Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (38 page)

The mob pushed into the center of the boulevard, forming a human barricade that stopped traffic. More policemen appeared from each end of the block. Frustrated drivers of late-model luxury cars began honking horns. Some even rolled down their windows to curse or make rude gestures as the homeless approached.

Fascinated, Courtney neared the slow-moving group, just when a half dozen uniformed men jumped from a Beverly Hills Police Department van that had pulled over to the curb. A gray-haired officer used a megaphone to order everyone out of the street. Unyielding, the protesters continued their march while additional cars backed up and added to the cacophony of horns and cries.

One homeless woman a few feet ahead of Courtney picked up a chipped brick and hurled it through the window of a jewelry store, setting off the security alarm and triggering police whistles. Courtney turned as two policemen jogged up, shouting instructions inaudible amidst the chaos. She tried to step aside, but felt her shoulders and arms pinned back, and her body knocked to the ground.

Handcuffs? She was being arrested! “Wait!” she cried, when the two officers lifted her up and shoved her toward the paddy wagon. “I’m not one of them, I’m Courtney Phillips!”

“Yeah, and I’m Britney Spears,” one of the officers snickered, shoving her through the open van doors, alongside a few equally unwashed companions.

Within minutes, the van filled with demonstrators under arrest, none sympathetic to Courtney’s protestations. It jolted as its driver backed out of the melee, using the sidewalk to take the first wave of prisoners to the Beverly Hills courthouse and jail. Knocked off her feet, Courtney rolled into a corner of the van.

Cursing her bad luck, she knew it would be hours before she could call her lawyer. Sammy Greene and Ana’s father would assume she’d stood them up. Again.

Ana used the diner’s pay phone to call Teddy’s foster mother. “I spoke with your husband. I’m Sylvie, Ana Pappajohn’s friend,” she said, affecting Sylvie’s Quebecois accent.

“That poor girl. So young,” Mrs. Darden cleared her throat, “I didn’t have the heart to tell Teddy.”

Ana hated the ruse, but she had no choice. “Um, I was wondering if I could come by this morning and see my—see Teddy.”

“You just missed him. The social worker came by—”

Ana felt her stomach tighten. “Social worker?”

“A family wants to adopt him.” Mrs. Darden sniffled. “It’s all so sudden. If we were younger, we’d adopt him ourselves. We love the boy. I asked if he could stay until New Year’s, but the social worker said the family expects him today. I only had time to pack a few clothes. We forgot his Game Boy.”

It took all Ana’s self-control not to shout into the phone. “What was her name?”

“The social worker?” Mrs. Darden blew her nose. “Gosh, I don’t remember. But I’m pretty sure her accent was Russian.”

Russian? Ana dropped her own faux accent, screaming, “Oh, my God!”

“Where the hell are they?” Pappajohn finished his second round of coffee and waved for the waitress to refill his cup.

“They’ll be here. It’s only ten after.” Sammy said. “Go easy on the caffeine, okay?”

Pappajohn glared at her. “This actress. Fool me once—”

Sammy nodded, weary. “But the cross?”

Pappajohn laid the cross on the Formica table. It glistened under the fluorescent lights. “Shame on me,” he muttered.

“She’s alive! Then who’s in the ashcan?”

“Sylvie Pauzé, according to CODIS. Looks like you got punked, bro.”

Miller slammed down the receiver, his fury mounting. It was the second interruption that morning. First the Arab’s screwup and now Kaye. This call had confirmed his suspicions. Maybe the madam could pull the wool over the eyes of others. But swindle him? Dean of Special Ops? Not a chance. And certainly not now, with the future of the country at stake. He’d waited eight long years for the chance to help his world vision find a home in the White House. Offense, not defense. Preemptive tactics. That was the way to keep enemies at bay. Why couldn’t those soft-bellied Washington elites understand? Well, no matter. By the strike of midnight tomorrow they would all be uniting in the call for military revenge.

In the meantime, he had to deal with yet another complication, eliminate certain loose ends. Otherwise his plan could literally blow up in his face. He picked up the phone again. Still, nothing to lose sleep over. To Miller, it was the necessary cost of getting the job done. After all, in any war, one had to expect collateral damage.

Sammy frowned as she exited Nate’s with an angry Pappajohn in tow. Red lights flashed in the distance, a line of cars were backed up for blocks. “What’s going on?” she asked, handing her parking stub to the valet.

