Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (28 page)

But the connection was broken, the caller having long ago hung up.

With a short stop for lunch, it was a little past two p.m. when Sammy turned into the parking lot at the L.A. County morgue. Pappajohn had called the funeral home and asked to delay Ana’s pickup until the next day, hoping Dr. Gharani could reopen the autopsy and investigate their concerns. Pappajohn didn’t wait for Sammy before heading down the stairs to the basement level.

An Indian woman in a white coat over a colorful sari stopped them in the hall. Sammy guessed the doctor was in her mid-thirties. Probably just out of residency. “Sorry sir, the public’s not allowed down here.”

“I have an appointment with Dr. Gharani,” Pappajohn told her.

“The doctor was called out this morning. Some kind of family emergency.”

“Well, maybe you can help me,” Pappajohn read her name tag, “Dr. Mehta.” He quickly told her why he’d come, that he needed to have someone in the ME’s office reexamine the body.

“I’m pretty new here. I—”

“Please, doctor. Ana was my only child. If she was murdered, I have to know.”

His appeal had the desired effect. “Okay, have a seat in here,” she said ushering them into a tiny cubicle off the sterile hallway. “Let me see what I can find out.”

Less than five minutes later, Dr. Mehta returned with the same African-American clerk who’d helped them before. Instead of a smile, now she appeared anxious. “Mr. Pappajohn, I don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” Pappajohn asked, rising.

“You called to have your daughter cremated. That’s what Dr. Gh—”

“Cremated?” he screamed, slapping his forehead with his hands. “The-eh mou! Ochi! Einai amartia!”

Sammy took Pappajohn’s hand and gently urged him into the chair. Shaking his head and muttering in Greek, he finally looked up, his expression pure anguish, his face wet with tears. “You don’t understand. We don’t cremate in the Greek Orthodox Church. The body is God’s creation and cannot be burned. It’s a mortal sin!”

Clearly distraught herself, the clerk apologized. “We’re so very sorry. We didn’t know that. Dr. Gharani said he spoke to you.”

“I would never consent to cremation!” Pappajohn insisted. “And I haven’t spoken to Gharani since I was here last week.” Pappajohn buried his face in his hands. “I’d hoped Ana’s path to heaven would be free of struggle.”

Sammy turned to the two women. “Give us Dr. Gharani’s address. We’ve got to find out how this horrible mistake happened.” It was as much demand as request. How much more should Gus have to endure?

The clerk chewed her lip. “I don’t have his address. Only his emergency number. I could call and see if you could talk to him.”

“I have his address and his cell phone number,” Dr. Mehta interjected, her eyes moist at the sight of Pappajohn. She raised a hand at the clerk. “I know it’s not protocol, but I respect traditions. And this man needs to find out why Dr. Gharani didn’t.”

“Okay that should do it.” Bishop quickly deflated the balloon in Prescott’s right coronary, removing it along with the catheter. “No muscle damage. Looks like our patient dodged another bullet.” He slipped off his gloves, putting one over the other, and tossed them neatly into the trash bucket.

Reed found himself exhaling a deep breath. Throughout the thirty-five-minute procedure, he’d been second guessing his actions the night Prescott had come into the ER. Between little sleep and his shock at hearing Sammy’s voice after so much time, he wondered if he’d been too distracted, perhaps had missed something. “That artery was barely occluded when I did the original angio,” he stammered.

Michelle, who’d been allowed to observe the procedure, looked puzzled. An unwritten rule residents all learned early was not to call attention to mistakes. However, Bishop’s mentoring had taught Reed that owning up to errors produced better patient outcomes, even if one’s reputation lost a bit of shine.

Expecting criticism, Reed was surprised that Bishop merely nodded. “Obviously flipped another clot. Happens more than you know.” He strode over to the door and pulled off his mask and surgical gown “All yours, Dr. Wyndham. I’ve got to run to an Emergency Operations committee meeting. Hang a heparin drip and get him back to CCU. Looks like he won’t be going home til after Y2K.”

“No, Op . . . Y . . . ” Prescott muttered, shaking his head..“Home. Friday. Y2 . . .”

“He’s coming out of it,” Bishop said. “Let’s keep him sedated for the next twelve to twenty-four hours. And no TV,” he added as he left the procedure room.

