Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (25 page)

Sitting on the can, Miller had made a note to congratulate Prescott in the morning on revving up the terrorism chatter just in time for Y2K. It was important to use the press to shape the message: be afraid. Hadn’t he told Fahim about the study of fear? Making others afraid was a powerful tool Miller had learned as a boy, but honed as a man. Now even callers to that pinko commie radio station expected the Apocalypse in the next few days.

He chuckled. Armageddon, the eons old conflict between good and evil was due to end in the epic battle on Mount Megiddo, Har Mageddon in the Ancient Hebrew. God would fight Satan and emerge victorious. In a way, Y2K would launch that heroic saga in the new millenium. The resonator was the sword that would lead Miller and his loyalists to victory on that figurative mount. It was, after all, as Fahim had so poetically put it the other day, the Hand of God.

Returning to his study, Miller picked up the remote for his Bose radio, ready to switch off KPCF and retire to bed. His finger remained frozen, hovering above the off button.

Murdered? How in hell did she figure that? Dropping the remote, he reached for his cell phone and dialed a number. The last thing he needed with D-day so close was the cops sniffing around after Ana Pappajohn, Fahim, or himself.

Sounds of “My Way” wafted through the bungalow’s bedroom in West Hollywood. It took three rings before a hairy wrist reached over from silk sheets to answer.

“Yeah?” Gharani mumbled sleepily. Who would be calling at this hour? He cocked an eye and glanced at the dial on his beside clock radio—2:20 a.m.

“Burn her.” The gravelly voice didn’t mince words.

“What?”

“You heard me. Ana Pappajohn. Cremate her and have it done by morning.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving Gharani no choice. Slowly, he eased out of his warm, comfortable bed, wondering if the tightness he felt gripping his neck was just his imagination. He cursed in Farsi as the terrible truth dawned on him. His bridle was all too real. Miller’s calls would never stop coming, and he’d never again be free.

Courtney pushed her chair back from her computer. Another hour of exploring Sylvie’s disk had turned up little more. Bank accounts, calendars, and schedules, a few surprisingly sentimental poems, and a couple of ear-splitting music files, courtesy of Sylvie’s musician boyfriend.

“Sylvie’s Plan B has to be the dirt on these johns,” Ana said. Renowned clients and their innumerable peccadilloes. City councilmen, state assemblymen, congressmen, including Neil Prescott. Even the former mayor. Business leaders, celebrities, the crème de la crème of Los Angeles, and the über wealthy from other parts of the U.S. and abroad.

Ana understood why the madam needed those names for protection. The mere threat of public revelation would silence a difficult client. If Sylvie had been feeding anything on Kaye’s list to the cops, Kaye could find herself in as much trouble as her customers.

Had the madam discovered that Sylvie worked both sides? Set her up for a beating? Or worse? Damn you, Sylvie, Ana silently cursed, wishing her friend had heeded her warnings not to play dangerous games.

Courtney handed the ejected disk back to Ana. “There’s more than enough to use to—negotiate. Why not give it to your madam and call it a deal?”

“This isn’t Hollywood. She’ll get rid of the disk and me.” Ana could almost feel Yevgeny’s grip on her arm.

“Hey, I’m not stupid. I uploaded everything onto my computer. And I’m making a backup disk. Tell Kaye if anything happens to you, a copy’s going to the cops and the fucking L.A. Times. That’s your Plan B, girlfriend.”

Sammy’s offer of reward money attracted a bevy of callers. Not one line remained open for the rest of her show. Unfortunately, most callers had no clue, figuratively or literally. By three a.m., Sammy had begun to regret her impulsive decision.

Discouraged, she stuffed her papers under her arm and entered Jim’s booth as he hung up his phone.

“We may have a bite.” He held up a phone number and Hispanic name. “Taxi driver thinks he gave Sylvie a ride home the night Ana died.”

“Just add him to the list of alien sightings,” Sammy said wearily.

“Claims she carried a bright pink purse. “

“You’re kidding.” Sammy snatched the paper, folded it into her pocket and threw Jim a kiss. “I’d give you a real one, but I know you’re hurting. In fact, why not go home and rest? I can finish your show tonight.”

“Nah, I can rest pretty damn well on the air.” Jim clicked on his mic and, with a wink, began his hypnotic broadcast.

Sammy nodded and waved goodbye as she exited the studio. She really was starting to like the guy. An acquired taste, she thought. Like blueberry bagels.

