Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (23 page)

Ana blinked open her eyes. No fiery inferno. She was in a dark bedroom, bathed only in pale moonlight. Tree shadows swayed on the lacy curtains next to the soft, warm bed.

“It’s me, Courtney. You’re in my house. In Malibu.”

Ana forced herself to focus. Squinting, she saw that it was her erstwhile rehab roommate. The slim brunette was wearing only a thong and torn T-shirt.

“You are here.” Ana’s whisper became a wheeze and then a cough. “I rang the doorbell, but—”

“Power’s been out. And I wasn’t exactly sober until after Christmas.”

Ana sat up straight. “What? After Christmas? How long have I been here?”

“It’s Monday evening. Found you in the bushes Saturday morning. You were really out of it. Fever, coughing, like asthma, and you could barely walk. Took me almost an hour to lug you up here.”

Courtney leaned over and felt Ana’s forehead. “You’re cooler now. All night you were talking in tongues. Almost thought you were a goner.”

“Three days?” Like a curtain rising, the memories returned. Sylvie burned and fighting for her life at the hospital, the trashed apartment, her narrow escape from Kaye’s thug, jumping over the wall here, and then blacking out. “I’m in trouble.”

“Using again?”

“No,” Ana said, reality crashing in on her with the force of a tidal wave. “I’m running. For my life.”

Courtney grabbed a mug filled with amber colored liquid from the night table. “Hot toddy. Brandy and honey cures everything. Have a few more sips, and then you can tell me the truth.”

“Blueberry bagels and macaroni, bacon bits, and cheese,” Sammy chuckled. “Grandma Rose would be spinning in her grave.”

“I don’t eat at home very often,” Reed admitted. “But trust me, this beats the hospital cafeteria chow.”

“Don’t doubt that.” Sammy laughed. “And the company can’t be beat.”

“Why am I not surprised that you ruffled the network suits?” Reed asked after Sammy had caught him up on her career. “Ever since the OJ trial, journalism has become more entertainment than news. Woodward and Bernstein are out.”

“Corruption, graft, and cronyism are not out,” Sammy said. “We still need guys like them.”

“People get complacent when they’re not hungry. Even Woodward and Bernstein are well paid these days. And the suits now control the paychecks. It’s hard to walk away from the good life.”

“You did, choosing medicine over your family’s money.”

“I’m not exactly on the street.” Reed waved toward the moonlit window and the starlight view. “You might have been.”

“That’s why I wanted so much to help.” Her eyes began to fill with tears. “We should all help each other.”

Reed slid his chair closer to hers and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I’m here to help anytime. You know that.”

Sammy looked up into his gentle eyes once again. The invitation was clear as their lips touched. Her arms circled his muscled chest, pressing him close, their embrace so natural, so much like home. She’d forgotten what a wonderful feeling that had been. And why it hadn’t lasted.

With food scrounged from the pantry in her belly, a lukewarm shower, and a borrowed pair of jeans and T-shirt, Ana was beginning to feel well enough to share her story. She walked back into the bedroom where Courtney was seated on the plush pile carpet, knocking down shots of brandy.

“Ready for more?” Courtney held up the almost empty bottle before pouring herself another glass.

Ana shook her head. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“It’s the holidays.” Courtney’s face set in a pout. “My present to me.”

Ana’s expression held a note of pity. She’d read in the tabloids that Courtney’s battling divorced parents had both flown to New York last month for her kid sister’s rehearsals in a Broadway revival of Little Orphan Annie. Neither returned to L.A. when Courtney had been rushed to the hospital. Looked like she and Courtney did have a lot in common.

“Holidays suck,” Ana agreed, stuffing the money left on the armoire when she’d changed clothes into her new pockets. She picked up the thick orange disk from the bureau.

“What’s that?”

“I’m not sure.” Ana explained the dangerous game Sylvie had been playing lately, handing Kaye information on the johns, while working with LAPD to get dirt on Kaye.

Courtney whistled. “And I thought I lived on the fucking edge.”

Ana told Courtney how Sylvie had laughed the night of the party. “Said she had a plan to break away from Madam Kaye.” She held up the disk. “There could be compromising photos. Or video. I wouldn’t put it past Sylvie to tape some of her clients. It’d be nice to find out, but it didn’t fit in the computer at the library.” She handed the disk to Courtney. “I think it’s what Kaye’s goon was after.” Ana hugged herself, chilled by the horror of the past forty-eight hours. “I’m desperate for a way out myself.”

