Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (42 page)

“Arson?”

“Not that you could prove in court.” Ortego lowered his voice to a whisper, “Devil wind.” He laughed. “My homeboy says they found a piece of a filter tip in the rubble. In the bedroom. Just one. You ever know a smoker that didn’t have a couple of packs stored up for emergencies?”

“They could’ve burned up in the fire,” Pappajohn countered. “But, I suppose it might be a plant. Knock him out, make him look like he fell asleep smoking? Did they check for nicotine levels at the post?”

Ortego shrugged a shoulder as he headed for the upcoming exit. “Body was ashes. No bone damage ID’d, no tox screens done.” He shook his head. “Just smells like murder. You know that feeling in your gut?”

Pappajohn unconsciously laid a hand on his abdomen. “Still doesn’t explain where De’andray fits in.”

At the stop sign, Ortego checked for oncoming cars before easing onto Route 1. “Every time I told Dee things weren’t adding up, he dug in his heels. That’s not like him. Your daughter, the ME, the Pauzé girl’s car, the taxi. Told me he didn’t want to rock the boat, just doing his job.”

Ortego turned west onto a side road. “He always used to talk to me. About everything. The last time he and his wife had sex. Then, all of a sudden, a couple of months ago, nothing.”

“No more sex?” Pappajohn offered.

“No more talk. He’d sneak into another room to answer his phone. Started going through my files when he thought I wasn’t looking. Shit like that.”

Pappajohn nodded. The behavior sounded familiar.

“So, I thought I’d do a little detecting myself. Turns out, he’s been phoning this call girl.”

“My daughter?”

“No. Her roommate. Sylvie Pauzé. Dee made sure the charges were dropped the last time she got busted. Maybe she’s giving him something in return. I think he was squeezing her to get through to her madam. For a cut of the business. Or blackmail info on their rich clients.”

Pappajohn whistled. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I wasn’t sure about any of this til today,” Ortego explained. “I started tracking Dee after he pulled that INS stunt with that Russian. According to my amigo in Vice, he was an odd-job man for a high-priced escort service run by a madam named Kaye Ludmilev. And, Sylvie Pauzé was her top girl.”

“Wait a sec. You just said was. As in past tense. You think it’s Sylvie who died in the fire and not Ana?” Pappajohn caught his breath.

Ortego smiled. “That’s why I’m here, amigo.”

“But what about the CODIS hit on the DNA?”

“What about it?”

“I was at the precinct today. De’andray told me blood sample in the taxi belonged to Sylvie.”

“Man, he really is covering his tracks,” Ortego muttered. “I got that report early this morning before I left the station. The blood in the cab was Ana Pappajohn’s. Dee must have altered it.”

Pappajohn felt his fists clenching. “Why? Why would he want me to believe my daughter was dead?”

“You ask, amigo? Does a dirty cop want another hungry detective sniffing on his back? Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d do anything to get you out of his way—permanently.”

Ortego stopped the car at a gated road. His beams illuminated a sign marked Newport Beach Marina. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.” He unbuckled his seat belt and turned off the engine.

Engrossed in their converation, Pappajohn hadn’t paid attention to their route. “What’s here?” he asked, stepping into the darkness.

“If I’m right,” Ortego responded, his voice almost lost in the noise of the wind, “at the end of this road we’ll find your daughter.”

“Trina!” Jeffrey stood in the open cabin doorway, stunned. What was she doing? Pointing a gun at a young woman and a boy?

Momentarily distracted by Jeffrey’s outburst, Trina swiveled and Sammy rushed toward her, tackling her to the floor before the gunshot could find its mark. The bullet went wide, slamming into the ceiling. Sammy scrambled to grab Trina’s arm and knock the gun from her hand before she could fire another round.

Immobilized by disbelief, Jeffrey could only watch, ashen-faced.

With feline grace, his wife slipped out of Sammy’s grip, rolled into a crouch and aimed her gun directly at Sammy’s head. “Jeffrey!” she barked, “move away from your daughter. Now!”

Sammy inched back a few steps toward the door.

“Trina, please,” Jeffrey begged, his voice cracking. “Put the gun down.” He shook his head, unable to comprehend. “Have you gone mad?”

“Trina?” The young brunette pushed the boy behind her to shield him, confusion playing across her face. “That’s Madam Kaye.”

“You shut up, Ana,” Kaye hissed, keeping her eyes on Sammy.

