Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (43 page)

The fury of the winds outside was so deafening and Ortego so intent on his task, that he never heard the cabin door slam shut, automatically locking him inside until it was too late.

The silence was broken only by Jeffrey’s heavy breathing. Pale and weak, eyes closed, he lay on the bed, his uninjured arm nursing the blood-soaked bandage improvised from Pappajohn’s shirt.

After tending to Jeffrey, Pappajohn stood up to listen for signs that Ortego was in the vicinity. Nothing. With the boat swaying erratically, Pappajohn staggered like a drunk to the cabin door and tried opening it. As expected, it was locked. He muttered a Greek curse.

“I wish I still had my cell phone,” Ana said. “We could call for help.”

“Mine’s in the house,” Sammy sighed. “I never thought I’d need my purse for a quick trip to the boat.” Gazing up at the ceiling vents, she gasped, pointing. “Gus!” Black smoke was pouring in, making visibility in the already dimly lit cabin impossible.”The boat’s burning!”

“Ortego must have set a fire,” Pappajohn wheezed. “We have to get out of here! Fast!”

Sammy’s eyes were tearing.

Everyone had begun to cough and gag.

Clutching Teddy, Ana sobbed with fear. “Baba, I don’t want to die!”

Out of the smoky darkness, Jeffrey whispered, “In my pocket, I have a key.”

Ortego was trapped inside the forward cabin. The door wouldn’t budge. Several blasts from his revolver could not dislodge the bolt lock. Flames had begun to consume the teak walls of his prison. In desperation, he tried closing the porthole, hoping to keep out the oxygen fanning the fire, but the metal and glass was too hot to touch. Painful blisters formed on his hands when he pulled them away.

As the fumes began to make breathing more labored, he clutched his chest, knowing it was just a matter of minutes before the carbon monoxide rendered him unconscious. Then the flames would incinerate him. Even if what his LAFD buddies had told him was true—that death from fire is usually quiet and painless—he refused to wait. Praying for mercy, he placed the revolver next to his temple and fired the last shot.

Ana and Teddy stumbled from the cabin, with Sammy and Pappajohn supporting Jeffrey. The boat’s violent rocking slowed their progress as they felt their way toward the hazy light of the emergency exit sign. The smell of smoke was everywhere. They all choked, but Pappajohn’s wheezing sounded like agonal gasps. Moving toward the upper level, they heard the crack of a single gunshot.

“He’s shooting at us!” Ana screamed.

“Shh!” Pappajohn ordered, his voice low and hoarse. “Stay down. Footsteps.”

The sound of heavy footfalls approaching was now unmistakable. They pressed against the walls, hoping Ortego had not returned.

“Sammy Greene?” A familiar voice.

“De’andray?” Pappajohn called. “Over here!”

Like a dark angel, the tall detective appeared out of the murky gloom. “Hurry!” he shouted. “We don’t have much time.”

A sudden lurch of the boat caused Teddy to lose his balance and fall headlong onto the deck. De’andray swept the young boy in his arms. “I’ve got him,” he yelled to Ana. “Let’s go!”

With De’andray’s help, they reached the upper deck, and, within a minute, stood on the dock. “Time to breathe later. Move!” De’andray continued to urge them forward until they’d left the pier for a grassy knoll beyond. “Hit the ground,” he ordered as he gently put Teddy down on his side next to Ana.

Lying prone on the grass, Sammy couldn’t resist sneaking a backward glance. The Lucky Lady was enveloped by flames.

“Cover your heads,” De’andray yelled, as, with a loud, resonating blast, the yacht blew into smithereens, some pieces of its fiberglass hull landing and fizzling out a few feet short of their resting spot.

Pappajohn, still struggling to breathe, was among the first to stand and canvas the scene. Teddy, Ana, Sammy, Jeffrey. All okay. He offered De’andray a handshake and an expression of gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you. How did you—?”

De’andray smiled and nodded. “My job.” He looked at Sammy. “You really owe your thanks to your friend, the doctor. Reed Wyndham.”

Two hours later, Sammy was darting between cars like a New York cabbie. Traffic was still thick on the northbound 405 since the Laguna/Newport fires had spread up to Huntington Beach. Even from the South Bay she could see their bright glow against the night sky behind her. No wonder everyone in Orange County seemed to be joining her flight.

