Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (32 page)

“Between ten and eleven,” Sammy said.

The librarian leafed through the pages. “Here we are. Friday morning, December twenty-fourth, we had three women come in. Loretta Magid, Sylvie Pauzé, and—”

“That’s the one, Sylvie Pauzé,” Sammy cried, causing nearly every computer user to turn a head her way.

The librarian frowned. “Has she committed a crime?”

“No, ma’am. She may be a witness to one.” Pappajohn lowered his voice. “Do you have an address, a phone number? Some other contact information?”

“Well, they do have to show ID,” the librarian said. “I vaguely remember her, come to think of it. A blonde, right?”

“Right,” Pappajohn responded. “Did Sylvie say anything to you? About where she was going, what she wanted to do?”

“No, just that she needed to use the computer.” The librarian seemed lost in thought. “I do remember that she fell asleep on one of the chairs in the back. Must have been there most of the day. We were closing early ’cause of the fires and—”

“Did you see any scratches on her legs?” Sammy interrupted.

“No, I believe she wore trousers. Slacks, jeans.”

Pappajohn reached into his pocket and produced the photo of Ana and Sylvie. “She was one of these two, right?”

The librarian pulled her head back, straining to study the images. “I need a new pair of glasses. My arms aren’t long enough any more.” She squinted to focus. “They look so much alike. It’s hard for me to see, but I believe that is she.”

Pappajohn and Sammy did a double take. For the second time that morning, a witness was pointing to Ana.

“That’s the one you want, isn’t it?” the librarian asked.

Pappajohn’s voice quavered. “You’re certain this is the girl you saw?”

The librarian shrugged. “I see so many people here. No, it could be either one. I’m not sure.”

Pappajohn nodded, thanked her, and headed out with Sammy at his heels.

“Look, Gus, we will find Sylvie,” Sammy tried to comfort him. “Jim got a call this morning from a woman who says she knows where Sylvie is. I’m going to meet her at the California Science Center at three in the IMAX theatre. How about I take you to the police station so you can drop off the blood sample while I have lunch with my father. Take a cab when you’re done and meet me at the theatre. Hopefully, we’ll get answers from somewhere today.”

“I’d been hoping for answers here this morning,” Pappajohn said. “Now all I have are more questions.”

Ana pulled the Vespa into a space just vacated by a blue compact. The car was too far away to be sure of the make, but it looked like a Toyota Tercel, a model she’d been saving for back when she’d planned for a better future. Or any kind of a future for that matter.

Courtney’s cognac bottles rattled in the storage bin of the scooter as Ana dismounted and set up the kickstands. Who would have thought the liquor store would be so crowded at this hour of the morning? Seemed as though everyone wanted to try their luck with the lottery today. The Super Lotto pot had grown to nearly seventy million dollars.

Ana had spent some of her time in the checkout line imagining the wonderful life she and Teddy could have if she became the lucky winner. She’d even bought a ticket, just for the heck of it, knowing the odds of winning were less than being struck by lightning. Like Sylvie’s her bad luck had been a lightning strike. Wasn’t it time for a little good luck?

Pushing open the doors to the computer center, she headed for the check-in desk where she handed over Sylvie’s driver’s license.

The librarian glanced at the ID, then back at Ana, her forehead creasing.

“Something wrong?” Ana felt her pulse quicken.

“Would you mind taking a seat over there?” The librarian pointed to an empty chair in the corner. “I need to check something with my supervisor.” She reached for the phone, then turned her back as Ana started to walk away. “West L.A. precinct?”

Although the librarian spoke in a whisper, her words were loud enough for Ana to hear. The police! By the time the librarian glanced back, Ana had grabbed Sylvie’s license off the counter and disappeared.

De’andray was headed out of the building when Sammy dropped Pappajohn in front of the West L.A. precinct station. The tall detective rolled his eyes as he watched Pappajohn climb out of the car. “Man, thought I’d finally get out of here on time today. What do you two want now?”

“Just me.” Pappajohn’s tone was all business. He held up a brown paper bag. “Got something for you. Let’s go inside.”

The detective followed Pappajohn back into the building as Sammy drove off. At De’andray’s desk, Pappajohn pulled over an adjacent chair and sat down. “So, you got any news for me? Have you found Sylvie?”

De’andray pressed his lips together. “No and no. We do have other priorities right now.” He pointed to the window where haze from the fires had colored the sky beige.

