Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (8 page)

Prescott visibly relaxed, and, closing his eyes, rested back on his pillow. Though Reed smiled politely, he had a strong urge to take a long, cleansing bath.

Left alone in the break room, Sammy and Michelle studied each other like opponents before a tennis match, wondering whether one possessed a killer serve or a trick drop-shot. To Sammy, it was no contest. Her heart-shaped freckled face gave her a perpetual elfin look that her copper colored hair and green eyes only amplified. Michelle, on the other hand, was a goddess. California-style.

Sammy would have liked to dismiss the tall, lanky blonde as mere eye candy, but Michelle clearly had brains too. After all she was a doctor, like Reed. Toughen up, kid, You’re the one who broke up with Reed. Can’t play the jealous girlfriend now.

Exhaling, Sammy broke the strained silence. “No. I’m not his fiancée. Never was, in fact. We are just old friends.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“But you wanted to.”

Michelle returned a faint smile. “Reed doesn’t like bananas.”

“Neither do I,” Sammy admitted, tossing the fruit squarely into an open wastebasket by the door. “What happened to your ear?”

“One of my patients was a little, uh—?”

“Crazy Courtney?” Sammy probed.

“I really can’t say.” The quiver in the set of Michelle’s jaw said it all.

“Detox, psych ward, or both?”

“Really.” Avoiding Sammy’s gaze, Michelle picked up several charts. “So you can gossip on your talk show? You media people are so nosy.”

Sammy countered, “I am authorized as press—”

“No one’s supposed to know about Prescott! How’d you find out?”

Sammy stopped in mid-sentence. Prescott? Congressman Prescott? Head of the House Armed Services Committee? So Courtney wasn’t the big cheese. “I’m an investigative reporter,” she said. Or at least I used to be.

Shaking her head, Michelle strode by Sammy, her charts tucked under one arm. “Well, you’re not finding out anything from me,” she said at the door.

Sammy kept her expression blank, hoping to hide the fact that she could read the patient names on the files, though their significance only struck her after Michelle had disappeared down the hall. One, Courtney Phillips, was no surprise. But the other—

Sammy could never forget the name of the man who’d saved her life back at Ellsford University. Pappajohn. Campus police chief Gus Pappajohn. How often had he told her she reminded him of his daughter, Ana, who’d run off years before to L.A.? Anastasia Pappajohn. Could Michelle’s patient be that Ana?

An abandoned lanyard with a doctor’s ID lying on top of a pile of charts at the back of the lounge gave Sammy an idea. She quickly slipped it around her neck and, fingers crossed, checked the photo. Ajit Subramanian, MD, had black hair, dark skin, a full mustache, and no freckles. With no other option, Sammy flipped the card over and hoped for the best.

Stepping into an empty hallway, she took a deep breath and adopted a confident stride toward the ER nurse’s station, her goal to locate the rooms assigned to Courtney Phillips and Anastasia Pappajohn.

The whiteboard listing emergency patients was mounted for maximum visibility from all corners of the central area. Sammy leaned casually against the counter beside an anemic desktop Christmas tree and watched the clerk erase Courtney Phillips’s name. Turning, he said, “And may she rest in peace.”

“Courtney died?”

The clerk laughed. His ID badge read “Lou Costanza” and with his pudgy boyish face, wire frames, and thinning hair, he could easily have been a doppelganger for his namesake on Seinfeld. Sammy decided not to make the obvious comment.

“Not this time. I meant she needs to rest. And the rest of us need some peace,” Lou said, chuckling. “Psych ward.” He spun his index finger next to his temple in the familiar gesture.

Nodding politely, Sammy scanned the board for the name “Pappajohn.” It wasn’t there.

“Who you looking for?”

“Pappajohn. Anastasia.”

Lou sobered up quickly. “They’ve already taken her to Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You know,” he said, lowering his voice, “in the Arnold Schwarzenegger Hospital next door. The morgue.”

Morgue? Oh, my God. I hope it isn’t Pappajohn’s daught—

“Such a shame, young woman like that. ’Bout your age.”

Just like the ex-cop’s Ana. Oh, my God.

A pair of nondescript automatic doors several labyrinthine hallways past the nurses’ station connected LAU Med’s ER to the newly inaugurated Arnold Schwarzenegger Hospital. Maintaining her adopted air of confidence and avoiding eye contact, Sammy dodged and weaved past patients and staff until she reached the adjacent hospital tower. Assuming the morgue would be located somewhere in the basement, she entered an open elevator car and punched the buttons for all three B levels.

