Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (26 page)

“Oh my God!” Ana reached over and pushed end.

“Why’d you do that? Don’t you want to find out who the guy is?”

“I’m supposed to be dead. Sylvie’s dead and I’ve got her phone and her ID. You want me to talk to the cops? They’ll arrest me. And I’ve got a record!”

Courtney, unsteady on her feet, draped an arm around Ana’s shoulders. “Hey, I do, too. Only mine went platinum,” she giggled.

Ana pushed her away. “Damn it, I’m in trouble, Courtney. I need help. And you, you’re drunk.” She began to pace. “Guess I have no choice. Tomorrow, I’ve got to get word to my father.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Tuesday

December 28, 1999

Holding her head down to avoid the rain of ash whipped up by sudden Santa Ana gusts, Sammy hurried inside the six-story L.A. Department of Building and Safety the moment the security guard unlocked the front door. She’d crept out of her apartment an hour before, careful not to wake Pappajohn. A part of her was grateful for the delay. She didn’t know how he’d take the news that Ana might have been murdered.

“You’re an early bird,” the guard at the main entrance said. At half past seven, she was the only one waiting to pass through the metal detector. Holidays and fires obviously made for a slow day.

“Looking for worms,” Sammy replied, then asked for directions to Permits.

“One ten. First floor.”

Sammy located the room at the end of the hall and went in. A heavyset, older woman with a faint mustache hunched over her computer behind the long counter. The name tag on her desk said “Ethel Fitzgerald.” The other two desks were unoccupied.

“Sorry to bother you. Ms. Fitzgerald.”

At the sound of her name, Ethel looked up. “Yes?’

“I’m looking for information on the Canyon City renovation project.”

“What kind of information?”

“Well, I’d like to know if the renovation had actually started, when the contractor got the permits approved. That sort of thing.”

Ethel eyed her with suspicion. “And you are?”

“I’m an investigative reporter.” Sammy opened her purse and pulled out her press ID. “Do you listen to KPCF?” she asked, producing a charming smile. “I have a talk show. ‘Sammy Greene on the L.A. Scene.’ Midnight to three.”

“That’s a leftie station.” Ethel wasn’t impressed. “And I’m asleep by nine.”

“Sounds like a wise choice,” Sammy began, as her eyes caught the rosary beads sticking out from a pile of papers on Ethel’s desk. “I just have to say that KPCF owes so much to the Catholic Charities of Los Angeles for their donations of food and clothing for the homeless tent city survivors. So many lost everything they had with the tower’s collapse.”

“What a horrible accident. All those poor people. May God save their souls,” Ethel agreed, her features softening. “I give to Catholic Charities every year, you know.”

“L.A. has its own Mother Teresas, that’s for sure. We are so grateful.”

Smiling now, Ethel turned to her computer. “You wanted to know if the tower renovation had been started?”

“I was told that it hadn’t, but I did see scaffolding there.”

“Let me check.” Ethel pressed a few keys on her computer. “The main City Hall building was approved in July ninety-eight. Construction was supposed to start in January ninety-nine. But you wanted the tower, right?”

Sammy nodded as Ethel continued to search.

“Seismic retrofit. That’s a totally different application. Here we go. Number CC000102453. I’ll need to go in the back for the file.” She pushed herself away from her desk and headed for an exit at the far end of the room, returning several minutes later with a thick legal-sized manila folder. “Canyon City Hall tower renovation.” She laid the folder on one of the unoccupied desks and gestured for Sammy to have a seat.

Sammy watched Ethel settle into her chair and resume typing before she sat down at the empty desk and began thumbing through the file. The initial project permit request was dated September 23. The form listed Greene Progress, LLC as the general contractor and Newport Savings & Loan as the construction lender. She pulled out her notebook to jot down the bank name and address in Newport Beach, Orange County, wondering if there might be a Prescott connection. Didn’t her father say that the congressman helped with the financing?