“Finding a murder witness was always a priority at Boston PD.” Pappajohn laid the brown paper bag on the officer’s desk. “The cab driver who picked up Sylvie in Westwood said her arms and legs were all scratched. He dropped her off in Santa Monica—after the murder. I got some blood samples from the taxi for you to confirm her DNA.”

“Look, Gramps, don’t you know what retired means? You’re not a detective anymore. Stay the hell out of police business.”

Pappajohn shot to his feet and leaned on the desk with both arms. “You want me to take this public? LAPD refuses to investigate a murder?”

“You and your bigmouthed radio friend have already done enough damage,” De’andray responded. “Get it through your thick head. Your daughter’s death was an accident. Get out of here or I’ll have you busted for interfering with an active investigation.”

“Active?” Pappajohn sputtered. “What investigation? You’re doing nothing, and that’s criminal!”

“Hey, hey.” Ortego stood at the door of the conference room. “In here. Both of you. Now.”

De’andray smirked, shrugged, then rose and went inside.

Pappajohn grabbed the paper bag before following.

Taking seats at opposite ends of the table, Pappajohn and De’andray continued to glare at each other like prizefighters in a ring, while Ortego, the referee, tried to make peace. “So, how can we help?” he asked.

Pappajohn quickly brought him up to speed, handing him the blood sample “We know Sylvie was in Santa Monica the morning after the murder. If she was a witness, she may be hiding from the police. Or the murderers.”

Ortego nodded. “Of course, Gus. We’ll run DNA on the sample. I’ll ask the lab to rush it. But, if Sylvie was picked up in Westwood, how’d she get there? Her car was parked in Bel Air, not far from where your daughter’s body was found, actually. Why didn’t she use that to get away?”

Pappajohn threw up his hands. “I don’t know. Maybe the, uh, murderer kidnapped both women, and dropped Ana’s body—” His voice cracked. “If he heard Ana was still alive at the hospital, he may have gone there, and, in the crowd, Sylvie could have made a run for it?”

Another smirk from De’andray, “You’re grasping at straws, Pops.”

Pappajohn shook his head. “I know Sylvie was in that cab. The driver ID’d her. How and why she got there is your job to figure out.”

“You’re right, Gus,” Ortego said. “And we will. Why don’t you come with me? We’ll drop the blood off at the lab. Let Dee here go home and get his beauty sleep, okay?”

Pappajohn nodded as he stood. “I just have one thing for you to think about,” he said to De’andray. “The ME cremated her—against my religion and my wishes. You’re the detective. Ask yourself why. And while you’re at it, ask why that same ME just happened to end up a burn victim himself.”

“Hey, miss, you can’t go in there!”

Ignoring the triage nurse who’d jumped up to follow her, Sammy barged through the double doors into the emergency room’s care area. She looked past patients moaning on gurneys, doctors shouting orders, and technicians delivering supplies, and waved at Lou seated at the central nurses’ station.

“Hey, Red!” Lou broke out in a broad grin.

The triage nurse wasn’t so happy. “Look, lady, I said, you can’t—⁠”

“It’s okay,” Lou intervened. “I’ve got her. She’s Dr. Wyndham’s—”

“Good friend,” Sammy finished the introduction. Whether her status with Reed was more at this point remained to be seen, but there was no doubt that they were good friends. She’d figure out the rest later.

The nurse pointed at Lou’s ID. “Visitor’s badge then. You know the policy.” She spun around and thrust open the double doors to exit back toward the triage desk.

“Sure do,” Lou handed Sammy a pink visitor’s pass from the drawer, and started penciling in her name. “That’s Greene with an ‘e,’ right? By the way, I’ve been following your show. Any luck on finding the missing roommate?”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” Sammy said. “Could you page Reed, I mean Dr. Wyndham? I need to talk to him.”

“No problem. You can wait in the doctors’ break room.”

Thanking him, Sammy headed toward the lounge. Pushing open the door with her shoulder, she collided with Michelle coming out, scattering charts on the polished linoleum floor. “I’m really sorry,” she said, stooping to help.

“Sorry for bumping into me or sorry for driving Reed crazy?” Michelle grabbed the charts from Sammy’s hands as they both stood.

“What are you talking about?” Sammy hoped the rising heat she felt on her cheeks wasn’t a blush. Had Reed said something about the other night?