While one and two lit up, Sammy noticed the B3 button had a lock beside it that failed to activate. When the doors slid back to reveal a darkened radiology center on B1, she decided to wait for B2. This time the elevator opened on a dimly lit hallway. A sign pointing straight ahead read DECEDENT AFFAIRS. That has to be it. Sammy stepped out before the doors slammed shut.

Her footsteps echoed loudly down the deserted corridor. More than once she stopped to stare nervously back into the shadows, but saw nothing there. She was totally alone. After passing several closed and unlit offices, Sammy reached a set of large metal double doors under a small tarnished bronze sign that read MORGUE. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the automatic opener.

The morgue resembled a large bank vault rather than the dissecting room she expected from watching TV crime shows. Fortunately no bodies lay on the half dozen metal tables. Sammy guessed the dead were all resting inside the drawers stacked like large lockers on both sides of the sterile space. Though several of these compartments had nametags, none were marked PAPPAJOHN. Dreading the idea of checking them all, Sammy glanced around the room until she spotted one unlabeled drawer, slightly ajar. Edging closer, she tried to suppress the tension filling her chest as she slowly drew it open.

A naked body lay inside a translucent bag, like a developing butterfly in a protective cocoon. Reluctantly, Sammy pulled down the zipper. No stranger to death; the memory of her mother lying in her cold coffin still haunted her more than two decades later.

Gazing at this corpse, she couldn’t contain the wave of revulsion that passed through her. Afraid she might scream, Sammy covered her mouth with her hands. It was too horrible. She could only guess that the victim was female by the few long strands of blonde hair surrounding a blackened face, its features melted like a candle.

About to turn away, Sammy noticed a charred handbag at the bottom of the drawer. On impulse, she reached down for it. Inside she found a pair of diamond earrings, a single key, a singed driver’s license, some condoms, a warped cell phone, and a few twenty dollar bills.

Sammy flipped the license over to check the photo and the name. The young woman pictured there was—had been—beautiful, with brown eyes and soft blonde hair, framed by the faintest row of dark roots. That Costanza guy was right. They were close to the same age. Only twenty-six. Sammy’s eyes welled up. Poor Gus. The name on the license was the only part of his daughter that had survived the fire: Anastasia Pappajohn.

The vibration grew stronger and stronger, the shaking more and more violent. Alarm bells rang insistently, intrusively, louder and louder.

Fahim shot up in his bed, bathed in sweat. Earthquake?

Disoriented and half-awake, he turned on the night table lamp and looked around. The room itself was still. Only his mobile phone jangling on the pillow. Relieved, he reached for it and flipped it open.

“Yes?”

“You’re one lucky bastard.”

Fahim recognized Miller’s voice and his anxiety returned.

“Your little inconvenience. She died at the hospital before regaining consciousness.”

“I told you—”

“You told me she was already dead. Lucky for you she never woke up. But there is a problem.”

“Oh?” Fahim fought to keep his voice steady.

“You were right. About her spying.”

“And that is a problem? Why? You just said she was dead.”

“She wasn’t dead when she text messaged information from your PDA to her roommate’s phone. Let’s see, the rommate’s a Sylvie . . . uh, Pauzé.”

Fahim swallowed a string of curse words. He hadn’t been quick enough. “But I do not even know this Sylvie!”

“Fortunately, we plugged the dam before it leaked out of black ops. I don’t expect Ms. Sylvie to give us much trouble once we track her down. But, thanks to you, I’ve had to allocate precious resources to that task. That doesn’t make me happy.”

Miller’s menacing tone raised the caution flag higher.

“So my friend, you’re going to help me implement a Christmas Day surprise. Sort of a trial run for your ultimate target.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain everything when we meet at the Montagne Olympus. If you leave in half an hour, you’ll be there by seven.”

Fahim checked the square red digits on the bedside clock. 5:30 a.m. He’d slept just a few hours. The new über-luxury hotel in Newport Beach was over an hour to the north. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not if you want customs to wave you through on your next trip home.”

Fahim knew the threat was real. One word from Mr. CIA Special Ops and his cover as a wealthy Saudi businessman and friend of America would be blown. Fuck you, Fahim thought in English, but said through gritted teeth, “All right. At seven.”

“Drive safely,” Miller said. “All these winds and fires. You don’t know who’ll get burned. And who’ll survive.”

