Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (41 page)

“No, let me read this,” the operator replied, rustling the paper on which she had written the message. “Going down to Newport to see my father. Call my cell if you get the results today.”

A minute later a single ring was followed by: Due to the Santa Anas and the fires we are experiencing a number of outages in the area. Please try your call later.

Wondering whether to wait until Sammy returned from Newport, Reed decided it might be wise to let the police know they needed to double check that CODIS report.

Hanging up, he asked the operator for the number of the West L.A. police precinct and another outside line. This time the call went through and Reed found himself talking to Detective Montel De’andray.

Jeffrey Greene opened the door, a legal-sized file in one hand, a look of surprise on his haggard face. Though his warm-up suit was Gucci, tonight he looked less crisp, more frazzled than usual. “Sammy? I was expecting Trina. She should have been home hours ago.”

“And I’m glad to see you too, Dad,” Sammy said, barging into the vaulted foyer without waiting for his invitation.

Jeffrey shut the door and turned to his daughter. “Of course I’m glad to see you. But didn’t you hear the news? The fires from Laguna are heading up this way. I was just trying to get my important papers together to store in the safe on my boat. Governor’s already declared a disaster—”

“Shtup the governor,” Sammy retorted. “I’ve got my own disaster. The one you declared!”

Fahim stood on the steep buff overlooking Zuma Beach, watching the last rays of smoke-muted sunlight dip below the horizon, listening to the crashing of waves on the Malibu shore sixty meters below the craggy rocks. The wind rose in sudden, impetuous gusts, whipping up swirls of surf here and there until the ocean’s surface resembled threatening storm clouds in a winter sky. The waves would typically have been an irresistible temptation for young, muscled swimmers on surfboards. But now, with the smoke from the nearby mountain fires blanketing the coast, the beach was deserted.

Enveloped in darkness, Fahim heard a car whip around the hairpin curve off Pacific Coast Highway and pull into the scenic turnout where he’d parked the Alabaster Chemical truck. Miller’s men driving the dead doctor’s Honda Civic. The sound of heavy footsteps approaching made him turn.

“Ready?”

Fahim nodded at the two stocky men wearing latex gloves and dressed all in black. Other than the fact that one sported a blue Dodgers baseball cap, while the other was hatless, they could have been twins. Neither smiled. Without a word, the hatless man handed Fahim a pair of latex gloves to put on before following them both back to his truck.

Together all three unloaded the body al-Salid’s men had hidden inside a wooden crate. The woman was bigger and heavier than the whore he’d killed, and despite the assistance, Fahim found himself out of breath and covered with sweat by the time they’d laid her down on the ground near her car. As he unrolled the hospital sheet in which she’d been wrapped, he couldn’t avoid gazing at the blonde’s long, shapely legs and fine-boned facial features. Beautiful even in death. An American Amazon. For his next sexual rendezvous he’d have to ask for one like this. He supposed there were many in Las Vegas.

“Let’s get the show on the road,” the Dodger fan said. He got into the Civic, started the engine, and drove it out of the turnout and up and just to the very edge of the precipice. Leaving the car in neutral, he helped Fahim lift the body into the driver’s seat.

Satisfied that he’d positioned the dead woman with her foot on the accelerator, he reached into his back pocket, removed a flask filled with whiskey and poured it over the front seats. Then he moved the shift knob to drive and shut the door. Just before joining Fahim and his partner at the rear of the car, he tossed in a lighted match, igniting the interior. With one concentrated shove, they all pushed, sending the flaming compact somersaulting downward. In seconds, it slammed into the rocks and brush near the bottom of the cliff and exploded, a giant ball of fire.

“Well that went a whole lot smoother than that DA we ran off the road last year,” the Dodger fan said, slipping off his latex gloves.

His partner agreed. “Much easier when they’re already dead.” They both began the walk back to the truck.

Fahim stayed behind for a moment, mesmerized by the conflagration. From high above he felt its heat. Yet he shivered in the darkness, wondering how Allah would judge him at yawm ad-din. True, he’d killed the whore, but it was an accident, truly. He was no cold-blooded killer. Not like these men who seemed to relish death. Miller. Al-Salid. All of them driven by some obsessive need to control the world. Fahim was just a man who wanted nothing more than to enjoy its fruits, a warm female body and a cool drink. The money Miller was fronting for al-Salid should have been in the Dubai account already. But Miller didn’t seem to want to let go of the reins yet.

