Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (44 page)

“It’s been a real party for me. Listen, get my lawyer down to the BH county lockup. Bring a couple of legal assistants. We’re in stir.”

“Jail? Beverly Hills? Whoa! And who’s we?”

“Me, and a roomful of friends.”

On the drive back to the hospital, Sammy had her radio tuned to a local news station. “Folks, the elusive Courtney Phillips has been found,” the announcer was saying. “According to our source in the Beverly Hills Police Department, Ms. Phillips was arrested yesterday while participating in a homeless protest that blocked streets and held up traffic for hours. Word has it she’s not only posted bail for herself, but for several dozen fellow protesters.” 

Guess that explained why Courtney missed their meeting yesterday. Ana would be glad to know her friend was safe. Sammy’d never figured Courtney Phillips for the altruistic type, but had to give her credit for making a move in the right direction. After all the dust had settled with her father’s business, perhaps Sammy could talk him in to another donation to help those struggling in the land of plenty. 

Pulling into the LAU Med parking lot, Sammy listened to the weatherman announce one more day of dangerous Santa Ana winds.“With continued threats of fire and Y2K concerns, anyone who can, should plan to stay indoors tonight.”

Just as well, Sammy thought, as she locked up her car and headed into the hospital lobby. Given the fact that everyone she loved would be here tonight, this was where she’d be welcoming in the new millennium.

From his seat at the ICCC console, al-Salid focused on the B3-level security camera monitors. At a few minutes past eight p.m., he observed the last man on the day shift exit the morgue. Security Chief Eccles had already left. Said he wasn’t about to hang around New Year’s Eve when champagne was flowing freely at La Brasserie three blocks and a quick page away in Westwood Village. Holidays in hospitals were usually dead zones. An apt description after the stroke of midnight, al-Salid had thought as he’d waved goodbye to his soon-to-be former boss.

Two of al-Salid’s men had just come on duty to man the twelve-hour Y2K night shift. Hidden in the pockets of their trousers tonight were the false IDs of the purported Iraqi terrorist bombers they were to scatter at ground zero before flying the coop. Evidence to be discovered and used by the postexplosion investigators seeking scapegoats for the dirty bomb attack.

At eight thirty, right on cue, al-Salid pressed send on his cell phone and watched the monitor to be sure his men staffing the morgue picked up the text message, the signal to begin the bomb’s transfer from the morgue to the two-story mechanical room at the base of the Schwarzenegger Tower’s elevators.

As soon as al-Salid saw the older man nod and give a thumbs-up, he zoomed his camera out to view the entire morgue suite one floor above. This way he could monitor his team’s progress from upstairs while continuing to inject Miller’s worms into the ICCC computers. Between now and midnight, each of these self-replicating computer programs would activate and shut down the hospital’s operating system. Lighting, power, oxygen, elevators, dumbwaiters, monitors. The ventilation system worm would have the opposite function, however, amping up the internal vents, so that the radiation released by the bomb explosion would blanket the entire building and poison everyone within.

How fitting that the hospital named after Arnold Schwarzenegger, the action hero he’d admired as a teen, would soon end up being the terminator of lives.

The evening news was blaring when Sammy walked into the hospital room now shared by her father and Pappajohn.

“Can someone turn off that noise?” Pappajohn pointed to the TV mounted from the ceiling between the two patients.

Jeffrey nodded at the remote on the table by the right of his bed with his left hand. “Can’t move my right arm with all the bandages.”

“I’ll do it,” Sammy took the remote and pressed off.

“Thank you,” Pappajohn said, “Fires, Y2K, impending terror attacks. It’s enough to give you a heart attack.”

“Well, this is the place to be for that,” Jeffrey returned with a crooked smile.

“If it bleeds, it leads. Cardinal news rule.” Sammy laughed. “Hi, Gus. Hi, Dad. Glad to see you’re both feeling better.”

  “Be even better if I could get out of here. Spend some time with my daughter and grandson. Ana came by earlier, but they won’t let Teddy on this floor.”

“I just stopped in to see him.”

“He’s okay, isn’t he?”

“He’s fine. They want to watch him one more day. He’s already up with crutches, making friends on the children’s ward.” Sammy went over and gave her father a kiss on the cheek. “How are you doing? Reed said they removed all the bullet fragments.”