“Homeless protest.” The attendant stamped her ticket and asked for eight dollars. “Cops arresting everyone.”

Momzers! The Canyon City tower collapses and the rich of Beverly Hills still can’t open their hearts to show a little real charity. Sammy shook her head, thinking she’d report this tonight on her show. A good follow-up to her focus on the homeless.

The buxom policewoman shoved Courtney into the holding cell with a dozen other women from the protest.

“I get a call, bitch. I know my rights! My lawyer will have your balls!” Courtney shrieked as the door slammed shut.

“I’ll put you on the waiting list,” the policewoman laughed on her way down the hall.

Courtney kicked the bars in frustration, grimacing at the pain in her toes. How had she ended up here? Her last album had made Billboard’s Top 10. They’d even taken her cell phone. And left her to rot in this stinkpot with—these people. This game wasn’t fun any more.

There was no room for Courtney on the benches, which were bolted to the concrete floor. Not that she wanted to be too close to any of these women. She chose a corner spot where she could feign a sense of privacy and think. Dammit all, she’d really messed up. Now Sammy Greene would never believe she’d told the truth about Ana. Ana would be waiting at the diner, maybe with Teddy, and no one would come.

Fucked up royally. She reached for her flask. Jeez, they’d taken that, too. Not only would she be stuck here for who knew how long, but she’d be stuck here sober.

A wave of panic washed over Ana like a tsunami. Teddy gone? She had no doubt the social worker with a Russian accent was Kaye. Why had she ever told Sylvie—a pipeline to Kaye—about her son? She closed her eyes, breathing in and out, forcing calm. She needed to think.

Trembling, she checked the diner’s wall clock—12:05 p.m. Even if her father agreed to come, he wouldn’t arrive for an hour. She couldn’t wait. Who knew what Kaye was capable of? She’d already tried to have Ana killed. What if she was behind Sylvie’s death?

Fishing in her pocket for the phone card she’d purchased, Ana dialed the memorized number. When the call was finally picked up, she didn’t wait for a greeting, but blurted into the receiver, “I know you have my son. Let’s make a deal.”

“Now what?” Sammy asked, maneuvering away from the Beverly Hills traffic. She glanced over at Pappajohn, sitting stone-faced in the passenger seat. Still clutching the cross in his right fist, his steely expression belied the pain in his tired eyes. How could Courtney have been so heartless? What could she possibly gain by such a cruel hoax?

“Reed might have the preliminary DNA. Shall I swing by the hospital to check?”

Pappajohn shook his head. “Can you take me to the West L.A. PD? Ortego promised he’d have the lab rush the results.”

Nodding, Sammy executed a U-turn on Wilshire, then swung a left onto Santa Monica Boulevard.

They arrived at the police station twenty minutes later only to learn that Ortego had already gone off shift. “Where I’d like to be,” De’andray said, still working at his desk. He lay down his pen. “Winds’ve picked up and I’m seeing another wave of double duty coming. How long you two gonna stay on my case?”

“As long as you’re not working on our case,” Pappajohn replied. “We need the DNA results from the taxi. Emilio said they’d be ready today. Courtney Phillips insists Ana’s alive.”

De’andray rolled his eyes. “Look, can’t you see you’ve been conned? Assuming the girl you met is Courtney Phillips, she’s hardly a reliable witness. Who knows what game she’s playing.”

“Do you have the results?” Sammy interrupted.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” De’andray pulled a single sheet from under his stack of files. “According to CODIS,” he read, using the acronym for the Combined DNA Index System, “one sample belonged to Costas “Gus” Pappajohn.” He looked up and added, “still alive to harass me.”

“And the other?” Pappajohn demanded, not smiling.

“Sylvie Pauzé.”

Pappajohn’s exhalation sounded like a deflating balloon.

“Look, Pops,” De’andray said, “I’m sorry for your loss, but,  Emilio had no business wasting county resources on this nonsense. The sooner you accept your daughter’s death, the better off—”

Shaking his head, Pappajohn spun on his heels and marched out of the station.

Sammy watched him go, then looked back at De’andray, furious. “Are you trying to destroy the man?”

“I’m doing my job,” De’andray said, his tone defensive.