“Ana?” In the dim light, Sammy squinted at the oddly familiar young woman huddled in the corner of the cabin, recognition dawning. “Ana Pappajohn?”

“Yes.”

“You’re her madam?” Sammy asked Trina. “I thought your name was—”

“My name is Katrina Ludmilev. I am the madam to the rich and famous. They all know Madam Kaye.” Her soft cosmopolitan cadence morphed into a thick Russian accent as she glanced at Jeffrey, whose face registered horror.

“Don’t you look at me like that,” she snapped, her dark eyes filled with anger. “You think you were poor?” She almost spat the word. “You always had food to eat, a roof over your head.

I was eight when my father sold me for the first time in Moskva. With every trick, I swore someday I’d never have to whore again to survive. I came to this country penniless. Today, my business reaches to the halls of Congress. It helped build your real estate empire.”

“I don’t understand. How didn’t I know?”

“You’re like everyone else, Jeffrey. You see what you want to see,” Kaye replied with renewed venom. “Without the money I laundered through your company, and contacts like Neil Prescott tipping me off to those military land deals, you’d just be another run-of-the-mill Newport realtor. I made you who you are, Jeffrey Greene. I did. And then she had to interfere.” Kaye waved her gun at Sammy. “Too bad it’s come to this, but I have no choice.”

“God, no, why?” Sammy cried.

“I tried to warn you. I wasn’t going to let you take us down. I even got Neil to buy your station to get you off the air. But you wouldn’t quit.” Kaye’s finger moved on the trigger.

“No!” Sammy took a step back and lost her balance as the yacht began rocking again.

Jeffrey leapt forward to stop Kaye, a second before she fired the bullet.

The quarter-mile trek down the dirt road ended at a dock where a dozen sailboats and motorboats bobbed in the black water. There were no lights anywhere. The whole place seemed deserted. Probably, Pappajohn figured, in anticipation of the fires expected to move this way. The tiny sliver of moonlight was obscured by smoky ash, slowing their progress. Every few yards, Ortego struck a match to illuminate the path ahead, but the flame lasted mere seconds as warm winds whistling through the masts extinguished it.

At the far end of the dock, Ortego pointed to the slip where the Lucky Lady was moored. “Here we are.” He drew the Glock from his shoulder holster and motioned for Pappajohn to follow him on board. Santa Ana winds were in full fury, and it was all the men could do to maintain balance as the cabin cruiser rocked and rolled in the choppy waters of the marina.

Inside, it was dark and silent. With deliberate slowness, they tiptoed through the ninety-foot yacht. In the galley they found a plate of cookies and an empty glass on the counter. Someone had been here recently. Pappajohn hoped they were still here.

Ortego carefully opened the door to the main cabin. In the dim light filtering through the porthole, Pappajohn could see a couple of cardboard boxes filled with files on the inlaid teak floor next to an empty safe. All four walls were paneled with the same expensive wood, the large bed was covered by what Pappajohn guessed was a mink duvet. Nothing too good for Madam Kaye.

Two smaller forward cabins were equally opulent and empty. Passing through the marble-paneled lounge, Pappajohn nearly tripped over the piano in the darkness. His heart pounded as he tried not to cry out.

Through the silence, he thought he heard voices coming from below. He motioned to Ortego, pointing at the deck with his index finger to indicate a lower floor. Ortego nodded and tiptoed out of the lounge with Pappajohn staggering behind.

On the bottom deck, the voices were louder, but still muffled. It was the shout of “No!” that galvanized them into action. Ortego released the safety on his revolver and held it ready in his right hand as he and Pappajohn sped toward the sound. At the end of a long hallway, a cabin door was partially open, and a woman was aiming a gun.

“Sammy!” Pappajohn screamed as the gun went off. Before he could see what had happened, Ortego pushed past him and took his own shot.

A second later, Pappajohn found Ortego standing over a dark-haired woman’s supine body, one bullet through the forehead, her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. A pool of blood formed around her head like a crimson halo.

“The madam,” Ortego said in a monotone. “Not as pretty dead as her mug shot.” He pulled out his cell. “I better call it in.”

While Ortego was on the phone, Pappajohn turned his attention to Sammy who lay on the floor, not far from the dead woman.

“You okay?” he asked, helping her to sit up. Though she nodded, he noted her eyes were dilated with unspoken fear.

“Trina! Trina is Madam Kaye! She tried to kill me, Gus!” Sammy gasped in ragged staccato. “My father!” Sammy indicated the middle-aged man writhing in pain beside her. “He saved me.” A red stain had begun to blossom over the right shoulder of Jeffrey’s tan running suit. “Is he—?”