“It’s all still a dream,” Jeffrey replied with a deep sigh and a wince. “A very bad dream.”

Sammy gave his good hand a reassuring squeeze. She knew he must be devastated by his wife’s horrible betrayal, but decided this was neither the time nor place for that discussion. She’d save it for later. “You know, none of us might have woken from that bad dream if not for Reed and Detective De’andray.”

“My ears are burning,” a familiar voice boomed from the open doorway.

“Speak of the devil,” Pappajohn waved. “Dee, come join the party.”

“Only a minute. I’ve got a mound of paperwork waiting back at the station, and a wife who wanted me home two hours ago.” De’andray walked over and stood by Pappajohn’s bed. “Glad to see you’re not wheezing.”

“Lucky to see me at all,” Pappajohn said. “A miracle you found us yesterday. How’d you track us down?”

De’andray shrugged. “Once Dr. Wyndham called with his DNA results, I checked our data with CODIS. Found out the report I’d given you had been altered. I knew it had to be Ortego.”

De’andray’s story was virtually the same as the one Pappajohn had heard on the drive to Newport. Except in this version, the dirty cop was Ortego, not De’andray.

“It was rough after his wife left with the kids. She wanted a one-woman man, Ortego always liked sampling the buffet. Seemed almost manic about it the last couple of months. He just wasn’t the same guy I used to know.” De’andray puffed out his cheeks and let out a long, slow breath as if to expel his disappointment.

“Anyway, lucky for us, he was using a take-home car yesterday instead of his Mustang. All the new police cars are outfitted with GPS,” De’andray explained. “I was able to pinpoint your exact location on our computers.”

Pappajohn shook his head. “Technology. Would have been great if we’d had those gadgets when I was with Boston PD.”

Sammy looked at De’andray with concern. “You must be exhausted.”

“No rest til Y2K,” he said. “Fortunately, the Newport crime lab is officially handling the case. But I plan to stay in the loop.”

“Any leads on the Miller character Ortego and uh—” Pappajohn glanced over at Jeffrey before lowering his voice, “the madam mentioned? Seems they were both working for the guy. If he’s behind Sylvie’s murder, he could still be after Ana.”

“So far nothing. Ortego never mentioned him to me. But the chief’s pulling Ortego’s phone records. See if we come up with anything that fits. I’ve asked Newport PD not to release names of survivors of the blast for a few days. No point in alerting whoever’s behind this. In the meantime, keep Ana close.”

“She’s staying here tonight with Teddy,” Sammy said.

“Then she’ll be fine. Hospital’s one of the safest places in town. Always quiet on the holidays. Plenty of people around to watch over her.” De’andray shook Pappajohn’s hand before walking over to Jeffrey. “Sorry about your wife, sir.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Jeffrey responded and looked away.

“DA wants to talk to you, but I told him to wait another couple of days. Get that shoulder better and your head clear, okay?”

Jeffrey nodded and managed a weak smile.

De’andray patted Jeffrey’s uninjured arm, then waved at Sammy and Pappajohn as he headed for the door. “Gotta get home and get a little shut-eye before my shift tonight. See the family. Wife’s already pissed that I’m working New Year’s Eve. Again.”

“I’ve been there, partner.” Pappajohn said with a sad laugh as De’andray left the room.

“That look again, Gus,” Sammy declared an hour later. She’d been sitting by her father’s bed while he dozed, watching Pappajohn’s facial contortions. He seemed to be struggling with a thought. “What’s on your mind?”

“That text message Sylvie sent to Ana the night she died. The one Ana e-mailed me. We know that’s what Kaye and Ortego were after. What’s in it that’s worth killing for?”

“Ortego said something about military secrets getting out.”

“I need to look at it again. Do you have your copy?”

“Sure,” she said, pulling her notebook from her purse and flipping through until she found it. She tore out the sheet and handed it to Pappajohn. “It’s these numbers. 34.058710–118.442183.”

He stared at them for a long time. “Damn!”

“What?”

“Should’ve thought of this before. De’andray mentioned Ortego had a GPS in his car.”

“What?” Sammy asked.

“Global Positioning System. Pueblo Software had a subsidiary that worked satellite communications. Keith once told me about it. It’s a navigational setup that can track your exact location, like where Ortego was driving the police car. If my memory serves, it involves satellites and computers that determine latitude and longitude of a receiver on Earth.”