“With the incompetence I’ve seen around here, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone screwed up those results,” Sammy said. “Right or wrong, a young woman died on Christmas Eve. Ana Pappajohn or Sylvie Pauzé. Burned to death. Murdered, according to the evidence. Yet you’ve decided neither deserve your attention because of the lives they lived. You think Gus Pappajohn’s a bad father, so you give him short shrift. Even though he’s a fellow cop, a man who took two bullets once doing his job.” Barely stopping to draw a breath, Sammy threw up her hands. “When we finally got close to finding Sylvie, Ana, whoever, you had to go and mess that up by calling in the INS. Lucky for you, your partner’s willing to take up the slack, but—”

De’andray sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and frowned. “Listen here, Greene.”

“You know what?” Sammy said, glaring. “I’m done listening.” With that she turned and strode off, leaving a wary-looking De’andray behind.

Outside she found Pappajohn waiting by the Tercel, one hand rubbing his upper abdomen.

“My gut’s telling me De’andray’s off base,” Pappajohn muttered, his jaw set tight. “I think I would like to have a talk with your friend, Reed.”         

Even before Sammy had pulled off the West L.A. PD lot, De’andray was on the phone, calling his contact.

“You have something I want and vice versa,” Kaye said, obviously expecting Ana’s call. “I’m sure we can make a trade.”

My darling Teddy! “Where can we meet?” Ana asked, frantic to get Teddy back and end the nightmare. Let Kaye have her stupid client list. Teddy was all that mattered. Her father had been right. It’s the choices we make. Nothing was worth Teddy’s life.

“Huntington Pier. I’ll pick you up at two thirty.” Kaye was off the line before Ana could argue.

Ana’s eye caught the old analog clock hanging precariously on the diner’s wall—12:20. Just two hours to run back to the shelter where Courtney had stashed the Vespa and drive it forty miles south to the seaside rendezvous. Nodding at the friendly waitress, Ana stepped out onto the sidewalk and was hit by a sharp gust of warm wind. Santa Anas were back with a vengeance. She prayed they wouldn’t blow the Vespa right off Pacific Coast Highway.

Teddy was growing nervous. His cerebral palsy may have led the other kids to call him a “gimp,” but the condition didn’t mean he was dumb. In fact, Mrs. Darden had told him his IQ tested at 140. “You’re a genius,” she’d marveled.

He’d really liked the older lady who’d been his foster mom for the past year, had hoped this time to make a permanent home with her and her husband—at least until his mother took him back. Someday.

Ana. He liked saying her name.

“I’m finally getting my act together,” she’d told him on her last visit. “No more drugs.”

“What about—the other stuff?” Streetwise beyond his years, Teddy guessed the nature of his mother’s work.

“No more of that either,” she’d promised. “I’ll get a real job and take you home.”

So why hadn’t his mother come? Even if she wasn’t ready to have him live with her, he’d expected a holiday visit. He wanted to thank her for the Game Boy. Thanksgiving they’d had turkey at the local IHOP—Ana and the Dardens. She’d made him promise not to open his Christmas package early. The Game Boy was cool, but he would gladly trade it for her being there, feeling her arms around him. And, now, in all the rush, he’d left her gift behind.

Teddy scratched his head. Why had this social worker come to take him to another family today? Mrs. Darden had hugged him tighter than she ever had before, kissed his head, and handed him over without any real explanation. “I’m so sorry,” was all she’d said as she’d waved goodbye. Something in the kind woman’s face had made him leery. She looked sad. And worried.

And, now, swerving down the freeway with this dark-haired stranger driving, Teddy was really confused. First there was the car. Teddy had made a hobby of knowing every model of automobile on the road. This woman’s brand new Porsche had to cost a whole lot more than most of the L.A. County social workers he’d met could afford.

And then there was her accent. At Mrs. Darden’s she’d sounded like Natasha, Boris’s evil sidekick from the Bullwinkle show he used to watch on Nickelodeon. Now she was on her cell talking to someone in a soft voice, with hardly an accent at all. Was she an actress too? And where the heck was she going? They were passing Long Beach going south. The next exit would take them into Orange County. That didn’t make sense either. He was supposed to stay in L.A. Better let her know she’d gone too far. “Excuse me.”

“Ta guile!” she yelled. Teddy had no idea what language she spoke, but the accompanying slap to his cheek knocked his glasses off, and nearly took his breath away, making any translation pointless.

Lou must have read Pappajohn’s anguished expression because there were no jokes and no smiles. Without even his usual wink at Sammy, he paged Dr. Wyndham STAT and ushered Sammy and Pappajohn into the empty doctors’ lounge.