Rushing to her car to avoid blasting winds, she failed to register the parked Escalade, its muscled driver hunched low in his seat. Nor did she notice the pair of headlights a block behind that followed her all the way home.

Courtney eyed the haze outside her bedroom window. “Looks shitty.” She aimed the remote at her big-screen TV in the corner. “Let’s check on the fires. We almost burned out here last year.” She clicked past cable station infomercials to a local network where an L.A. metro area map displayed at least a dozen tiny flames.

“Santa Ana winds continue to spread the Southern California firestorms. Due to rapidly changing conditions, residents are urged to stay away from threatened communities. Evacuations continue in Sherman Oaks, Studio City, and Tarzana. Eight firefighters have been seriously injured around the city. One is in critical condition.”

None of the flickering flames overlayed Malibu. “At least we’re safe for now.” Courtney turned down the volume as the scene switched from the burning hills to the LAU Medical Center.

Ana pointed to the TV where an ambulance was unloading the screaming actress. “That’s you!”

Courtney rolled her eyes. “Turn it off. I know what I look like. Hey, that’s you!” Now she was pointing to the screen.

Stunned, Ana saw that the camera had caught her crouching behind the EMTs. The shot passed quickly, but anyone paying attention who knew her might realize that Ana Pappajohn was alive and well at LAU Medical the night Sylvie was burned.

Courtney turned up the volume again. “As of this hour, still no news on the whereabouts of Courtney Phillips. Her manager’s keeping mum, but rumors have it that she’s left the country for a self-imposed ‘holiday’ to recover from ‘exhaustion.’ ” The anchor added the quotes with a smug intonation. “I’ll bet the $100,000 a month Hope Rehab Center in the Bahamas is where our reporters will find Courtney next.”

Courtney poured herself another glass of brandy. “Yeah, more like where their reporters would like a working holiday.” She grabbed the remote and aimed it at the TV.

“Wait!” Ana gestured at the graphics.

“Another sad note. Police have confirmed that the Christmas Eve victim of the fires in Benedict Canyon has died. She’s been identified as Anastasia Pappajohn, age twenty-six, a resident of Santa Monica. And, in yesterday’s Canyon City tower accident, the number of dead and injured is mounting as—”

Feeling faint, Ana clung to Courtney for support.

“Sorry, girlfriend.” Courtney clicked off the TV. “I know you two were tight.”

Ana gasped and struggled for air between sobs. Sylvie dead? It was too much. She fell onto Courtney’s bed, her tears drenching the fine silk duvet.

Now even the police believed Sylvie was Ana Pappajohn. Only she and Kaye knew the truth about the mix-up. So why hadn’t Kaye told the police? Ana’s heart began pounding as she considered the possibilities. The client list! Kaye must somehow believe that Sylvie had shared it with Ana. She’d obviously stop at nothing to get it back. Her Russian goon had failed. What could Kaye do now to draw Ana from her hiding place?

Oh, my God. Teddy! Though Ana had only told Sylvie about her son, Sylvie and the madam had been close. Much as Ana hated to admit it, it was more than possible that Sylvie had betrayed her secret. If Kaye knew about Teddy, she might try to find him and use him as bait.

Terrified, Ana jumped up and dried her tears on her sleeve. “I’ve got to call Mrs. Darden. Make sure my son’s safe. Can I use your phone?” She pointed to the cell she’d brought with her. “Batteries are dead.”

“Sure. Okay.” Courtney traded Sylvie’s phone for her own pink studded mobile, and added in a gentle voice. “ ’Course he is. I’ll recharge yours in the kitchen while I find us something to eat.”

Sammy tiptoed quietly into the apartment at three thirty a.m., past a snoring Pappajohn. Glad he was finally sleeping deeply, she took care not to wake him as she hurried down the hall to her bedroom.

Sitting on her bed, she reached in her pocket for the paper from Jim and punched in the telephone number on her cordless handset.

“Hola.”

“Hello. May I speak to Porfirio Sandoval?’

“Si, Porfirio,” the woman responded with a heavy Hispanic accent. “Es trabajando. No esta aqui.”

Wishing she’d studied high school Spanish instead of French, Sammy guessed that meant her husband was still working. “When will he be home?”

“No entiendo. No hablo ingles.”

“Quand retourner?” she improvised. “Um, cuando est il a la casa.”

“El va regresar manana. Lo puedo llamar a les siete, de la tarde. Gracias.”

“Siete” had to be “seven,” Sammy thought as she replaced the cordless in its cradle. She’d call during the day tomorrow and set up a face-to-face. If the cabbie had given Sylvie a ride the night Ana died, Sammy would get him to ID the photo. Maybe he could tell where she‘d been going and where she might be found.