“You’re kidding, right?” Michelle glared at her. “I don’t get it. Weren’t you the one who broke up with him years ago? Now you storm back into his life and start messing with his head again.”

Sammy tried to suppress her bubbling anger. “Messing with his head?”

“He hasn’t been himself lately. And it’s affecting his work.” Michelle grimaced with impatience. “Don’t you care about him?”

“Of course I care.”

“Then why can’t you let him move on?”

He has moved on. At least that’s what Reed had told Sammy. That he was now officially playing the field. Had he neglected to tell Michelle? Sammy took a deep breath and forced herself to remain calm. “I don’t know what he’s said to you, but Reed and I are still friends. And as far as moving on—well, I think that’s his decision to make.”

Sammy marched over to the other end of the room, grabbed a journal from the magazine rack and plopped down on the lumpy couch. Ignoring Michelle, she leafed through the tattered copy of JAMA. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

She didn’t look up until she heard Michelle leave, slamming the door behind her. Alone, Sammy laid the magazine on her lap and closed her eyes, pondering Michelle’s accusations. She thought back to that weekend two years ago in Boston when she and Reed decided to call it quits. They’d had a good run. But the show was closed by bitter words, said in anger. And fear.

It wasn’t exactly true that she’d ended the relationship. Though they’d ultimately both agreed, it was Reed who’d pushed her buttons with his upsetting question. What are you afraid of?

Afraid of being abandoned the way her father had abandoned her? But Reed was not Jeffrey Greene. Unlike her father, Reed had always been there for her, offering himself in a way that was both selfless and self-assured, and totally consuming.

Reed’s words so many years ago: I thought we had something special.

Of course we do. We—

Not special enough to deserve your full attention.

Now that’s not fair. We both have lots to do.

True, but I’m at the bottom of your to-do list.

Was that it? Sammy wondered. Was her ambition standing in the way? Was she afraid of somehow losing herself in total commitment? All her life she’d worked hard to appear unflappable, becoming the self-assured, tough kid, keeping emotions bottled up, the paragon of self-control. Then she’d met Reed. He’d poked beneath the surface, sensed her vulnerability, and tried to help her understand there was nothing wrong with leaning on someone once in a while, that it wasn’t so bad to lose a little of that control.

She smiled, thinking of the other night when they’d made love. She’d done just that—lost control. Reed was right, it wasn’t so bad. In fact, it felt wonderful falling asleep next to him again.

Sammy sighed. It had taken many years, but she’d finally gotten over the guilt of her mother’s suicide. How long would it take to get over her fear to commit?

“Earth to Greene.”

Sammy opened her eyes. “Reed, I didn’t hear you come in. I was daydreaming.”

“Since you were smiling, can I assume it wasn’t a nightmare?” He settled into a space next to her on the couch.

“Definitely not a nightmare,” she said, studying his face. His thick shock of sandy hair needed a trim, his eyes were red and bleary, probably from all the extra duty he’d been pulling since the fires. She’d gotten used to that look, his near-constant state of exhaustion. She just hoped Michelle wasn’t right—that his work was suffering—and worse, that she was the cause. ”Hey, it’s good to see you.”

“Me, too,” he replied. “So, Lou called me. What’s up?”

Sammy reached into her purse and pulled out a paper bag.

Reed raised an eyebrow as she handed it to him. “My lunch?”

“Blood sample. We think it may be Sylvie’s. Ana’s roommate.”

“We?”

“Pappajohn and me.” Sammy began to relate what had ensued since the night Reed had called with the autopsy report.

“My God, cremated?” Reed ran his hand through his hair. “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Sammy said. “You were right. There’s no doubt of a cover-up now.”

“Hold it. I never said— How’d you jump to that conclusion?”

“We tried to talk to Dr. Gharani yesterday. The people at the morgue claimed he’d left with some kind of family emergency. So we drove out to his house.”

“And?”

“And he wasn’t home.”

“You said he had an emergency.”

“Today, we went back for answers.” Sammy paused for effect. “Gharani’s house burned down last night. With him in it. He’s dead, Reed. I’d say that was a pretty convenient coincidence.”

Reed whistled. “Wow. What do the police say?”

“I think they’re finally paying attention. At least Detective Ortego seems to be. Gus is at the precinct now dropping off a blood sample we found for forensics.”