Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (49 page)

The less seriously ill had been triaged to a number of smaller, local community hospitals. And, to the eventual delight of their families and their health insurers, at least a hundred more were given an early discharge home.

The building insurers would be less sanguine. Though the hospital hadn’t collapsed, there had been significant damage to its lower levels. Reconstruction would likely take millions of dollars and many months—and that was only if the dirty bomb’s radiation now trapped on level B3 could be reduced to adequate safety levels or permanently sealed. Most likely, the old standby, the trusty fifty-year-old hospital up the street, would have to abandon its new mission as an alcohol treatment center to resume its former role as the main hospital building for the LAU Medical Center.

The first of the media vans had arrived a few minutes after twelve, while De’andray and the FBI were still debriefing Bishop. Alerted by hysterical patients and sightseers with cell phones, reporters had heard the night’s disaster attributed to everything from a meteor shower to a major earthquake to an atomic bomb. Bishop joined the hospital’s spokeswoman in front of the microphones at two a.m. to address the news crews.

“Exaggerated rumors,” he said calmly in response to the more alarming scenarios suggested. “A natural gas explosion in the basement caused some structural damage. Probably a pipe damaged during the building’s construction. Certainly not a Y2K terrorist attack. This was nothing more than an unfortunate accident.”

“How many killed and injured?” one reporter shouted over the din. The coroner’s van could clearly be seen parked outside the ER in front of the hospital entrance.

“We’ve had a few injured, but all our patients made it out or to other hospitals safely. No patients or visitors were killed. Sadly, we do believe a couple of maintenance men working in the machinery room died in the explosion. We’re working with the LAPD and the FBI to identify them and notify their families.”

Bishop gazed at the sea of reporters and closed the impromptu press conference with an air of cool confidence. “It’s time to move along, there’s nothing to see or report. We’ll know more next week. Y2K is over and we wish you all a Happy New Year.” He nodded at the spokeswoman, turned on his heels, and walked slowly toward the ER, closing its doors on the trail of reporters.

Two hours after the stroke of midnight, the Gulfstream waited at the edge of the John Wayne Airport runway for the green light to begin its takeoff run. The flight plan had been filed to include a stopover in Mexico City. From there, the plane’s final destination would either be Washington, DC or Buenos Aires.

The call with the all-clear signal hadn’t come through as expected. After monitoring TV news and Internet reports, the congressman seemed unusually anxious to get the bird in flight.

The pilot watched the twinkling lights of the Airbus 340 approach the airport from a distance of several miles. Runway A3 12 L was the only landing strip lit. They would have to wait until Lufthansa Heavy had touched down before they could launch their own trip. He could see the drawn faces and strained expressions of the politician and his brother-in-law as they sat nursing martinis and staring at the cabin’s TV.

The Lufthansa jet rumbling overhead floated out of the sky onto the ground a half mile downstream and, engines thundering, braked to a smooth stop. Good. As soon as the bulky elephant moved off their strip, they could depart.

The pilot eased the Gulfstream onto the runway and turned to face the mile-long track. A few final instrument checks and they were ready to go. Hand on the throttle, he listened for the air traffic controller’s signal to roll.

It never came. Instead, a horde of red-and-blue-lit police cars, black SUVs, and other vehicles labeled LAPD, Orange County Sheriff’s Airport Police, and FBI appeared like fireflies out of the murky darkness beyond the runway lights, buzzing into the plane’s path and blocking its way. A tall African-American LAPD officer and a husky buzz-cut Fed in an FBI jacket emerged from one of the vans and approached the plane together as the air traffic controller instructed the pilot to shut down the engines and allow law enforcement access.

For just a moment, the pilot wondered if he had enough runway to reach T1 and clear ground before hitting the vehicles. He glanced back at his passengers and decided it wasn’t worth the chance. Shutting off the Gulfstream’s engines, he radioed the tower, “We’re letting them in.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Saturday

New Year’s Day

Emerging from the Byzantine Greek Orthodox Cathedral into the bright sunlight, Sammy impatiently brushed a wisp of hair from her brow. The winds were already gentler this afternoon, the air less smoky and almost breathable. The last of the fires that had plagued Southern California were expected to die out by the end of the day.