Sammy eyed her bedside clock. Four a.m. A few hours of sleep would do her a world of good. Stretching the kinks from her tired muscles, she ambled over to the window to lower the blinds. The smoky fog outside was too thick for Sammy to see the dark Escalade now parked down the block outside her building, or the black Lincoln staking out the other side of the street.

Courtney turned from the open refrigerator to see Ana standing in the kitchen. “Everything okay?” She pulled out a carton of orange juice and poured some into a tall glass half filled with a clear liquor.

“Teddy’s fine. Mrs. Darden, his foster mother, took him up to the Bay Area to visit her relatives. I talked with her husband.”

 “You didn’t tell him who you were?”

 Ana shook her head. “I didn’t want anyone listening to know it was me. I used that Québécois accent Sylvie taught me. Said I was a friend of Ana Pappajohn’s. That she’d asked me to bring Teddy a video game from Canada when I came to L.A.”

“That’s creative.” Courtney returned the juice to an empty shelf and shut the refrigerator door.

“Thank God, Teddy’s out of town. I wouldn’t want him to hear our local news and think his mother might really be dead. They’ll be back in L.A. on Thursday.” Ana leaned against the sink. “By then, I hope everything’ll be taken care of.”

“That gives us a few days to make a plan.”

  A Celine Dion tune stopped them in their tracks. They both turned to search for the source.

Courtney pointed to the cell she’d plugged into the wall charger. Sylvie’s phone. “You gonna answer it?” Seeing Ana’s hesitation, she added, “Don’t worry, I did a TV cop show where they took at least five minutes to trace the call. Just hang up quickly.”

Hoping Courtney was right, Ana grabbed the phone and flipped it open. “Text message,” she said in explanation, before gasping and dropping the phone on the tiled floor. “Oh, my God!”

Courtney rushed over. “What? What?”

“The message. I never checked it. It’s from Sylvie!”

Ana stared at the text Sylvie had sent the night of the fire. Date: December 24, Time: 12:05 a.m. The message she’d ignored in the panicked rush to the LAU Med ER and ignored in her frenzied escape. A few hours later and her friend was gone forever. Seeing the message in black and white now made Sylvie’s tragic death heartbreakingly real. If only Ana had called Sylvie back, might she have been able to save her?

“This makes no sense.” Ana showed the screen to Courtney.

“Eyes only, al-Harbi. Op. Y2K 34.058710–118.442183. Beats me.”

“Look, more numbers,” Ana said, pointing. “31, 12, 99, 23, 59. Think it’s a code?”

 “Dunno. Sylvie must have been trying to tell you something. An address, a phone number?” Courtney grabbed a piece of paper and copied it all down. “Could be a phone number. Seven digits and an area code.”

“It’s not written like one. And L.A. is 310, not 311.” Ana motioned to Courtney. “Give me your phone.”

Ana dialed the numbers, and, to her surprise, heard the phone ring. She put the call on speaker.

“Los Angeles Citywide Services Directory. Routine and nonemergency City Services and L.A. Fire Department. How can we assist you?”

Ana switched off the call, confused. “Fire Department? Why wouldn’t she call 911?”

Courtney shrugged. “Any other text messages?”

Ana punched the keys on Sylvie’s phone once again. “Just a couple of voicemails. 323 area code. Let me try.” She entered 123 and listened for the voice mail ring.

“You know her password?”

“Maybe.” When cued, Ana tried Sylvie knowing Sylvie used it for her e-mail. The entry failed.

“How about her last name?” Courtney suggested, taking a long sip of her screwdriver.

Ana tried Pauzé. “No luck.” When the system gave a third prompt, she scratched her head, thinking of her last conversation with Sylvie. Plan B. Payless shoes, Remember—Could that be it?

Ana entered Payless and within seconds, a male voice was shouting at them through the speaker: “Hey, what happened? Where the fuck are you?”

Ana saved the call and pressed the button for the second message. Same voice, a few hours later. And, this time, much more abusive.

Even Courtney seemed offended by the string of expletives. “Shit, that guy is pissed! Recognize the voice?”

“It’s not Kaye’s goon, for sure.”

Courtney grabbed the phone from Ana’s hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Shhh.” Courtney retrieved the number on the cell and pushed call. She held up the phone on speaker mode so they could both listen. After three rings, the call was picked up. “You have reached LAPD West Los Angeles Precinct Main Office. If you know your party’s extension...”