Impatient to reach the hospital, she weaved her way into the carpool lane and accelerated to seventy-five miles per hour. De’andray had expedited their questioning by the Newport cops and firemen responding to the marina blast, verifying their story, then remaining at the crime scene to help with the evaluation, but the delay had made Sammy anxious. She glanced at her father slumped in the passenger seat, his eyes closed. With no available ambulances, and hospitals south diverting patients, Pappajohn had suggested she get him to LAU Med. “You okay?”

Jeffrey’s lids fluttered open. “Just drive. I’ll be all right.”

“I guess I should apologize. For what I said earlier.”

“That I was a rotten father? You’re right.”

Sammy reached over and squeezed her father’s hand. He offered a weak grin, then shut his eyes again.

Wheezing from the backseat made Sammy peer into her rearview mirror where she saw Pappajohn snoring like a hibernating bear between Ana and Teddy, his thick arms tightly hugging them as they slept against his chest. Maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks.

Pulling into the LAU Medical emergency room lot, it occurred to her that the story had come full circle. A week ago she’d been here to learn the identity of the Bel Air fire victim. Now she’d solved one mystery, only to discover another. They still didn’t know who’d murdered Sylvie or the signficiance of the text message that may have led to her death. Some kind of code? Ortego had mentioned military secrets.

Whatever it meant, solving that puzzle would have to wait until her father’s wound was treated. Pappajohn’s wheezing was growing louder, too. Parking the car, Sammy’s only thought as she raced inside the ER, was getting care for her family—Jeffrey and Gus.

At eleven p.m., the late shift CCU nurses were too busy taking report to pay much attention to the uniformed ambulance driver in the Dodger cap who’d come to move Prescott to an outside rehab facility. As far as they were concerned, the congressman hadn’t required the unit’s specialized attention for the past two days. He was out of the woods and doing fine. It was only his VIP status that had kept the hospital risk manager from demanding his bed be vacated for a more acute patient. And since no one had questioned the order, no one considered Prescott missing until the day shift—hours after the Alibaster Chemical truck had picked him up and delivered him to safety.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Friday

December 31, 1999

At three a.m., Miller turned off his radio with a satisfied smile. Not only had the pickup gone smoothly, but thanks to American First Communications, Sammy Greene’s show was officially off the air. And the best news of all had been the reports of the massive explosion on the luxury yacht in the Newport Marina.

No survivors. According to police, names of the deceased would not be released before family notification. That was routine. Nomatter. If Ortego had followed orders, every one of those loose ends would have gone down with the Lucky Lady.

No point in waiting up for confirmation. Not with all the cell phone outages in North Orange County due to tower damage in the fires. Ortego had called him that afternoon, the moment he’d learned of Kaye’s duplicity—that the bitch knew all along it was Sylvie not Ana who’d died in that fire.

Nothing to worry about now. Less than twenty-four hours to go. Miller glanced at the clock on the bedstand, smiling as he imagined the director’s consternation. Years of preparation, two dress rehearsals, all aimed at a single midnight performance—one that would make this nation understand what chauvinistic advocacy alone could never convey—that they must be afraid. Very, very afraid.

Reed cursed as he stubbed his toe on the desk in the darkened call room.

“Thought you said you’d wake me tomorrow,” came a groggy voice from the lower of the two bunk beds.

“Today is tomorrow, Sammy,” Reed said, flipping on the light to locate his white coat and stethoscope “I’m late for morning rounds. Then I’ve got an ER shift. You go back to sleep.”

“It’s all right. I’m awake.” Sammy sat up, bumping her head on the top bunk. “Ow!” She gave a dazed laugh. “Think I can see my father now?”

“Best to wait til the afternoon. It’ll be a few more hours before the anesthesia wears off. At least the surgeon got all the bullet fragments out of his shoulder.”

“And Gus?”

“Still wheezing, but he sounds better. He’s got some mild S-T elevation on his EKG.”

“Heart attack?”

“Don’t think so. Could be coronary vasospasm from all the stress or the smoke inhalation. Troponins are normal so far.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Sammy asked, confused by the medical jargon.

Reed nodded. “But just to be sure, I’ll ask Dr. Bishop for a second opinion when he comes in for evening rounds.”

“Your chief’s working New Year’s Eve? I’m impressed.”