“Just a bad flesh wound,” Pappajohn said after a quick assessment. “What the heck were you doing here?”

Sammy pointed to the dimly lit corner where Ana was still cowering. “Gus, Ana’s alive!”

Pappajohn glanced at Ortego who had dropped to one knee, checking the pockets of the dead woman’s slacks, Pappajohn presumed for positive ID. “Emilio, you were right!” he cried as he rose and stumbled over to his daughter.

“Baba.” Ana’s voice sounded tentative, as if afraid of his reaction.

Pappajohn couldn’t believe his eyes. Her hair was back to its natural color, she was older and thinner, but she was here, now, his Ana. Tears overflowed as he hugged her close. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

“Forgive me.” She stepped away to reveal her son who’d been hidden behind her. Her own tears tracked down her cheeks as she introduced him. “Baba, meet Teddy. Theodore, your grandson.”

Pappajohn looked from Ana to Teddy who offered up a sad smile. “Have you come to take us home?”

Choked by emotion, Pappajohn pulled the boy into a bear hug. “Theodore, my gift from God,” he said hoarsely. “If your mother is willing, I would love to bring you both home with me.”

Ana nodded. “Teddy and I almost died tonight for some crazy code my friend stole from an Arab john. I never want to see this town again.”

“Is this it?” Ortego asked, holding up the Jazz drive.

“That’s the client list Sylvie took from Kaye.” Ana explained Sylvie’s double-dealing, how she’d copied Kaye’s client list as insurance in case she got caught. “The night she died, she was spying for Kaye. I think she was killed because of the text message she sent from the Arab’s phone. He may have tried to stop her.”

“You still have it?” Ortego demanded.

“The message? No, I gave it to Kaye,” Ana said. “She hid it inside her blouse.”

Oretgo rushed over to the dead woman and fished between her breasts until he found the paper and put it in his chest pocket.

“Poor Sylvie,” Ana said. “She didn’t deserve to die.”

“That bitch Sylvie got exactly what she deserved!” Ortego’s tone and expression had turned ugly.

Pappajohn felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise with a sense of foreboding. The sudden change in Ortego was the same kind of transformation he’d seen just before his former colleague, Donovan, had shot him in the gut.

Ana paled. “You’re the cop on Sylvie’s voice mail. The one she was working with!”

Pappajohn realized his intuition had kicked in too late. Ortego had already pulled out his Glock and was pointing it at Jeffrey and Sammy. “You two move over there with the family reunion.”

Sammy glanced at Pappajohn as if to ask what she could do, but he just stared straight ahead. With obvious reluctance, she helped her still bleeding father limp over to the bed.

Pappajohn glared at Ortego. “So it was you. Not De’andray. You were the dirty cop.”

“Bingo. Sylvie Pauzé kept me up to date on the latest dirt from her clients and I kept her out of jail. Tit for tat.” Ortego’s voice was calm and cold. “Kaye thought she had me on her payroll. Never even guessed I was making an extra killing from her top whore.”

“So you knew all along it was Sylvie, not Ana who died.” Pappajohn shook his head.

“Not til you started playing P.I., amigo. Even Miller didn’t know. Wish I could’ve seen his face when I told him. Anyway,” Ortego tapped his chest pocket, “he’ll be glad to get his info back. Can’t have military secrets floating around Southern California now, can we?”

Sammy turned to catch Pappajohn’s eye again. This time he shook his head imperceptibly. Too dangerous to try an attack. Ortego was young and a veteran. And the only one with a gun.

Ortego must have read his thoughts. “That would be stupid, Gus. Tell you what. I really am a nice guy. You promise to keep your mouths shut and maybe you can get out of here,” he said as he backed toward the cabin door, his gun raised. Stepping over the threshold, he saluted, adding, “Or not.” Then, with a scornful laugh, he slammed the door shut and locked it.

Under a storage bench in the galley, Ortego found what he was looking for. A dozen signal flares. He carried them into the forward cabin nearest the engine and arranged them on top of the two cardboard cartons sitting on the teak floor. After opening the porthole to provide a flow of oxygen, he struck a match, igniting the top edge of each carton. Within seconds, the flares began sizzling, showering a spray of embers into the air. Once the papers caught fire, the Santa Anas swooping in would fan the flames already licking at the walls. With luck, long after he was gone, the gas line would rupture and blow them all to hell.