Twenty minutes later with Prescott settled in the CCU and Michelle headed back to the ward, Reed pressed the button for the express elevator down to the first floor, lost in thought. Prescott’s mumbling had reminded him of the conversation he’d overheard the other night outside the VIP suite between Prescott and another man. Reed hadn’t recognized the voice then and he never saw the man’s face. But he had caught some of of his words.

Op  . . . Y . . . Home, Friday . . .Y2.

Thinking back, Reed was certain the man had mentioned Prescott getting discharged before Friday and something about an Operation Y2K.

Thick clouds of smoke blowing south from the Cahuenga Pass made the stop-and-go freeway traffic unbearable, so Sammy decided to exit and take Sunset Boulevard to the medical examiner’s home. For her, the long thoroughfare that cut a twisted swatch from downtown’s Olvera Street Latino district westward to the Pacific near Malibu and its lavish ocean view villas was a study in contrasts that no words could describe. She’d traveled it only once since she’d come to live here, amazed by the changing landscapes along the winding boulevard’s twenty or so miles.

Today her route ended in West Hollywood, a diverse region of apartments, homes, restaurants, and boutiques. Rich and not so rich mingled in its inclusive borders that were much more welcoming for Sammy than the opulent mansions and wide, treelined avenues of Beverly Hills or Bel Air. To Sammy, those neighborhoods looked plastic, like an upscale Main Street at Disneyland.

In West Hollywood, the character was more eccentric. Many of the homes were vintage bungalows from the 1920s, others were modern and gleaming with glass and steel. The streets, even on a smoky, windy day like today, were filled with seniors and young families, refugees from Europe and the Middle East, straights and gays. A careful observer would note a polyglot of languages, an assortment of lifestyles. Almost like Sammy’s memories of Brooklyn in her childhood.

Sammy drove by several trendy-looking shops and nightspots before she found Westbourne Drive. Slowing the car, she rolled down her window to stop a couple of handsome men stylishly dressed in muscle shirts and low-cut jeans strolling arm in arm. Both wore paper face masks, presumably as protection against the effects of the smoky air. “We’re looking for 3148. Around here?”

They pointed toward the end of the block.

Sammy parked in front of a weather-beaten bungalow. The rusty mailbox bore a hand-printed Gharani. The lawn displayed a prominent For Sale sign. This won’t sell anytime soon, Sammy speculated, eyeing the chipped paint and loose shingles of the tiny house.

Sammy glanced at Pappajohn. On the surface he appeared composed, but she had little doubt he was holding back his fury. Both she and Pappajohn were now convinced Gharani possessed the key to the mystery of Ana’s death. Otherwise, why bother to whitewash the autopsy, then eliminate all evidence that might prove his daughter was murdered? “Ready?”

Pappajohn nodded.

They got out of the car and walked over the cracked pathway to the front of the house. Sammy searched for a bell, but saw only a few ragged wires sticking out of a hole by the door. She knocked several times.

No answer.

Pappajohn tried rapping more loudly, then banging with his bulky fist. Still no response. They peeked through the front windows, but the house inside was dark. And there was no sign of activity in the yard.

Pappajohn waved at Sammy, then took off around the house. A few minutes later, he returned, shaking his head. “Looks like no one’s home.”

“The clerk said he had some kind of emergency. Maybe we should call,” suggested Sammy, pulling out her phone. Shortly after punching in the first number, a traditional ring trilled from the house. Sammy let the phone ring for several minutes before giving up. Frustrated, she tried Gharani’s cell. After a few rings, she snapped her phone shut. “Not in service at this time.”

“I’ll wait,” Pappajohn said tersely.

“I know how you feel, Gus, but, Gharani could be gone for a long time. Even out of town.” She sighed. “I’d stay here with you, but I promised my stepmother I’d meet her for dinner in Orange County. If the traffic earlier was a hint of rush hour, I’ll just have time to drop you off at home and hit the road.”

“Okay, but we’re coming back tomorrow,” Pappapjohn said, following her to the car.

As they drove off, neither noticed the black Lincoln parked at the other end of the block whose tinted windows hid the two men who’d been following them all day.

Ignoring the plumes of smoke rising from the hills outside his panoramic window, Miller sat at his desk, concentrating, meticulously going over every phase of the operation, making sure there were no loopholes, nothing that could go wrong. His thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of his phone.

