Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (19 page)

“Listen, I’m a little busy with some, uh, things right now, but how about joining me at Nate’s for breakfast after your show tonight?”

“I’m not on the air—the weekend—and Jim is—” she choked back a sob. “My producer was injured. I’m going to hang at the hospital for a while. I’ll call you. Maybe we can do lunch this week if you’re free.”

“Sounds good. Hey, why don’t you plan on joining us for New Year’s Eve? Friday night. We’re having a big bash at the Newport house. You can finally meet Trina. Bring a date.”

“I don’t know—”

“Well think about it. We’d—oops, got another call, hon, gotta go, bye.”

Jeffrey hung up, leaving Sammy standing stiffly at Lou’s desk, still grasping the receiver.

Just outside the hospital room, Sammy peeked in. Jim lay in bed, gowned and scrubbed, his eyes shut, an IV hooked into his right arm. Observing his steady breathing for a few minutes, she was struck by how literally overnight she’d developed a certain fondness, if not outright respect, for this aging hippie. In his fifty-something years of life, Jim had weathered the ups and mostly downs of the radio business. Who could blame his resenting her? In town a short time and already handed a three-hour chunk of his air time? Saving the children today, without a thought for his own safety, was an eye-opener. Perhaps, as with her father, Sammy owed Jim a second chance.

His eyes flickered open.

“Thought you were sleeping,” Sammy said.

“Just meditating.”

“No atheists in foxholes, eh?”

“I said meditating, not praying.” With his free hand, Jim waved her in.

“Well you look better than I expected.” Sammy approached his bedside. Several angry red scratches along both arms and cheeks and a half dollar-sized bruise over his forehead were the only clues to his close brush with death.

“Can’t say the same for you.”

Sammy glanced at the mirror above the corner sink and checked her reflection. The strawberry mane she’d so carefully tamed that morning was now tangled and dotted with dust. She made a futile attempt at smoothing, then shrugged. “It’s why I do radio.” She turned back to face him. “How’re you feeling?”

“My age. Everybody else okay?”

“Jésus and I got a lungful of asbestos, but we’re doing all right. Pappajohn’s Teflon. Not a scratch. He’s in the ER helping some of the families.”

“You realize we have to do a show on today’s disaster.”

“You shouldn’t be thinking about work.”

Holding up a finger, Jim grabbed the TV remote from the bedside table and clicked past several Christmas pageants before stopping at a local newscast: “A terrible accident at Canyon City Hall today—”

Jim pushed the mute button. “That’s what they’ve been saying all day: ‘a terrible accident.’ ”

“You don’t agree?” Sammy asked.

“I say we need to investigate. That bell tower withstood a six point eight earthquake in ninety-four with only a couple of cracks.”

“The Santa Ana winds were ferocious,” Sammy countered. “Maybe the ninety-four quake caused some vulnerability and that’s why they were going to retrofit.”

“Going to?” Jim rolled his eyes and then winced. “Looks like they’d already started to me.”

“They meaning Greene Progress?” Sammy wasn’t sure why, but she felt defensive. “My dad told me they hadn’t—”

His eyes half closed, Jim held up a hand. “Okay, okay. Stay cool. I said investigate, not accuse.”

Sammy inhaled and forced back a retort. Hero or not, Jim was still irritating.“Fair enough. But right now you need to rest. Especially at your age.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he whispered as he closed his eyes tighter and resumed his trance-like posture.

Sammy inched toward the door, almost missing Jim’s quiet, “Thanks.”

“Shit.” Courtney removed her hand from Ana’s burning forehead, afraid she might need serious help. Though she’d stopped gasping and coughing, Ana’s breathing was still labored. Asthma? Pneumonia? A doctor would know. But getting her back down stairs in her condition would be difficult. And taking her outside might prove fatal.

Courtney peered through her bedroom window. Though sunset was still an hour away, it was dark as night outside. The winds had not only knocked out power in Malibu, they’d blown much of the smoke and ash from the fires toward the west and blanketed the beach view canyon.

Ana groaned and thrashed under the sheets before falling back into a troubled sleep. Arranging votive candles strategically around the room for light, Courtney wondered what else to do. Maybe Ana needed water. Or, better yet, a hot toddy. If the gas stove was working, she could make tea and add honey and a touch of brandy. That might help Ana come down from whatever high had made her so sick. And give Courtney a chance to pour herself some brandy too. Straight up.