“He’s head of Medical Services for our Emergency Operations team. With all the Y2K panic, he wants to watch over the unit tonight.”

“I’ll be glad to put this ridiculous fear behind us.”

“Amen to that,” Reed said, buttoning his white coat. ”Listen, I’ve arranged for your father to share a room with Pappajohn in the step-down ward. Peds wants to keep Teddy one more day to make sure his hip is stable. Tomorrow he can go home for sure.”

“How do I thank you for saving our lives? Again?” Sammy asked.

“Aw, shucks, ma’am. ’Twas nuthin,” Reed said, coming over to sit down on her bunk. He leaned in and kissed her on the mouth, at first gently, and then with passion. “You’re welcome.”

Raised eyebrows reflected Sammy’s surprise when he pulled away.

“Someone told me good things happen when you take a chance,” Reed replied as explanation.

“Someone I know?”

“Actually it was Michelle.”

Sammy’s face registered disappointment. “Are we, uh, you, should we—?”

“It’s okay,” Reed said, “Michelle and I are officially just friends. By mutual consent. But, I’ve got to thank her for one thing. She’s the one who made me see that I still love you.”

For once Sammy was speechless.

“Is that so hard to believe?” Reed asked softly.

“I . . .” Sammy stammered, staring into his eyes as if searching for guile. “You’re sure?”

Reed nodded, his eyes serious. “The question is, are you sure?”

Sammy exhaled the breath she’d been holding and put her arms around his neck “Yes,” she said, her expression no longer tentative. “Yes. Finally.”

The L.A. County Sheriff’s patrol car arrived at the scene less than an hour after the Coast Guard put in the early morning call. The carcass of a Honda Civic lay on a craggy rock, lathered by the surf’s foam with every wave. Vultures and seagulls rested on its roof, flapping their wings, then rising into the air to avoid the ocean’s spray.

The charred skeleton in the front seat was identified as a female by the Ventura County coroner. Six females in the missing persons database might have fit the description of a tall, young woman, but crime-scene investigators resolved the mystery of this Jane Doe before the ME completed the autopsy. The license plates had melted, but the car’s VIN identified its owner as Michelle Hunt, age twenty-seven, of Montecito and Los Angeles, missing person number five.

The preliminary report included the ME’s assessment and was shared with family. Michelle was the eighth victim of the devastating L.A. fire season. Smoke from the mountains had likely blocked her visibility, and disoriented, she’d driven off the road to her death.

“Where’s the congressman?” Reed asked the charge nurse as he was finishing CCU rounds. “There’s another patient in his bed.”

“Transferred to rehab last night.”

“On whose orders?”

The nurse sorted through the morning report until she found the note.“Eleven p.m. verbal order, transfer request from Dr. Bishop.”

“Guess he forgot to let me know,” Reed said with a shrug. “First-year cardiac fellow. Low on the food chain.”

Since she couldn’t see her father for a few hours, Sammy took the opportunity to drive home for a quick shower and a change of clothes. On the way she called Jim with a follow-up on everyone’s progress. She’d contacted him last night from the hospital with news of what had happened at the marina and the promise her father had made to help get their show back on the air. Until Jeffrey was discharged, they’d have to settle for a forced vacation, she told him, wishing him a happy New Year.

“No worries,” Jim had replied in a mellow voice that suggested he’d already begun his partying.

The moment Sammy locked her apartment door, she stripped and jumped into the shower, turning on the water full force. Rotating slowly, she let the needlelike jets crash down on her head, rivulets of warmth running along both sides of her body, relaxing tight muscles. Spending the night in the call room with Reed had allowed her to suspend her deepest feelings about everything that had happened yesterday—finding Ana and Teddy, Trina’s duplicity, Ortego’s betrayal, the boat explosion, her father‘s sacrifice. The thought of how close they’d all come to dying rolled over her now with the force of a rogue wave. Overwhelmed, she was racked by sobs of sadness and relief. At least the danger was over. Spent at last, she closed her eyes, emptying her mind of everything but the pure pleasure of the shower. And her new future with Reed.

“About time,” Courtney grumbled as the guard led her to a cubicle where she could make her phone call. “Your ass is grass,” she added sotto voce.

“Hey, love, you hibernating or what?” her manager asked when he heard her voice. “You’ve missed some sweet parties.”