“We’ve found the girl. MILSTAR traced her to a location in Malibu. We’ve ID’d the house as belonging to a Courtney Phillips.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Miller said, genuinely surprised.

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“You boys close?”

“ETA twenty minutes, unless we hit road closures. You want us to bring them in?”

“Yes, indeedy. That I do.” Miller’s voice dropped several decibels. “And here’s how it’s going to go down.”

Sammy walked into the living room just as Pappajohn was hanging up the phone. She’d only had time for a quick shower, but she had to get the stink of the smoke and the morgue out of her hair. A speedy blow-dry, a long sleeved blouse, and a clean pair of jeans, and she was ready for her reunion with Susan.

Pappajohn sat staring at his hands, his expression frozen in sadness. “The priest says we could do a modified service next week.” Though his voice was soft, Pappajohn’s tight fists betrayed his anger. “So at least her soul can rest in peace.”

Sammy nodded. She knew how hard it had been for Pappajohn to make that call.

“But, it’s still not . . .” Pappajohn struggled for the word. “Kosher.”

Despite the pressure of her ticking clock, Sammy sat down on the edge of the couch beside him. “I’ve never been terribly religious, but I’ve always believed that if there is a God, he’d understand and welcome people to heaven who tried their best.”

“I appreciate the thought, but neither Ana nor I fit in that group. We both screwed up. And God’s not giving us a second chance.” He looked at Sammy. “Does your God believe in regret?”

“You kidding? We’ve got a whole day for it. Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. We’ve got enough guilt to work on for a lifetime.”

Sammy was glad to see a glimmer of a smile. “You going to be okay tonight?”

“Yeah. Go see your stepmother. I’ll be fine. Might even be a good time to catch up with my friend, Keith. See if he’s got any information to help.”

Sammy stood and raised a finger. “Speaking of, I finally connected with the cab driver who claims he drove Sylvie the night of the fire.”

“And?” Pappajohn prompted.

“I made a date to meet him when he gets off shift at seven tomorrow. I want to show him Sylvie’s picture. See if he can identify her.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Of course,” Sammy said, grabbing her purse. Feeling a rush of affection for this big man who’d lost so much, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “There’s roast chicken in the fridge. Got it fresh from Whole Foods Market this morning on the way back from Building and Safety. Promise me you’ll eat and get some rest.”

“Promise me you’ll drive safely. Kai ta matia sou thekatessera.

Sammy raised an eyebrow.

“Old Greek expression. Meaning make your eyes fourteen. In other words, watch your back.”

Sammy winked. “Always do.” She closed and locked the door behind her, warmed by Pappajohn’s paternal warning and wishing her own father would have been as demonstrative.

As she slid into her car, Sammy shook her head. Pipe dream. Jeffrey Greene had never cared about anyone other than himself.

Waking from an alcohol-induced nap, Courtney discovered the lights dimmed, the TV on MUTE, and Ana staring at herself in the bedroom mirror.

“Shee-it, girl. What’s with the Elvira hair?”

“I found a bottle of Revlon Midnight Black under the sink.”

“I can see that. But Halloween was last month.”

“It’s not far from my natural color.” Ana turned to face her, “I want Teddy to recognize me—you know, before—Besides, everyone’s looking for a blonde.”

Courtney noted her own unkempt hair. “Shame I don’t have honey blonde dye. I’ve got enough people chasing me.” She pulled a few straggly strands from her face. “Or I could shave it off.”

“You’re not that drunk,” Ana said. “And,” her voice softened, “I’m glad.”

“I’m not,” Courtney muttered, though she didn’t reach for the nearly empty bottle of brandy.

A loud buzz made them both jump.

“What’s that?” Ana cried.

Courtney frowned. “Intercom. I’m not expecting anybody.”

“Whoever it is may not be here for you.” Ana ran over to the window.

“Get away from there!” Courtney ordered in a whisper. “And keep quiet.” She switched on a video screen mounted above her bed. “I have a security camera at the front gate.”

“Malibu Patrol!” boomed the voice over the intercom. “Open up.”

Courtney adjusted the picture. At five forty p.m. it was already dark outside, making it difficult to see details, but the fact that two stocky men dressed all in black stood at the entry was clear enough.

“Recognize them?”

Trembling, Ana shook her head.

“Open the gate, please. There’s a mandatory evacuation of everyone in the area.”