Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (31 page)

Pappajohn held his breath as the sound of keyboard clicks filled the background.

“ISP is Adelphia in Santa Monica, IP address is Santa Monica Library at six-oh-one Santa Monica Boulevard, and time sent is ten fifty-three a.m. 24 December. But—” Keith paused.

“But what?” Pappajohn pressed.

“The login’s not Ana.”

Not Ana.

With the phone pressed to his ear, Pappajohn lay back on Sammy’s bed and closed his eyes. He’d expected that answer. No last chance—for either of them.

“The system has a record of all the logins,” Keith reported. “This message comes from an account whose login is assigned to a Sylvie Pauzé.”

Jim was surprised to see a line blinking on the business office phone. He had a few minutes before the news ended, so he pressed the button. “KPCF.”

“Finally.” The woman’s whispered voice sounded impatient.

Jim increased the input volume. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, heard about the reward.”

Another opportunist. “Sorry, business office is closed. Call back tomorrow after nine. Or call on the request line tomorrow night at midnight for Sammy Greene.” He moved a finger to click the caller off.

“Yeah, good luck getting through. Been trying for hours. Don’t you want to find Sylvie Pauzé?”

Something about the woman’s tone kept Jim from hanging up. “Yes, we do.” He waited.

“Then tell Greene to meet me at the California Science Center, IMAX theatre, three p.m. show. I’ll be the blonde sitting inside. No cops.”

The call was disconnected, leaving Jim staring at the phone for a few moments before pulling out his cell and dialing Sammy’s number.

Pappajohn scribbled the information on the pad on Sammy’s night table. “Thanks Keith. I owe you one. And more.”

“Don’t mention it. Hey, Gus?”

“Yes?”

“How are you doing?”

Pappajohn let out a long, deep breath. It was a question he’d been asked over and over the last few days. “I’m doing,” he said.

“Well, let me know if there’s anything else you need,” Keith offered. “And, remember, there’s a job waiting for you here when you get back.”

Pappajohn replaced the handset in the charger and walked back to the desk with renewed determination. Sitting down at the computer, he clicked on his e-mail account. With no new messages in his in-box, he opened the saved one from Ana. For a long time he simply stared at the words,

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

I have more news.

Maybe that was the key. If Sylvie had sent this, perhaps she was asking Pappajohn to find her. And finding her would unlock the mystery of Ana’s death.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Wednesday,

December 29

At seven fifteen a.m. Sammy and Pappajohn stood on the sidewalk outside her apartment watching Sandoval wedge his yellow Checker taxi into a tight parking space, bumping cars on both ends. Stepping out of his cab, the beefy forty-something man reminded Sammy of how Pappajohn must have looked a decade earlier—when his bushy mustache was still dark. They were even the same height.

“Mr. Sandoval,” Sammy said, offering a handshake. “I’m Sammy Greene.”

“I’m too late,” he responded. “Fires, fires, fires. Sunset, Wilshire, Santa Monica. All closed. Maldita wind! Nobody going out this week. My business is screwed.” Unlike his wife, Sandoval spoke fairly good English, albeit still lightly seasoned with the accent of his native El Salvador.

Sammy brushed back wisps of hair from her face. “No problem. We appreciate your coming by.”

“You got the ten thousand?”

“Not til we find our girl. We hope you can help us.” She nodded at Pappajohn. “This here’s my buddy, Sergeant Pappajohn.”

Sandoval’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the deal?” He pointed to his chest with obvious pride. “American citizen. Fifteen years.”

“He’s a cop, not INS,” Sammy explained.

The wariness remained. “Hey, my taxi license, all my papers, they’re up to date.”

“We’re not interested in you,” Pappajohn assured him. “We want to know if you picked up a young blonde last Friday night.”

“Christmas Eve.” Sandoval pulled a much-used hankie from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Sí. I remember ’cause of the fires. Sunset was closed and Wilshire was jammed with cars. We had to take Santa Monica.” He smiled at Sammy. “We listened to you on the radio. Like I told the guy at the station.”

“Okay,” Sammy said. “And what time did you pick her up?”

“After midnight. Maybe two or three o’clock.”

“Can you check your log?” Pappajohn asked.

Sandoval opened the front door of the cab and leaned in to unlatch the glove compartment. He pulled out a ratty spiral notebook and flipped to a page, “Here it is. Two thirty-seven, Wilshire Boulevard, Westwood. Three forty-two, Ashland Street, Santa Monica. One hour to go five miles! Maldita fires!”