Page after page of construction plans and multiple permit forms. Demolition, electrical, mechanical, plumbing, roofing, sandblasting. The specifications meant nothing to Sammy. She was looking for something, anything that might jump out at her. Finally, she found one inspection report labeled Seismic Codes and Provisions. Language about adequacy of tower stability. Two ruptures in structure. Request for additional plans to stabilize with active seismic control system. Sammy searched for the inspector’s name, but where the signature should have been, there was only an Approved stamp and date: November 23. She flipped through the file two more times, but could find no evidence that additional plans had been submitted.

“Excuse me. Ms. Fitzgerald?”

“Yes?”

“It looks as though the project was approved in two months. Is that typical?”

“Not for a complex project like the City Hall renovation. Permits and plan checks through normal city bureaucracy could easily take three times as long.”

“So how do you go from six months to two?”

Ethel’s long silence along with the troubled look on her face suggested she was waging some internal conflict. Though they were alone in the room, Ethel did a one-eigthy to make sure no one might be listening, then spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. ”Connections.”

“Excuse me?”

“Case Management. It’s a little known unit set up two years ago to fast-track projects that are supposed to benefit the city.”

“I guess the Canyon City City Hall buildings would qualify.”

“Maybe,” Ethel said with a smirk. “But after twenty years in this office, I can tell you that’s not always how it works.”

“What do you mean?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You won’t quote me?”

“This is strictly off the record.”

Ethel took a deep breath and lowered her voice again. “No standards. If you checked whose projects get expedited through the Case Management Unit, it’s always the contractors with political connections.”

Like Greene Progress.

“By sidestepping the usual permit process, these big developers avoid delays that could cost them millions,” Ethel added.

“Was the Canyon City renovation project tracked through that unit?”

“You’d have to talk with Lawrence Graves. He’s head of the Case Management Unit. He’ll be back from vacation next week. Third floor, room three seventeen.”

Graves? Why did that name sound familiar? Sammy took out her notebook and jotted it down, then handed the folder back to Ms. Fitzgerald. “Anything else you can tell me?”

Ethel put a finger up to her lips. “Don’t let him know you’re a reporter.”

As soon as Sammy stepped into her car, her phone rang. It was Vito with news about Prescott.

“You were right, kid. But I really had to dig for this one. Around a year ago there was buzz on the wires about a hotel collapse in Orange County. That’s what you probably remembered. Seems the congressman was a major investor in the project through a local savings and loan. Original plans called for a brand-new luxury hotel on the site, but the Orange County commissioners declared it a historic landmark and refused to allow a complete tear down. Somehow during the renovation, the whole thing just fell down like a bunch of LEGOs. The DA started a criminal investigation into the collapse, citing possible negligence, but it got dropped. The final report ended up calling it accidental and the story died. Prescott was off the hook.”

“How convenient,” Sammy said. And how coincidental. Two buildings Prescott was involved with had literally collapsed.

“By the way,” Vito added, “the general contractor was Greene Progress. Didn’t you say your father was in real estate? Any relation?”

“Distant,” Sammy said, cringing. “Why’d the DA drop the investigation? Are we talking hush money?”

It sounded as if Vito was shuffling papers. “Nope. Marshall Taylor, age fifty-six, died in a car accident last February in the San Joaquin Hills, on Route Seventy-three. Seven twenty-six p.m., it says here. Dark, foggy, and rainy. Visibility was poor. Seems an eighteen-wheeler was going very slowly and the DA couldn’t stop in time. Killed instantly. Anyway, nothing came out on Prescott. Or this distant relative of yours.”

Sammy took a moment to gather her thoughts. Too many coincidences. Too many connections. She finally said, “Thanks, Vito. You’ve been incredibly helpful. As always.”

“You going to follow up on this?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m a reporter first.” And a daughter second, Sammy thought when she’d ended the conversation. With one eye on the road, she scrolled down her address book and speed dialed Susan’s Orange County number.

Pappajohn’s call to the funeral home had been heartrending, reviving painful memories of saying goodbye to Effie years ago. Hard enough to bury your wife. You were not supposed to bury your children.

The call to Eleni would be just as difficult. His sister had doted on Ana as a child. He dreaded telling his only surviving relative the horrible news of Ana’s death. Sitting at Sammy’s bedroom desk, his hand hovered over the phone before he decided to check e-mail. Staring at the computer, the black monitor reflected his haggard features with a ghostlike distortion.

