Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (13 page)

“Ana, Kaye knows you have it. She’s waiting.”

Have it? What was he talking about? Ana stopped to listen, focusing to determine the origin of the disembodied voice. Somewhere in back. But how close? She searched for the man’s reflection. Down an empty path, she ran hard into a hidden mirror blocking her path. Looking up, she could see his distorted image behind her and swallowed a scream. She spun around and shot out her hand, now clutching the knife she’d hidden in her pants. He was gone. Where?

Panicked, she stumbled to her right until finally she heard young voices and saw a ray of light up ahead. Hoping it was a way out, she slipped the knife into her side pocket and quickly elbowed past a troop of giggling Brownies to the emergency exit, bursting back out onto the pier just beside the Ferris wheel. She closed the exit to block the overhead spotlight and threw a large empty metal trash can on its side in front of the door, so that anyone rushing out would likely trip.

At five p.m., the late December sun had already sunk over the horizon. Artificial lights strung up all along the Ferris wheel sparkled green and gold and amber against the moonlit sky. Refusing to look back, Ana joined a line moving to get on the ride.

“Ticket?” a young man wearing a Pacific Park T-shirt demanded when she reached the front. Only one empty bucket remained to be filled.

“Sorry, I lost mine.” Ana handed him a twenty with a wink.

Without missing a beat, the ticket taker pocketed the bill and waved her in. Ana crouched low, the knife back in her hands, and held her breath until the ticket taker pushed a lever on the side of the ride and swept her bucket high up into the air.

At the same moment, Ana heard what she guessed was a Russian expletive as the sound of someone falling hard on the wooden pier below made everyone else turn in its direction. Knowing she had just seconds to hide, Ana slid down all the way in the bucket. Trembling, she peeked through the cage. Flat on his face, the Russian tried to stand, refusing all offers of help from several good Samaritans who’d rushed over. Although she hovered far above him, Ana could not miss his frustrated expression when, after getting up, he scanned the crowd for several minutes, spoke into his earpiece, and finally walked away in the direction of the parking lot. What she did miss was Kaye hidden among a group watching a sidewalk artist, a cell to her ear, her elegant features contorted with rage as Yevgeny gave her the news that he’d lost Ana.

The mingled smells of disinfectant, sweat, and something sweet permeated the air. This was death. Sammy shivered as she followed Dr. Gharani and Pappajohn down the morgue’s basement hallway. She noticed the cracked cement walls, missing ceiling tiles, and chipped plaster and thought of how the lobby had been so pristine, like the entrance to a funeral home. Here, in the mortician’s workshop, no one tried to hide the imperfections.

“From the ninety-four Northridge quake,” Gharani explained with a shrug when he saw Sammy eyeing the damage.

Several white-coated staff, all looking harried, hurried past, ducking into doors that Sammy guessed led to autopsy rooms or forensic labs. A few of the coroner’s crew nodded greetings to Gharani, but none stopped to chat.

“Busy day,” he explained to fill the silence. He stopped just outside a steel door and turned to Pappajohn. “You’re sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” Pappajohn responded, his expression grim.

Pappajohn followed Gharani inside the chamber.

For a moment, Sammy hesitated, unsure if she could face another viewing of poor Anastasia, but Pappajohn’s shuffling gait convinced her he’d do better with her by his side.

The viewing room was a long, narrow space painted entirely in white. On the table in the middle lay a body covered by a white sheet, the overhead fluorescent lights bathing it in a rectangle of iridescence. Gharani moved to one side of the table while Sammy and Pappajohn stood on the other. Slowly he pulled back the sheet, exposing the head.

Sammy shut her eyes. But when she heard Pappajohn’s rapid expulsion of breath and felt the trembling hand that grabbed hers, she opened them again.

“The-eh mou, what happened?” Pappajohn cried. “I don’t even recognize her.”

Gharani quickly recovered the body and came around the table. Sammy stepped aside as he draped a comforting arm around Pappajohn’s shoulder. “From what we can gather, she was running away from a fire in Bel Air. The smoke got pretty bad so it’s likely she got disoriented, fell, and was knocked unconscious. Unfortunately, by the time the EMTs found her, she’d been badly burned. There was nothing they could do. I’m sure she was out long before the flames and didn’t suffer at all.”