Dressed in her green sheath and high heels, Sammy walked carefully behind Pappajohn and Teddy, down the steep church steps to the patio outside. Sylvie’s memorial had been lovely, she thought, marveling at how Pappajohn had convinced the old priest to perform the service. It wasn’t Sylvie’s profession that had been the conservative clergyman’s initial objection. Nor the fact that Dr. Gharani had illegally cremated her remains. “I need proof that she was baptized, that she was a Christian.”

“She was my daughter’s friend and she has no other family. That trumps bureaucratic stonewalling in my book,” Pappajohn had argued, refusing to back down.

In the end, the priest had given in, and, Sammy had to admit, had memorialized Sylvie’s too-short life with sensitivity and respect. Sammy supposed it hadn’t hurt that Pappajohn had contributed a thousand dollars to the church’s building fund from the Y2K salary he’d earned working in Boston for Keith McKay. Or that her own father had added another ten thousand to the pot. She watched Jeffrey standing in the far corner of the patio talking with Reed. There was much they had yet to discuss and learn about each other.

Sammy followed Pappajohn and Teddy over to the other side of the courtyard where several of Kaye’s “girls” surrounded Ana like a surrogate family, raptly listening to her plans to become a nurse in Boston. She was urging her former colleagues to consider leaving the “profession” too, now that their madam was gone. These young women clearly envied Ana, but judging by their expensive-looking attire, Sammy sensed they weren’t ready to call it quits for a nine-to-five minimum-wage gig. Hopefully, they wouldn’t end up like Sylvie before discovering the allure of glamour and money was just a façade to which they’d become addicted.

“Have a minute?”

Sammy barely recognized the conservatively dressed young woman who stepped away from the group. Out of jail one day and Courtney had already trimmed her dark hair into a neat bob and toned down her makeup. From her clear eyes and sure steps, she also seemed untypically sober. “I hear you’re back on the air Monday,” she said just as Jim came over.

Jim nodded at Jeffrey. “Sammy’s father made some calls to America First Communications this morning to “trump” his late wife’s orders, so to speak. “You’re NOT fired!” he joked, affecting a poor “The Donald” imitation.

“Think I could talk my way onto your show as a guest? I’m putting together a charity concert with my old band and some industry friends. We’d like to help out the homeless in Southern California, especially those displaced by the Canyon City disaster. Kind of want to drum up some business and donations.”

“Absolutely.” Sammy caught the reflected enthusiasm in Jim’s eyes. “That’s really a nice thing you’re doing.”

“There’s a lot of people out there who need nice,” Courtney said. “And, it’s about time I gave something back.” She pursed her lips. “You get pretty sheltered in the business, but in a way, it’s just another kind of prison. I’m going to work on trying to stay ‘free.’ ” She mimicked a drinking gesture. “Of any prisons.”

“Natural high,” echoed Jim. “I’m all for that.”

“See you Monday night then.” Sammy grabbed Jim by the hand and led him over to Reed and her father. Jeffrey slung his good arm around her shoulder and gave her a half hug.

“You’re pretty chipper, all things considered,” Sammy said. “Did you meet with your lawyer this morning?”

“Yup, Neil Prescott’s being arraigned this afternoon on multiple counts of bribery, corruption, conspiracy, you name it. They’re talking immunity for me if I turn State’s witness.” Jeffrey sighed. “I can see the old boys’ club doors slamming in my face, but frankly, I didn’t know the half of what Neil and Trina were doing, and I’d like to think I wouldn’t have gone along if I had.” He smiled. “Guess I’m going to have to start all over and do it Susan’s way—one reasonable investment at a time.” He locked eyes with Sammy, as if trying to gauge her reaction. “Come to think of it, that’s not a bad way to rebuild a relationship with my daughter either.”

Sammy’s cautious smile let him know she was willing to give it a try. “My door’s open. Anytime.” Easing out of his hug, she turned to Reed. “Thanks for taking the Pappajohn crew to see the Dardens this morning.”