“Coming?” one of them called out. “You gotta drive us back to the hospital for that eleven o’clock pickup.”

With a last look at the flames below, Fahim returned to the truck and slid into the driver’s seat. As he pulled onto Pacific Coast Highway heading south, he had one realization. No matter how much he wished otherwise, Miller would keep him in this scheme until the very end.

“Sammy, listen to me,” Jeffrey said. “I had absolutely nothing to do with your show being cancelled. Please believe me. If you want, I’ll call Neil in the hospital. He’ll know how to fix this.”

“Yeah. He sure knows how to put in the fix all right. Like he did for your Orange County land deal. Like he did with Donald Graves at the S and L.” Sammy’s eyes filled as she stared at her father. She thought she’d pushed her yearning for family down where it would never rise again. But seeing him now was another reminder of all the pain and disappointments she’d endured because of him.

“Grandma Rose tried to make me see you for the bastard that you are, but I refused to believe her, tried making excuses for your leaving me as a kid. Well, now I have my own proof that you’re a crook.” To hide her tears, she turned away from him and faced the bay window of the elegantly paneled home office. The churning Pacific beyond the marina echoed the churning in her soul.

Jeffrey came over and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Baby, you’ve got it all wrong. All I ever wanted was to build a future that would make my family proud. That would make you proud.”

Sammy choked back sniffles with a wry laugh. “Oh, right, you did this all for me. The luxury suite in Century City, the trophy wife, the mansion, this view.” She waved an arm at the 180 degree panorama of the wind-battered marina and the turbulent ocean below.

Jeffrey tightened his lips and handed her a box of files on his rosewood desk. “Look, Sammy, just help me get these papers down to the boat, and I promise you, I’ll get you back on the air as soon as—tomorrow.” He opened his wall safe and removed several more documents, laying them on top of her box.

“The fires seem miles away,” Sammy said, squinting at the hills to the south.

“Bradley Farnsworth just called from Corona Del Mar. Less than a mile. Said his guesthouse is gone.” Jeffrey took a framed black-and-white photo from his desk, and placed it gingerly on top of a box filled with ledgers, disks, and other paperwork by his feet on the floor.

Curious, Sammy glanced at the portrait. To her amazement, it displayed a scowling middle-aged Grandma Rose holding a laughing curly haired toddler in her lap. Behind her, stood a young couple—her father, tall and handsome, and her frizzy-haired pixie mother with that lopsided grin Sammy’d almost forgotten, leaning her head on his shoulder.

Clearing his throat, Jeffrey lifted the cardboard container and nodded at Sammy to follow.

Blinking back her own tears, Sammy balanced her box on one hip and followed him out the door to his car.

Teddy awoke in confusion. Everything around him was blurry. And rocking. He reached around for his glasses, at the same time fighting the urge to shut his eyes and go back to sleep. Touching his face, he was surprised to feel his glasses still on his nose. Where was he? As his blurred vision slowly cleared, he scanned the wood-paneled room. He seemed to be in a small cabin on a bed.

That’s when Teddy remembered. The boat. The fake social worker with the fake smile. He’d thought she was being nice, showing him around the beautiful cabin cruiser, then offering him a glass of milk and chocolate chip cookies. She’d even told him to call her Kaye. He’d washed down a cookie with the milk, and then she’d said something about his taking a nap. But he’d told her he wanted to go home. Didn’t he? How did he end up here? And how long had he been asleep? In the dim light, he couldn’t tell if it was night or day.

Forcing himself into a sitting position, he waited for a wave of nausea to pass before attempting to stand. Everything was rocking up and down, back and forth, aggravating the drumming in his abdomen. Trying to maintain his balance, he staggered over to the door and turned the knob. It wouldn’t budge. He was locked in! A prisoner. Why? Though not a particular fan of fairy tales, he couldn’t help thinking of Hansel and Gretel—with Kaye, the fake social worker, as the villainess of this story.

Gripped by fear, he leaned against the paneling for balance, heart pounding. How could he escape? Think! Didn’t Mrs. Darden say he was a genius? He had to be able to figure some way out. He looked around the room, but there seemed to be no other exit. He’d have to wait until someone opened the door. Then he could push it closed and knock them against the jamb. No good, he realized. They’d catch him the minute he tried his getaway. Though he’d learned to walk, he still couldn’t run.