It had been years since he’d bought his first Apple IIe. Computers now were half the size and had a thousand times the capabilities. As compared to aging, old aficionados like himself who were twice the size and had half the capabilities of fifteen years before.

Still, his IT buddy Keith McKay of Pueblo Software Systems had considered Pappajohn’s skills sharp enough to hire him as part-time consultant on Y2K preparations in Boston. Pappajohn’s income in the last six months had far surpassed what he’d earned in eight years as campus cop at Ellsford University. He’d even begun teaching Eleni basic computer skills, after convincing her that e-mails could save a fortune in long-distance calls from Greece. Now he wondered if she might have sent an online holiday message.

Ignoring his depressing reflection, he pressed the keyboard and the screen whirred to life. He clicked open the Eudora icon and entered the data for his own e-mail account, then downloaded his accumulated messages, cursing the spam clogging his in-box. Sure enough, scrolling through the queue he found a note from Eleni wishing him a Merry Christmas and wondering why he hadn’t called.

He allowed himself a small smile. Guess the tutoring had worked. But the idea of having to answer her renewed his pain. Should he tell her he was in Los Angeles? And why? Pappajohn rested his fingers in his lap. Finally, he typed a short reply, assuring her that he was fine, promising to write more in a day or two, and congratulating her on her computer skills. Ana’s passing was one piece of news that should not be delivered online. Best to finish his good-byes to his daughter here, then consider a flight to Athens to tell Eleni in person and mourn by her side. With no one left for him in the U.S., he might just move there himself.

About to log off, he spotted a new e-mail wedged between the spam. At first the sender didn’t register. Then, the ID nearly took his breath away:
AnaP, December 24.

His hand shook as he clicked it open.

 
Dear Baba. Don’t worry, I’m okay. I’ve been clean for over a year. I have more news. I’ll try to get in touch as soon as I can. Merry Christmas.

                         Love, Ana

He stared at the screen, his stomach churning, his body numb. Like a message from a world beyond, his daughter’s words taunted him from the Internet ether.

I’m okay. Love, Ana.

But she was not okay. His precious Ana was gone forever. He’d lost the chance to make amends for his stubbornness, his stupidity, to tell her that he loved her too. He’d buried his sorrow deep within him to get through the day, but now it surfaced like a gusher of grief.

“Too late.” he said, his eyes welling with tears.

“Too late for what?” Sammy’s voice came from the open doorway.

“Just checking e-mail,” Pappajohn’s voice quavered, “and I . . . I found one from Ana.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Sammy raced over to the desk. She rested a hand on Pappajohn’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort, at the same time glancing at the open message. “My God.”

“Yes, it’s—”

“Wait a sec.” Leaning over him, Sammy grabbed the mouse and scrolled up to the date. “This can’t be right. December 24.”

“Must have written it sometime after midnight, just before she—”

“Not the date. Look at the time. Ten fifty-five a.m.”

Pappajohn squinted at the figures.

“That’s in the morning, hours later. Ana was already—” Sammy stopped herself before saying the word dead.

Pappajohn and Sammy turned to each other, in shock.

“Come on, Aunt Eleni. Pick up!” Ana’s voice reflected growing agitation. It was the third time in a few hours she’d dialed the Massachusetts number. She had to get word to her father. Eleni would know how to reach him. Right now she didn’t care what Gus thought of her. Teddy would be back in L.A. in a few days. Ana needed her father’s help to keep him safe from Kaye.

“No voice mail?” Courtney’s slurred words made it sound like ‘voyshmail.’

Ana snapped her cell shut and shook her head. “Aunt Eleni’s not much on technology.”

Courtney shrugged. “How about e-mail? Now that power’s back, I could see if my modem’s working.”

“I don’t think she’s ever even been on a computer. Besides, I already sent my father an e-mail.” She looked at Courtney and her face dissolved into tears. “Teddy’s coming back on Thursday. The police think I’m dead and Kaye wants to kill me. What am I going to do?”

“There’s got to be an answer,” Sammy declared. “When I was at the TV network, e-mail went down one day. When it came back up, all the e-mails had the same date and time. Maybe something like that happened.”