As if a dam had burst, Pappajohn began to sob. Sammy could barely make out his words, repeated over and over, a gasping prayer, “Theos horesteeneh.” God forgive her.

Like a caged rat trapped on a spinning wheel, Ana stayed crouched in the Ferris wheel’s bucket for what seemed to her an eternity. Her fingers unconsciously crept to her cross, repeating the prayer she’d learned years before in Sunday school. The Lord is my Shepherd—

Her twenty dollars had apparently bought her a quarter hour’s worth of rides. Enough time, she fervently hoped, for that goon to give up. Occasionally, her bucket would stop at the top, affording Ana a panoramic view of the pier when she dared to peek over the edge. After ten minutes or so, the Russian had disappeared, hopefully gone for good.

The earnest face of the ticket taker leaning into her bucket made Ana jump. “Want to go again?”

Ana eased herself up and looked around. The coast was clear. She patted the young man on the hand and shook her head. “Not in this lifetime.” Hopping out, she sped off toward the crowded parking lot, where ducking behind a car would be easy if the man turned up again.

Scanning the rows of parked cars, Ana spotted a Porsche nestled between two sedans. The vanity license plate USPEH made her look twice. Hadn’t Sylvie told her that was Kaye’s motto? Success in Russian? Ana stepped back and surveyed the lot. If this was Kaye’s car, was she here too? Then why hadn’t she met as planned?

The implication hit Ana like a slap in the face. Kaye must have sent that man after her to—to what? Kill her? Was he the one who’d trashed the apartment? And destroyed the computer? Imagining the rage with which he’d smashed it made Ana’s panic rise. Heart pounding, she crept away as fast as she could, hiding in the next row of cars behind a large SUV. Minutes later she saw the Russian sprint into the lot and unlock the passenger side of the Porsche. By the light of its open door, the car’s mirror reflected an agitated Kaye.

As soon as her well-muscled lackey slammed the door shut, the sports car revved out of the parking space, and, tires squealing, sped off. Ana leaned against the SUV, shocked and feeling very much alone. There was no safe house to which she could return. What had happened? She’d been so sure that Kaye would be her savior. My God, did Kaye really want her dead? Why? The only person who knew all the players in this drama was Sylvie, who was in no condition to help.

Fear tightened across Ana’s chest like a vise. She was a sitting duck now with no one to turn to and nowhere to go.

On duty for over twelve hours, the detective was dreaming of a Double-Double at In-n-Out Burger before hitting the sack. He’d already filed the report on the dead girl, and all that stood between him and his cheeseburger was the call he’d expected this morning. For which he was still waiting. Frustrated, he tried his contact’s number for the second time that afternoon. Once again, the line rang through to voice mail. This time though, the message he left was far from polite.

 The sun had set over Santa Monica while Ana leaned against the creaking wood railings at the end of the pier, wondering what to do. Beneath the pilings below her, a group of teenagers huddled against the wind’s chill. Their boom box blasted an old Everclear rock song Ana knew to be Sylvie’s favorite: “Father of Mine.” According to Sylvie, the lead singer, Art Alexakis, had never gotten over his father’s leaving him when Art was just ten.

 “Neither did I,” Sylvie had admitted one night when she’d returned home stoned. Her father’s last words had been whispered in her sleeping ears, “Au revoir, ma petite.”

She’d gone on to tell Ana how Art had attempted suicide as a teen somewhere near the very spot where Ana now stood, filling his pockets with weights, then getting high on marijuana and jumping off the pier. “He claimed the vision and voice of his dead brother, Donald, made him survive,” Sylvie had explained, choking back a sob. “We cling to what we can.”

In her head, Ana could still hear Sylvie singing that sad song as she’d staggered off to her room.

Dejected, Ana shuffled along the wooden planks. Below her, through the cracks, she could see the churning Pacific waters washing over the sand. The sound of the ocean seemed to call to her, inviting her to find a home in its depths. This is how Art must have felt standing here all alone many years ago. Desperate to go home.

A little boy with his parents stepped out of a taxi that had turned into the lot to drop them off. Teddy. How Ana missed him. Though she gazed longingly at the ocean, she couldn’t forget her promise to her son.

I’ll be back for you, my love. As soon as I can.