Not bothering to say goodbye, Fahim clicked off and threw his phone onto the bed. This time he cursed out loud.

“Don’t touch that! It’s evidence.”

Startled, Sammy dropped the license on the floor of the morgue. “Jeez, Reed, you scared me!”

“Good. You have no business here. But when has that ever stopped you?”

“How’d you find me?”

“One of our more alert nurses saw you get in the tower elevator going down. I figured you’d be looking for the burn patient.” Reed’s tone reflected his exasperation. “What is it with you? Always breaking rules.”

Sammy pointed to the license on the floor. “It’s . . . she’s Gus Pappajohn’s daughter, Reed. Ana Pappajohn.”

“Gus? You’re sure?”

Sammy nodded, her eyes puddled. “His kid ran away from home years ago and came to L.A. She and I were almost the same age.”

Sammy’s quivering lip seemed to soften Reed’s irritation. He leaned over, picked up the license, and placed it gently on the tray. “I’m sorry, but—”

“I’ve got to call her father.”

“That’s for the police to do.”

Sammy was genuinely shocked. “That is so cold, Reed. I’m his friend. I thought you were too.” She’d already pulled out her cell phone and was scrolling down a very long list of contacts.

Reed reached out a hand to stop her before she dialed. “They haven’t done the post—the autopsy, yet.”

“Wasn’t it the fires that killed her?”

“Probably, but . . .” Reed seemed to hesitate.

“But what?”

“But nothing,” Reed finally responded. “It’s standard operating procedure in a case like this. We have to wait for the medical examiner to determine the official cause of death.”

Sammy rolled her eyes and drew her phone from Reed’s reach. “That could take days. I’m making the call now. He’s her father and,” Sammy nodded at the body resting in the open drawer, “she needs him.”

Detective Montel De’andray forced a polite thank you to Michelle and her team for their detailed reports on the unfortunate burn victim. He watched them file out of the lounge, irritated that his paperwork had just doubled. Could this crazy night get any worse? The victim bought herself an autopsy now that the doc had mentioned head trauma and a displaced jaw along with the burn. If the girl was knocked out before the fire, it could be homicide.

Sergeant Emilio Ortego walked in and pulled up a chair next to his partner. Colleagues at the West L.A. precinct called the thirty-something duo “Mutt and Jeff.” At six foot two, the slender African-American De’andray dwarfed the muscular Chicano ex-Marine by half a foot.

“Headquarters checked the name Anastasia Pappajohn.” Ortego looked at his notepad, “She’s got a sheet.”

De’andray nodded. “No surprise.”

“One arrest for misdemeanor drug possession in ninety-six, got off with a slap on the wrist. Felony arrest in ninety-eight, mandatory rehab.” Ortego looked up from his notes. “Bet this’ll surprise you, Dee. Dad’s ex-Boston PD.”

De’andray shrugged. Hadn’t Ortego read about the Orange County case where they’d just busted the son of the assistant chief? “Where’s Daddy now?”

“Last we have, he’s a rent-a-cop for some college in Vermont. But get this,” Oretego said, “Anastasia did her rehab at Promise House.”

Now De’andray was suprised. “Daddy didn’t pay for that on a cop’s salary.” Promise House was a rehabilitation facility only the rich could afford.

“No shit. Apparently Dad refused to come out for arraignment, trial, anything.”

De’andray rubbed his temples. “A Sugar Daddy then?”

“Yeah. Dealing or hooking?” Ortego wondered aloud.

“Neither’ll get you a suite at Promise. Can’t make that kind of money on the street.”

“Bel Air don’t use the street, Dee. One phone call gets you high-class chucha, amigo.”

De’andray chuckled. “Not on a cop’s salary.” He stood up slowly. “Okay, amigo, looks like we’re stuck with a full-on investigation. You alert the coroner, and I’ll give her pappy a call.”

“Efharisto.” Sammy whispered the Greek word for thank you before hanging up her phone. “That was just awful,” she said to Reed.

“It never gets easier.”

Sammy shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“We do what we have to do,” Reed said. “The police hadn’t called?”

“No. Maybe they tried his old number in Vermont. He’s been living in his sister’s house near Boston since he retired six months ago. She moved back to Greece and got married.” Sammy’s voice was heavy with regret. “I kept Eleni’s number on my contacts list. She took care of me after that horrible trip to New York. For years, I’d call whenever I needed a mom. In place of Grandma Rose’s Yiddish, I’d get a dose of Aunt Eleni’s Greek wisdom.”