“Beam me up, Scotty.”

Sammy saluted Reed now standing in the doorway. “Hey, captain, ER still busy?”

“Finally quieted down, so I thought I’d come by to have another look at you, Gus,” he said, entering the room. “Dr. Bishop should be here soon. If he agrees, we’ll discharge you first thing in the morning.”

“Can’t be too soon for me.”

“What’s all this about satellites and computers?” Reed asked, taking out his stethoscope.

“We’re trying to solve a puzzle.” Pappajohn showed him the text message after Sammy explained its source, pointing to the line: 34.058710–118.442183. “I’m thinking these numbers are GPS coordinates, latitude and longitude,” he said. “I’ll have to give my IT buddy, Keith, a call. Have him check it out.”

Reed didn’t seem to be listening. He was staring at the paper, his forehead creased with confusion.

“Oy gevalt. Now it’s you with the faces,” Sammy said. “What’s bothering you?”

“Op Y2K. Do you know what that means?”

“We figure it stands for Operation Y2K. Sounds military,” Pappajohn said. “Why?”

Reed scratched his head. “Around four a.m. a few nights ago, I was about to go into Prescott’s room to check vitals when I heard someone in there with him. Couldn’t see who because the man was in shadow and when he walked out, he had his back to me.

“The conversation was muffled, but heated. That’s why I stayed outside. But I’m absolutely sure they mentioned Operation Y2K.”

Sammy nearly jumped out of her chair. “Prescott’s involved in this? Why am I not surprised? We’ve got to talk to that haleria right away! Is he still in the CCU?”

Reed shook his head. “Dr. Bishop discharged him last night.”

Just then, Bishop stepped into the room. “I did no such thing.”

The mechanical room for the core’s elevators as well as several other hospital operating systems extended from B2 to B3 with entry access only from B2 down a steep staircase. The older morgue attendant was reminded of the engine and boiler rooms of the merchant ship he’d served on years before. Its unwieldy layout had made the whole process of moving the bomb much harder than expected. For the better part of an hour, he and his younger colleague had maneuvered the steel gurney up and over and around a maze of machinery to reach its target at the base of the shafts. At a few minutes past nine p.m., the older man, bathed in sweat and exhausted from the strain, texted al-Salid that the job was finally done.

Reed quickly filled Bishop in on his discovery of Prescott’s absence and the conversation he’d overheard outside the congressman’s room. With a brusque thank you, Bishop ordered him back to the ER and strode out of the room, heading for the doctor’s charting office. Closing the door, he sat down at the telephone and dialed a number he’d memorized, but never used.

The familiar voice sounded almost lethargic.

“Julia, where’s Neil?” Bishop asked, his tone impatient.

“Frank? Hold on a sec. I was dozing.”

Bishop waited while Julia set the receiver down, then a few minutes later, picked it up again, her voice now more alert. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

“Neil’s gone.”

“He’s not at the hospital?”

“Someone claiming to be me called in transfer orders last night.”

“Transfer? Where?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Of course not. Last time I spoke with Neil was just before I left the hospital last night around eight. He said he was doing fine, that I should skip visiting today and go to the Greenes’ New Year’s Eve party in Newport instead. But to tell you the truth, I’m wiped out and with these fires, I think I should stay close to home.” Her tone took on an anxious quality. “Is Neil in trouble?”

“I don’t know,” Bishop said, feeling the start of a headache. “But there’s trouble brewing, and I have a feeling Neil may be involved.”

With the last of the programming completed, al-Salid checked the insertion and function of the worms that would alter the systems’ access codes, making it impossible for ICCC staff to sign on or take control of the hospital’s computers. Now, only al-Salid, Miller, and that weapon device of his would be able to enter and manage the antiseismic software’s administrative levels.

Slipping the lanyard with his fake ID from around his neck, al-Salid held it up to the Omni lock and heard the click that opened the exit door from the control center. As he hurried down the hall and up the stairs to B2, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Fahim.

“On my way,” Fahim answered in lieu of hello.

“Good,” al-Salid responded in Arabic. “The worm phase is done. I’ll meet you at the target.” He clicked off and headed toward the elevator maintenance room to join his comrades in implementing phase three.