But he was strong. He’d gotten his mother to buy him a set of barbells last year so he could strengthen his arms. He never really explained that he wanted to prove his grit against a bully at school. It still made him smile to recall the shocked look and the bloody nose on the kid after he’d managed a sucker punch.

Now he searched for a weapon. Every bit of furniture seemed to be bolted to the floor—the bed, a small table, even the chair. In the corner, however, he spotted a square, ridged ashtray. Expecting it to be glued down, he was surprised he could lift it, though it was really heavy. If he could hit someone hard enough in the stomach to knock the air out of them, maybe he could get away. Without a better idea, it was worth a try.

Through the ceiling vents, he thought he heard angry voices. Too muffled to make out the words, they seemed to be moving closer. Quickly, Teddy hobbled over to the door, gripping the glass, waiting. Within minutes his muscles had cramped and he was close to vomiting from the rocking. Just as he was about to put the ashtray down again, footsteps approached. With renewed effort, he held the glass close, hoping to launch it like a discus the second the door opened.

The handle jiggled and the door was unlocked. Teddy held his breath, aiming for his target. But instead of Kaye, his mother faced him. Shocked, he dropped the ashtray. Before he could speak, someone shoved her into the room, knocking him backward onto the floor.

Ana rushed over and knelt to take him in her arms. “Sweetheart. Are you okay?”

“I think so,” he said, then screamed, “No!” when he saw Kaye standing in the open doorway, pointing a gun in his direction. Her neat dark hair had been tangled by the wind, her brown eyes, once kinder, were wild with fury. To Teddy, she could easily have been the Wicked Witch.

“How very maternal.” The witch laughed. “For a whore.”

Ana stood and straddled Teddy, placing her body between his and Kaye, her arms spread to shield her son. “Let my boy go. I said I’d give you what you wanted.”

Kaye pointed the gun directly at Ana. “First, hand over what Sylvie stole from me.”

Ana lowered one arm to reach into her jeans pocket.

“Try anything and I’ll kill you both.” Kaye waved her gun from Ana to Teddy.

Slowly, Ana pulled out the Jazz drive and, holding it between two fingers, extended it toward Kaye.

Aiming the gun with her left hand, Kaye grabbed the disk. “It’s all there?”

“Whatever it is,” Ana said with a casualness Teddy knew to be false. “Sylvie called it Plan B, but she never said what it was. And I couldn’t fit it into the computer—”

“Plan B! I gave that girl everything and this is how she repaid me? By stealing my list of clients?” Kaye held up the Jazz drive. “And you,” she glared at Ana. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone? Yevgeny turned your apartment upside down that night.”

“You’ve got what you wanted.” Ana grabbed Teddy’s hand and started toward the door.

“Not so fast.” Kaye pointed the gun directly at Teddy’s heart. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Ana moved in front of him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered.

“I think you do. Miller doesn’t send his men out on foxhunts unless he’s after a fox. Whatever Sylvie managed to steal from that Arab must be pretty important.”

“I don’t know who Miller is, but if you mean this text message, it’s here.” Ana reached into her pocket and handed over the copy she’d made. “It’s just gibberish, Kaye. You don’t have to worry. We won’t tell anyone.”

Kaye glanced at the jumble of letters and numbers, then slipped the paper inside her cleavage. “Oh, I’m not worried.”

To Teddy, the smile she produced was pure evil. This was no fairy tale, he thought as he heard the click of the handgun’s release. This was a real live nightmare.

“So what makes you think De’andray’s dirty?” Pappajohn asked Ortego. They’d been driving for fifteen minutes and so far the detective had just made small talk. Pappajohn was anxious to hear his theory and share his own.

“You, amigo,” Ortego said, stealing a glance at Pappajohn before turning his attention back to freeway traffic.

“Me?”

“Yeah. I thought you were like all those parents who won’t believe the truth about their kids.” Ortego eased the police-issued Grand Am out of the carpool lane and headed toward the right. “Even after you’d pointed out the ER report that didn’t match the autopsy. Figured it was typical county fuckup. Especially when I never got a call back from that ME. Too many coincidences, even for this crazy town. The ME cremates the body without your okay, then burns to death in a house fire?” He expressed his derision with a grunt. “Asked one of my fireman buddies to give me the four eleven on the ME’s casita.”