The DJ came on the radio with breaking news. “Update on our own Courtney Phillips. Word is she’s AWOL. That’s right, slipped out of Schwarzenegger Hospital sometime this evening. Where she’s gone is anybody’s guess. Her manager refused to comment, ri-i-ight,” the DJ chuckled. “I’ll bet she headed straight back to Promise House one more time. Promises, promises. So how ’bout we toast her well-worn road to recovery with some “Lithium” from Nirvana.”

Promise House. Of course. Ana had made a friend at the rehab facility, a friend who’d helped her get clean and save her life. Courtney Phillips. The public didn’t know the real Courtney, a sweet kid who’d made it too big too soon, with too many people making demands—her mother, her agents, her fans. Everyone wanting their piece of her, thinking it was so easy to live your life with hordes of paparazzi always following you. No surprise she’d sought solace at the end of a line of coke.

If Courtney had snuck out of the hospital, Ana doubted she’d go to the rehab facility. That would be the first place the press would think to look. There was one other possibility. On impulse, Ana leaped for the empty taxi ready to drive off, and, tugging open the door, slid into the backseat. Her brain struggled to remember Courtney’s address from her visit to the mansion last summer.

“Malibu,” she told the driver. “Malibu, Sea View Dri—no, Sea Vista Drive.”

Hours after the disaster drill, Prescott was still seething. Reed’s revelation that everything in the CCU might be monitored had unnerved him. What if someone from hospital security had overheard his discussion with Trina? Could they claim undue influence on behalf of Greene Progress? Bishop himself had a well-earned reputation for an over-developed sense of morality. Recently the L.A. Times had made a big deal, calling him a hero, for refusing millions in research funds from an international pharmaceutical company, citing conflict of interest.

If Bishop disclosed an under-the-table real estate deal, that revelation would be the nail in the coffin for Prescott’s political career. No doubt Julia would leave him the moment he was out of office—something Prescott couldn’t afford. What he’d squirreled away could never keep him living the lifestyle to which he’d become accustomed.

Prescott lay back in his bed, thinking. Bishop had left the army rather abruptly a few years back. Unusual for lifers. If something had happened, if there was any buried dirt, Prescott knew the one person to uncover it.

Reaching over, he pulled the phone to his side, lifted the receiver, and tapped in the private numbers. Miller time.

The trip to the foyer had allowed Pappajohn to recover his composure. Overwhelmed by the sight of his daughter’s fatal injuries, he sat on one of the leather couches, holding his head in his hands.

Wearing a look of concern, a lab-coated aide sidled over and handed the coroner a manila envelope.

Gharani motioned to Sammy to approach them out of earshot of the grieving father. “These are some personal effects Mr. Pappajohn might want to have.”

“Thank you,” Sammy whispered, accepting the package labeled PAPPAJOHN, A.

Gharani checked his watch. “It’s after five. Christmas Eve and we’ve still got several cases backed up. Tomorrow we’ll only be dealing with emergencies because of the holiday. We probably won’t have the paperwork done until Monday. You can make arrangements to have her—uh—picked up anytime after noon,” he said, starting as the sounds of Sinatra’s “My Way” erupted from his pocket. Without another word, he reached into his white coat for the phone, spun around, and walked off to answer the call.

“I’ll, uh, talk to him.” Sammy stuttered as she watched Gharani disappear into the elevator. Puzzled, Sammy headed back toward Pappajohn, wondering if it had been her imagination or was Gharani more than a little on edge.

“Everything’s taken care of,” the caller told Miller. “The phone’s in the incinerator and the autopsy report’s been filed. Cause of death, third degree burns. Accidental. Case closed.”

“No problems with the cops?”

“Too busy with fallout from the fires—looting, fistfights on the freeway. You can’t believe the chaos. These Santa Anas have really brought out the worst in people. One dead hooker is one less headache for the LAPD.”

“Good work, doc. And that little matter of those missing drugs?”

“Yes?” the voice trembled.

“Case closed.” Miller said, clicking off before adding, “for now.” If his man at the morgue thought these fires had created chaos, wait until he saw what Christmas and New Year’s would bring.

Lit only by its headlights, the taxi wended slowly through the Malibu hills. Hugging the ocean, the dry offshore winds carrying fresh ash from the hills to the west formed a thick blanket, impeding visibility. Acres of blackened trees stood as testaments to the power of fires that had raged through the area last year. Lack of reforestation’s only saving grace was a slightly lower risk of this canyon breaking out in flames again now.