Sammy stepped off the hospital elevator on the first floor and saw Pappajohn chatting with Lou at the front desk. “There you are.”

Her maternal tone produced a look of annoyance from the older man. “Costanza here told me you’d gone up to see Jim. He okay?”

“He’ll be his old self soon,” Sammy said, studying Pappajohn. His bleary eyes and dusty clothes reflected lack of sleep and accumulated stress of the past twenty-four hours, “How are you, Gus? That poor man.” She indicated the adjacent room from which the father’s muffled sobs could still be heard.

“Seen better days,” Pappajohn said quietly, “but no point not accepting what you can’t change.”

Sammy nodded. Had he effectively convinced himself of that as well? “I’m sure that man appreciated your help. It’s all just so awful.”

Sammy felt a pair of arms on her shoulders, and spun around, shocked to face Reed. She still hadn’t processed her emotions from their earlier encounter. Now she could only stammer like a foolish schoolgirl. “What are you—?”

Reed’s glance gave away nothing. Instead, he looked past Sammy. “Things slowed down a bit in the ER. Thought I’d come out and say hi to Gus.” He offered his hand and sympathies to Pappajohn. “Sorry about your daughter. Anything that could be done to save her, well, they tried.”

Pappajohn nodded. “There will always be questions. But, I know.”

“When the post is done, I think the report will reassure you that she didn’t suffer.”

“The report is done,” Sammy interrupted. “The medical examiner told us that with the fires, they’d called in extra staff and—”

“I see.”

Sammy thought she caught surprise in Reed’s expression, although it was fleeting. Now he smiled gently at Pappajohn. “Well, if there’s anything I can do—”

“Dr. Wyndham.” The call sounded like an order.

Reed stiffened and pivoted to wave at Bishop, standing in the door to the entrance of the emergency room. “Sorry, folks, gotta go.” He leaned over and air-kissed Sammy’s cheek, shook Pappajohn’s hand once more, then set off at a rapid pace toward his grim-looking chief.

Turning back to Pappajohn, Sammy hid her own surprise at Reed’s reaction, tucking it in her mental notebook for future consideration.

Hours after they’d returned to the apartment, freshly showered, Sammy found Pappajohn sitting in front of her computer, the screen blank, his head in his hands. She came over and gently touched his arm. “Gus?”

Blinking and swallowing, Pappajohn lifted his head. He turned to see that Sammy had changed into sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. Her still-wet red mop was once again starting to sprout curls. “Four a.m. in Athens. Too late to call Eleni, so I thought I’d e-mail, let her know what happened.” He shook his head. “But I just couldn’t. Not on Christmas. First time I’ve missed wishing Eleni Chronia Polla.”

Feeling helpless to comfort him, Sammy just nodded. She’d never seen Pappajohn in so much pain, so vulnerable. And today’s tragic events only made everything worse.

Pappajohn’s gaze drifted to the ceiling for a long beat, then turned back to her. “I need to understand what happened to Ana here. How she lived, who were her friends, what she was doing the night she—” His voice drifted off again. “Tomorrow I’ll make plans for the funeral. And first thing Monday, I’m going to look for answers.”

“Let me help. I’m not due back on air til Monday midnight. Besides, you’ll need a driver.”

Pappajohn locked eyes with Sammy, considering the offer. “I won’t be putting you out?”

“Not at all. In fact, as I remember, we always did make a good team,” she said referring back to the murder they solved together at Ellsford University.

A genuine smile flickered across Pappajohn’s lips. “I think they call that selective memory.”

Sammy chuckled, glad for the banter. “So where do you plan to start your search?”

“Her apartment. Then, the cops who took the report at the hospital. Then,” he said, his voice quavering, “things should be ready at the morgue.”

“It’s been a long day. How about a bedtime snack?” Sammy grabbed Pappajohn’s hand and led him to the kitchen like a child. “I’ll make you a nice bagel and a glass of milk. You haven’t eaten all day.”

“You’re turning into a Jewish mother,” he said, taking a seat at her tiny kitchen table.

She produced a wry smile. “Now who’s the pain in the tuchus?”

