukah was real early this year. I’m glad to fill in over Christmas.”

Well what do you know, one of the lost tribe. Patting the clerk’s arm, Sammy wished her a gut yor before rejoining Pappajohn.

Two hours later, Pappajohn was fast asleep on the living room couch. Though he’d balked at the bowl of canned chicken soup Sammy insisted he eat, he’d finished it all, then like an exhausted child, retreated for a nap. Watching his deep rhythmic breathing, Sammy guessed he’d be out for most of the day.

Just as well. Yesterday, after taking him to the church, she felt the need to spend time with him. They’d talked until late in the night, sharing memories of those they’d lost—Pappajohn’s wife and daughter; Sammy’s mother. The adversarial tone that had marked their relationship early in Sammy’s junior year had evolved into mutual admiration and friendship when they’d joined forces to uncover a university scandal and solve an honored professor’s murder. Now their losses had helped them forge an even stronger bond. In some ways, Pappajohn had become the father Sammy had longed for in Jeffrey Greene.

Tiptoeing to her bedroom, Sammy closed the door and sat down at her computer. Glad for the quiet time, she decided to investigate the Canyon City tower collapse for tonight’s show, to get a clearer picture of Prescott’s connection with her father.

Where to start? Normally she’d begin with primary sources—checking original permits and plans, looking for possible code violations or other shenanigans. But she’d been too busy today to visit the Office of Building and Safety. Tomorrow she’d go downtown and see if Jim’s suspicions about the tower’s structural integrity might bear fruit.