Courtney turned the disk over in her hands. “I think I know what this is. Wait a sec.” Jumping up, she dashed out of the bedroom and stumbled down the stairs.

Ana sat down on the edge of the bed, fighting off the shivers. Courtney’s brandy on the carpet seemed to beckon, the half full glass of alcohol promising to numb her growing fear. She reached for it, then pulled her arm back. She had to stay clear-headed and strong. To stay alive. For Teddy.

“Got it. My accountant used one of these.” Courtney stood at the doorway holding a small gray box from which dangled a few loose cables. “He called it a Jazz drive. Holds about a gig, costs about a thou. Said he needed it to run my TV revenues.”

“Does my—Sylvie’s—disk fit?” Ana asked, daring to hope.

“It’s already in this drive.” Courtney took a seat at her desk near the window. “As soon as the power comes on, I’ll try to wire it up to my computer and we can see Sylvie’s show.”

The sound of the wind battering the window jolted Sammy from sleep. Night had fallen. She felt the cool sheets against her bare skin and relished their softness for a moment before realizing she was in Reed’s bed. She patted the warm space beside her. “Reed?” He was gone. She sat up and flipped on the light switch above the bed. The alarm clock on the end table read 10:59 p.m. “Jeez, my show!” She had less than an hour to make it to the studio.

The alarm went off as she leapt out of bed, nearly falling over the table, trying to silence it. That’s when she saw the note lying beside the clock. Sammy grabbed it, squinting to make out Reed’s chicken scratch. Doctors!

Set the clock for eleven. You seemed exhausted. Got called into the hospital tonight. Next time hope you will stay. Reed.

As she slipped on her dress and heels, she thought about the cryptic note.

He’d come back into her life. Or more correctly she’d come into his. He’d overcome her hesitation by reassuring her that, despite testing the waters, he hadn’t made a commitment to anyone else. Was that because he still had feelings for her?

Next time hope you will stay.

Next time. As she hurried out the door, she wondered if next time she would.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

December 28, 1999

Tuesday a.m.

Sammy smoothed the wrinkles from her dress and opened the studio door at 11:59, expecting a new producer for her show.

Instead, a familiar voice greeted her, “Now that’s more like it.”

She was surprised to see Jim in his usual seat. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have brought chicken soup. I thought the doctors sent you home to rest.”

“I hurt too much to lie down. Figured I might as well work.”

Sammy rushed over, reaching out for a hug.

Jim held up a hand. “Everything’s sore.” He pointed to the clock. ”You’re on in one. No time for sentimental reunions.”

“Nonsense. Grandma Rose used to say, there’s always time,” Sammy leaned in and encircled the air around him with her arms. “An air hug for a true hero.”

Jim gave a tentative head shake, his grimace suggesting that even that movement was painful. “Nah, it was just like being back in Nam. You act or you die.”

“You fought in the Vietnam War? I thought you were a pacifist.”

“There are no warmongers in foxholes. It’s the chicken hawks in Congress that never saw combat we should worry about. Just ask your buddy Pappajohn. He was a veteran, too. Thirty seconds.”

Sammy raced into her booth, flipping on the television as she sat in her chair, and pulled on her headphones. The TV screen played a montage of the day’s disasters, fires out of control in the Santa Monica mountains near Malibu and the Canyon City tower collapse. The crawl underneath listed the number of dead now as six. A dozen homeless victims were still in critical condition.

On Jim’s cue, Sammy began, “This is Sammy Greene on the L.A. Scene. I’d like to wish my listeners happy holidays, but tonight, I can’t. Looks like Santa brought our city a giant lump of coal this year, with one natural disaster after another.” She paused to clear her throat.

“Saturday, the Santa Ana devil wind brought down the old Canyon City Hall tower. Down on the backs of its poorest and most vulnerable citizens. Six people dead, hundreds injured, many hospitalized in critical condition. Among the victims, one infant and one college student volunteering at the tent city. Carmen Moran sacrificed her holiday break to help those in need and now her family faces the heartbreak of her loss. Our thoughts and our hearts go out to everyone who suffered in that horrible accident and their loved ones and friends. If you’re the religious type, send them your prayers. And, while you’re connected with God, ask him ‘Why?’ ”

From the corner of her eye, Sammy saw a thumbs-up from Jim. The phone lines were already blinking. “I haven’t been around that long myself, but long enough to see that human error, negligence, hubris, and hatred have brought more death and destruction than any natural disaster. Was there a human hand behind the tower’s collapse yesterday? Devil’s breath? Or poor construction, faulty engineering?