Sammy and Pappajohn stared at each other, acknowledging the street where Ana and Sylvie lived.

Pappajohn let out a deep breath and produced the snapshot of both girls. “Think you could identify the young woman?”

Sandoval took the photo and held it at arm’s length as he pulled out a pair of drugstore reading glasses from his pocket. Squinting, he studied the image of the two blondes. “Twins?”

“No,” Sammy replied, “but they do look alike.”

“Did you give a ride to one of these girls?” Pappajohn demanded.

Sandoval’s finger hovered over the picture, until, finally, he chose Ana. “I think it was this one.”

“Jesus,” Pappajohn mumbled, shaking his head. He pointed to Sylvie. “You sure it wasn’t this one?”

Sandoval scratched his chin for a long moment, then bobbed his head up and down. “Sí, that’s the one I gave the ride.”

Pappajohn leaned back against the cab and closed his eyes as Sammy gently probed. “Okay, you took her to Ashland. What address?”

Sandoval checked his log again. “She told me twenty-three twenty-five. But I remember. She jumped out a block away. Gave me a lousy two dollar tip for my trouble,” he grumbled. “Had to drive all the way back to LAU Med for another fare.”

“You said you picked her up in Westwood?”

“Promenade Towers on Wilshire. The doorman, he calls me, you know, we’re partn—” Sandoval stopped himself when Pappajohn opened one eye and turned in his direction.

“Anything you can tell us about her condition?” Sammy asked.

“She seemed muy nervioso, nervous. Could have been high,” Sandoval speculated. “I think maybe she was a pu—working on the streets, you know, very tight dress, high heels, and pink purse.” He looked at Pappajohn, waiting for a reaction and when none came, continued. “Didn’t talk much. Looked like she had a bad night. Arms, legs, all scratches. Even got blood on my backseat.”

Now Pappajohn stood up straight and opened the rear passenger door, triggering the roof light. A few streaks of blood stained the cloth seams where the girl’s calves must have rested.

Sammy winced at Sandoval’s lack of hygiene, but Pappajohn had already pulled out a wad of bills from his pocket, along with a Swiss Army knife. “Gus?”

“Three hundred dollars, and we take this patch. Get it reupholstered, or at least washed, okay?” Pappajohn thrust the bills at the driver, then reached over and started dissecting out a large swatch of the bloody upholstery. “Damn,” he cursed as he cut his finger and a couple beads of his own blood dripped onto the fabric. Ripping the sample into two sections, he handed them both to Sammy “Just hold the bottom. The evidence may already be degraded, but if we get this out of the sun and into paper bags right away, there’s a chance they contain enough DNA to make an ID.”

“Of course,” Sammy replied. If Sylvie had an arrest record as De’andray claimed, her DNA should be in the system. What better way to confirm that she’d left the area where Ana was killed than by placing her in this cab? Carefully balancing the samples, Sammy hurried up to her apartment, at the same time conjuring up a backup plan of her own.

“Police station, right?” Sammy aimed the Tercel north on Sepulveda, anticipating Pappajohn’s next move. She figured he’d want Ortego to run the blood sample, confirming Sylvie as the passenger in Sandoval’s cab.

“No, let’s go catch that creep ME, first. I don’t want to miss him again.”

Sammy nodded. Time for Gharani to explain his actions in what clearly seemed a cover-up for Ana’s murder.

West Hollywood’s clubs and restaurants blossomed in the night, and woke up slowly in the morning, but even at eight fifteen, Sunset Boulevard was unusually deserted. Though the winds had taken a short breather, the stench of smoke still kept most people indoors.

Sammy was about to turn onto Westbourne Drive when she noticed the entrance to Gharani’s street cordoned off with orange cones. A uniformed policewoman stationed behind a wooden barricade held up a palm to block both vehicle and pedestrian traffic. Nevertheless, a small crowd of gawkers, some dressed as if they’d just rolled out of bed, huddled nearby.

Sammy parked on Sunset and flew out of her car to ask what was going on. Pappajohn followed behind.

“Fire in the middle of the night. Woke us all up,” a grey-haired woman in a bathrobe complained.