“Good people,” Pappajohn said, joining them. “Teddy really wanted to say goodbye before we head back East. And we all needed to say thank you. We stopped off at the West L.A. precinct to see De’andray as well.”

“Any news?” Sammy asked.

“Classified ongoing investigation, you know, but Dee did say Prescott’s definitely looking at hard time and the loss of his congressional seat. With the new Orange County DA talking about reopening the investigation of the Palacio Real prosecutor’s fatal car accident, he could even be facing an accessory to murder charge down the road.”

“That’s got to be hard on his family.”

“It was Prescott’s wife who notified the feds that her husband was about to fly the coop last night,” Reed said. “We were rounding on our cardiac transfers at Cedars-Sinai this morning when she showed up to talk to Bishop. One of the nurses overheard him offer to drive her to some big-shot law firm later. The way they were looking at each other, I wouldn’t be surprised if those two have a past.”

“And maybe a future,” Sammy suggested to Reed, who raised a surprised eyebrow.

“Dee did say they’d be taking a closer look at Madam Kaye’s client list over the next few weeks,” Pappajohn added. “Ana’s willing to serve as a witness. Plenty of heavy hitters in this town on the hot seat.”

“Did De’andray give you any buzz on Miller?” Sammy wondered.

“Just what’s on the record,” Pappajohn said. “According to the FBI, he was ex-CIA, kicked out of the agency after Iran-Contra in the eighties. But reading between the lines, I’ll lay a bet he was still with the Company as black-ops.”

“What’s black-ops?” Jeffrey asked.

“James Bond meets Mission Impossible. Plausible deniability.” Jim had walked into the conversation. “On the payroll, yet off the books. They do the dirty jobs, the false flags, the banana republic coups, Oklahoma C—”

Laughing, Sammy interrupted. “Thanks, for that Conspiracy Corner minute. Whether Miller was a rogue agent, or a loose cannon, I’m just glad his plan failed and his resonator was destroyed.”

“Or was it?” Jim wondered aloud in his most dramatic voice.

Like a mother with an errant child, Sammy shook her head. The idea that someone else would build such a weapon to bring down buildings was too horrible to contemplate. Scaring people to boost ratings—that might be for the Fred Ferals and Rush Limbaughs of the world, but it wasn’t Sammy Greene on the L.A. Scene’s style. She had just one word for such crazy conjecture: “Meshuga.”

“Hey, Y2K is over,” Reed said, wrapping his arm around Sammy’s waist. “We’re safe, and together.”

Sammy noticed his eyes glistening and whispered, “Michelle?” He’d just learned about her fatal car accident in the early morning hours as he was working on the disaster response team cleanup. It was still so hard to believe.

Reed nodded. “Called my father this morning. He’s agreed to help her family fund a scholarship for medical students in her name. She loved being a doctor.”

Sammy held Reed tightly for a few moments of silence. When he finally looked down at her, she saw a deep abiding tenderness in his lavender eyes and felt her own unexpected tears. “We won’t forget,” she said softly. “It’s a new year, and time for new beginnings,”

He cupped her pixie face in his hand. “I can’t wait, Sammy.”

“You won’t have to,” Sammy said as she looked up and their lips touched.

EPILOGUE

The fires in the hills of Los Angeles burned low as the sun set on the first day of the second millennium.

Ten days after the initial ember blew onto the chaparral, the flames had destroyed nearly twelve thousand acres and hundreds of homes, killed twelve people, and caused total losses estimated at more than five hundred million dollars.

Nevertheless, by tomorrow, for the survivors of Tinseltown, the disaster would be a mere memory—nipped and tucked away like the pain of a plastic surgeon’s knife. Earthquakes, floods, even riots were the price they willingly paid for the pleasure of living in paradise.

Eventually, the scattered drops of winter rain would rinse the denuded hills with cleansing flash floods and the mesquite and chaparral would grow back on the hillsides, brittle and dry, to await the next spark, the next flame.

In a few months, the humidity would fall again. And then, down over the hills, would sweep the parching devil wind.