“If Neil Prescott hadn’t led that initiative to clean up Beverly Hills, those men, women, and children would never have been in Canyon City. I’ll tell you this, it may have been the Santa Anas that blew down the tower, but Congressman Prescott sure gave it a strong push. Fifteen after.”

Jeffrey winced. Poor construction, faulty engineering, human error. Negligence. His lawyers would have convulsions hearing those terms bandied about. And by his own daughter, no less.

Trina glowered at the radio. She’d insisted they stay up for Sammy’s show to learn if she’d backed off of her vendetta against Prescott. Jeffrey knew this segment had just confirmed Trina’s worst fears.

“So this is your ‘flies with honey’ approach?” She turned to face him, her tone cold as ice. “You realize contacts like Neil Prescott are why Jeffrey Greene is no longer some two-bit salesman, but a real estate tycoon. I don’t know what Prescott is up to and I don’t want to know. But we have to shut your daughter down. Now.”

Jeffrey let out a deep breath through puffed cheeks. Perhaps Trina was right. If Prescott got pissed, he might try to deep six the Playa Bella deal and leave Jeffrey holding the bag. Family was family, but it seemed Sammy had inherited a hefty dose of Bubbe Rose’s genes and didn’t know when to stop. “So what do you suggest?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Trina said. “I’m sure I can convince her to keep her big mouth shut.”

“You wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, would you?”

Trina laughed. “Of course not, carino. She’s your daughter. But she’s more likely to listen if she truly understands the consequences of continuing down this road. For us and,” she muttered sotto voce, “for her.”

“Apocalypse!” the caller cried. “A sign from God. America is headed for terrible doom. You can laugh, but you’ll see. Welcome the Lord Jesus as your Savior because time is running out!”

“Believe me,” Sammy said. “I’m not laughing. But my rabbi would be a little upset if I took your advice without proof. How do you know?”

“It is written. The Book of Revelation, I’m warning you. The Lord has commanded seven angels to pour seven vials of the wrath of God upon the Earth! The new millennium will bring us Armageddon!”

Sammy cut off the caller. “Looks like your calendar’s a bit off, sir. Y2K may become Armageddon for IBM, but the new millennium isn’t til 2001. Mike in Downey, you have a comment about Y2K?”

“Hi. This is Mike.”

“Yes, Mike, we know, go ahead.”

“Am I on?”

“Yes, Mike, we’re all waiting breathlessly.”

“Okay. Hi. Haven’t you seen all the warnings on the news?”

“About?”

“Terrorists. The USS Cole, the bombings in Kenya. And now Y2K. Take your money out of the bank, stock up on canned food and water, and buy lots of MREs.”

“Wait a minute,” Sammy interrupted. “If you’re talking about the military ready-to-eat meals, they say it’s illegal to sell them. Right on the package.”

“But it isn’t. We’ve been pushing them on eBay and the Pentagon can’t do a thing. There’s no law on the books against it. So, go on eBay, type in Mike’s MREs and be prepared—”

Sammy cut him off in mid-sentence. “Folks, we love advertising here. Just call our sales associates Monday through Friday and pay for it! Stella in Hermosa Beach on the Canyon City tragedy.” She clicked on the next caller.

“It wasn’t the winds, you know.”

“No?” prompted Sammy.

“No. The tower fell because Mars and Jupiter were in alignment. Your callers are right to worry about Y2K. My charting shows an exact conjunction between Pluto and Chiron, at about eleven and a half degrees of Sagittarius, the twelfth degree of the sign. The Sun and Moon occupy similar degrees of the prior and succeeding signs to Sag, Scorpio, and Capricorn, or in other words the conjunction is semisextile to both luminaries. This means the Pluto-Chiron conjunction is very much emphasized, brought to rational and emotional awareness, being at the Sun-Moon midpoint as they sextile each other.”

“Let’s keep this show G-rated,” Sammy said as she hung up on the caller, “And, reality-based, people. Please. The stars had nothing to do with the tower’s fall. Humans built it, and humans are most likely responsible for what happened. It’s up to us to find out why, and then make sure this never happens again. Twenty-eight after.”