“Damn Santa Anas. Every fucking year. Lucky it was only one house.” A tattooed man pointed toward the end of the street. Where the weather-beaten bungalow on the corner lot had once stood, was now a pile of blackened ashes. Yellow tape attached to one of the two standing pilings fluttered loosely in the hot breeze.

A coroner’s van was just pulling away from the curb.

“That’s Dr. Gharani’s,” Sammy cried. She raced up to the officer and flashed her press pass.

“Sorry, no one’s allowed until fire and police finish their investigation.”

“I was supposed to interview Dr. Gharani this morning.”

“You knew the victim?”

“Victim?” Sammy blanched. “You mean—”

“They just removed the body.”

“But how?” Sammy swiveled to see Pappajohn, breathing heavily, standing behind her.

The policewoman shook her head. “They don’t call these ‘devil winds’ for nothing. All around the city we’re seeing it. One house stands, another goes up—literally—in smoke. Terrible accident.” She shifted her attention to a neighbor about to cross the barricade. “Hey!”

Pappajohn, hovering on the brink of rage, waved Sammy over to an empty spot on the nearby sidewalk. His eyes were glued to the smoldering ruins now overrun by LAFD’s Arson Investigation Unit. “I don’t care what anyone says. This was no accident.” He nodded at the investigators. “And I’ll bet they don’t think so either.”

“Should we talk to them?” Sammy asked, looking for a way past the policewoman.

Pappajohn shook his head. “This loose end’s been tied up. Our only hope is to track down Sylvie.” He checked his watch. “Almost nine. Let’s see if we can follow her trail at the library.”

“Wake up.” Ana nudged Courtney’s shoulders. “Courtney, wake up.”

“Shhh!” Courtney lifted her head from the cot, her face registering a wave of nausea. It had been over twelve hours since she’d had a drink. “I’m Sylvie, remember?” she whispered.

“Right,” Ana swallowed the lump in her throat. “Sorry.”

“Why’d you wake me?” Courtney rubbed her temples, “What time is it?”

“Just before nine. The library opens in a few minutes. I want to send an e-mail to my father.”

Courtney groaned. “Why don’t you take the Vespa and let me sleep?”

“You don’t mind?”

“I mind not sleeping. And pick me up a few bottles of Korbel on the way, okay?” She rolled over on her side and covered her head with her sweater.

Seeing no choice, Ana took the scooter’s key from Courtney’s purse along with a few dollars.

“Mission accomplished.” Miller heard the caller say this time. “Smoking kills.”

He allowed himself a smile. “Any luck finding the girls?”

“Trail’s cold.”

“Not entirely,” Miller said. “Our tap of the radio station got us a bite. California Science Center at three p.m. IMAX Theatre. I’m betting it’ll be either Courtney or Sylvie.”

The Santa Monica library is a stately building just a few blocks from Ocean Avenue and the Pacific beyond. Today, its proximity to the ocean’s breeze provided an oasis of respite from the smoky haze hanging over the rest of Los Angeles. Sammy relished taking deep gulps of fresh air for the first time in days. Even Pappajohn seemed to breathe more easily.

“Keith tracked the IP address—the computer’s name, so to speak—to this library,” Pappajohn explained as they entered. “They probably have a bank of public-access computers Sylvie could have used.”

The young man at the information desk confirmed Pappajohn’s deduction, directing them to the second floor. Though the library had just opened, every PC in the Computer Center was already occupied. Pappajohn walked over to the front desk where a stern-looking, elderly librarian sat reading a book.

“Good morning.”

The librarian looked up. “ID, please.”

“Uh, no,” Pappajohn said. “I’m a police officer. I’d like to ask a few questions.”

“Santa Monica police?”

“I’m working with the West L.A. precinct of LAPD.” Pappajohn flashed his badge so quickly that only Sammy recognized the Ellsford University logo.

The librarian peered at both of them over her glasses. “What do you need?”

“We’re looking for a young woman, blonde, about five four, mid-twenties, who might have been here the morning of December twenty-fourth,” Pappajohn explained.

“You expect me to remember every single person who walks in this room?”

“Of course not.” Pappajohn produced a smile so charming that even Sammy was wowed. “But I expect you’ve got a sign-up sheet and log before you let anyone use the computers.”

The charm worked. The librarian’s sharp features softened. “As a matter of fact, I do.” She reached down to open a large drawer and removed a thick spiral notebook. “December twenty-fourth, let’s see. Do you know what time?”