Bishop closed the medical journal, slipped off his reading glasses, and was about to turn out the light when his bedside phone rang. He picked up on the first ring.   

“Colonel Bishop?”

The voice on the line had been electronically altered. Bishop strained, but couldn’t identify the caller. “Who is this?” No one had addressed him as colonel since he’d turned his back on the army seven years before.   

“That’s not important. What I’m about to say to you, however, is.”   

“I’m hanging up.” Angry, Bishop’s tone was firm and unwavering.   

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Nineteen fifty-nine, a pregnant sixteen-year-old named Julia. No longer pregnant. Need I say more?”

Bishop froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”    

“Oh, I think you do,” the caller replied. “I must say, you and the little lady have worked hard to redeem yourselves. Shame to stir things up now.”   

“Who are you?” The tough tenor of Bishop’s voice now had an audible tremor.  

“Someone who’d like to see your reputation remain intact. As well as that unfortunate young woman’s.”   

Bishop held his breath. “What is it you want?”   

“Your silence. About the woman’s husband. About his activities. About everything. In exchange for my silence. Clear?”  

“I would never hurt Julia.”  

“Good, that’s all I wanted to hear. As long as you don’t decide to be a Boy Scout, no one has anything to worry about.”

The disembodied voice clicked off before Bishop could respond. Temples pounding, he lay back against the headboard, trying to force his muscles to relax. Who was the caller? What did he really want? And how had he found out?

Old memories had come back to haunt him, memories that lurked and throbbed in his mind like a growing migraine. Finally, no longer able to tolerate the pain, he leaned over and shook out two tablets of Tylenol from a bottle on the nightstand. It was the only medication he allowed himself these days. Swallowing the pills, he switched off the light and lay back, praying for the salve of sleep to take away the headache and the memories for good.

CHAPTER NINE

December 26, 1999

Sunday

Miller lay in bed, concentrating on the television set across the room. He kept changing stations with the remote, searching for the story he’d floated over the weekend through back channels cultivated during days as a field agent. Every news team in L.A. had covered the Christmas Day disaster at Canyon City Hall as a horrible, unfortunate accident—exactly how Miller wanted it played. National political shows focused on the homeless problem in general, barely mentioning the tower’s collapse. Y2K was the only bogyman on their radar. Any connection to what was coming on New Year’s Eve could be made after the fact.

Miller flipped past CNN, CNBC, and MSNBC where the fires and speculation about Courtney Phillips’s whereabouts and condition filled the airwaves. Finally, on FOX, he found Mac Derbyshire looking directly into the camera, warning of imminent danger lurking in the Middle East. Through unnamed intelligence sources, the anchor claimed to have learned that recent foreign chatter suggested the real possibility of a terrorist attack by Y2K.

“Is our president on top of this?” he asked the audience rhetorically. “No, he’s too busy smoking cigars. And the veep, our so-called Democratic candidate? He’ll have you believe the world is one big kumbaya. Pay attention, my friends, or we could find ourselves defeated and under the thumb of a terrorist dictator.”

The tirade ended with a menacing looking photo of Saddam Hussein in an Arab headdress, glaring angrily into the camera and, in close-up, directly into viewers’ eyes.

From his hospital bed on the deluxe Schwarzenegger Hospital VIP ward, Prescott watched the same station on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV. An excellent touch, juxtaposing terrorist threats with the Iraqi leader’s image. Planting the seeds of fear in the minds of the electorate should translate into votes for his party when frightened arms pulled those levers next November.

Despite Julia’s admonishments to wait until he was fully recovered, Prescott had his press secretary bring in a crew to videotape his statement for that evening’s news. The number of people required to film a thirty-second spot always amazed him. His spacious hospital suite quickly filled with scruffy invaders in T-shirts and jeans carrying boxes of equipment and a bevy of wires. His own aides dressed in suits and ties. Prescott handed one his prepared remarks.

The press secretary read them aloud. “As head of the House Armed Services Committee, I, like all of us in our party, take Y2K threats to our country and our citizens very seriously. Unfortunately, at a time when we are most vulnerable, this administration has hamstrung the military and squandered resources needed to defend America from twenty-first century enemies to our way of life. We need a president who will never leave his watch and duck out of his responsibility to protect the United States. Your safety is our first priority. Our party understands. May God bless America.”