Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (33 page)

Reed opened the brown bag and looked at the irregular piece of beige cloth. “And where did you get this?”

Sammy told him about the cabbie’s response to her on-air request. “We know now that he picked up a blonde from a Westwood high-rise and took her to Ana’s apartment. That’s got to be Sylvie.”

“And this is her blood?”

“Evidently the young woman had scratches on her arms and legs. She bled on the backseat of the cab. Pappajohn cut out a couple pieces figuring we could get a DNA match.”

“And here the we means me?”

“Uh, well—”

“You said Pappajohn was taking a sample to the police.”

“True, but honestly at this point, you can’t blame him for losing faith in the system. On the other hand, I have complete faith in you.”

“I don’t know, Sammy. I can’t just order a DNA screen on someone not checked in as a patient.”

“I thought you could do it yourself. I mean you worked in Dr. Palmer’s immunology lab at Ellsford. Didn’t you do genetic screens there?”

“Sure, but that was different. It was a research lab. Everybody did their own thing. It’d look awfully strange to have a cardiology fellow doing tests in the lab here. Besides, I’m up to my eyeballs in work. We’ve had a run of patients with heart disease exacerbated by the fires, not to mention Prescott’s relapse.”

“Relapse? What kind of relapse?”

Reed sighed. “I guess I’m more tired than I realized. You didn’t hear that from me.”

“Hear what?”

“Off the record, okay?”

Sammy made a crossing motion over her heart.

“Last night the congressman had another episode of coronary spasm. Dr. Bishop put in a second stent. Luckily there was no heart damage.” Reed shook his head. “But I can’t help second-guessing myself. Maybe I blew it the first time.”

“Is it unusual to have a second attack like that?” Sammy tried to sound sympathetic.

“Not necessarily, if there’s some precipitating factor.” Reed’s eyes narrowed. “Come to think of it, Prescott was listening to a TV anchor’s report. Seems a certain local talk show host claimed he might be involved in the Canyon City tower collapse.”

“Now I’m responsible?” Sammy felt her temper flare. “Maybe a heavy dose of guilt was the ‘precipitating factor.’ ”

“I didn’t intend to imply—” Reed appeared contrite. “Frankly, I don’t know if the man’s capable of guilt.”

“Meaning?”

“As long as I’m speaking off the record, Prescott’s got an unbelievably devoted wife and yet I’m told he was brought to the ER by a young blonde.”

Sammy’s eyebrows rose to attention. “Shall I hazard a guess? Mrs. Prescott’s not a young blonde?”

“Not a blonde at all. Though she’s a very attractive and elegant brunette. In her fifties.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Sammy reached into her purse for her notebook and a pen.

“Sammy!”

“If I can check the security cameras in the ER bay, I won’t need you as a source.”

“We don’t have cameras out there. With Y2K, internal security for the Schwarzenegger Hospital has been the administration’s priority. The ER’s part of the old hospital and hasn’t been wired up yet.”

Sammy started to put away her notebook. “Wait a sec, that was the night Courtney Phillips came in as a patient, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, paparazzi, TV cameras were all over the place. Maybe Jim, my producer, can get some of the B-roll. Before radio, he worked at a local TV station.” She jumped up and kissed Reed on the cheek.

“What was that for?”

“That,” she explained, “was for always being there for me.” She leaned closer, this time kissing him on the lips. “And that’s for checking the DNA,” she said as she sprinted out of the lounge.

Signal beeping, the large white van backed carefully toward the Schwarzenegger Hospital loading dock where al-Salid, clipboard in hand, stood with two of his men. All sported Facilities uniforms.

Fahim, wearing a shirt that matched the Alabaster Chemical Supply logo on the side of the van, hopped out of the driver’s seat and opened the rear doors. Quickly, al-Salid’s men moved in with a heavy-duty dolly and loaded a sofa-sized crate with hazmat labeling marked Flammable, Formaldehyde. In less than fifteen minutes, the crate had been deposited in the morgue’s storage room, and the van’s space yielded to the linen service truck’s daily delivery.

Sammy raced into Massimo’s popular restaurant in Beverly Hills, as always, at least twenty minutes late. She knew her father was a stickler for punctuality and hoped he wouldn’t be angry. He hadn’t answered his phone when she’d tried to call to explain her delay.

Jeffrey Greene was sipping a Chardonnay, immersed in the Wall Street Journal, as Sammy slipped into a seat across from his at their table. “I can’t believe this traffic,” she complained. “And I thought D.C. was bad.”

Jeffrey looked up with a wan smile. “You need to allow an extra half hour to get anywhere around here.” A waiter came over with two plates of food. “Hope you don’t mind. I ordered us both the linguine allo scoglio.”

Sammy nodded, noting the dish had a variety of seafood, including shrimp. Keeping kosher was one tradition they’d both rejected after leaving Grandma Rose’s sphere of influence. Sammy reached for a slice of warm bread and dipped it in the peppered olive oil between them. “So, I’m glad we were able to meet.”

Silence from Jeffrey.

Sammy swallowed a second piece of bread before trying again. “You said I could talk to you about Neil Prescott.”

Jeffrey nodded. “I wish you would.”

“The Palacio Real. Tell me about the collapse.”

“What about it?”

“Was it an accident?”

Jeffrey took a bite of shrimp before responding. “Of course. There was a full investigation.”

“I heard it was dropped after the prosecutor died,” Sammy said in a neutral tone, waiting to gauge the effect on her father.

Leaning forward, Jeffrey’s hazel eyes bore into her own. “What the hell are you implying?”

“Nothing. I’m just trying to get some background.”

“Let me explain something. Everyone in this town wants to be rich, and everyone who’s rich wants to be powerful. First it’s show biz, and then it’s politics. That late prosecutor planned to throw his hat in the ring for Neil’s congressional slot. Hoped to build a straw case that would get his name in the running. Tried to dig up dirt on Neil and me, but he couldn’t. Nothing. Sammy, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Neil Prescott is a good man.”

“Is it true his brother-in-law’s savings and loan financed that project?”

“Listen, kid, you haven’t been here long enough to understand how this town works. Connections. The only way to succeed. I needed financing to renovate that hotel. Neil Prescott’s brother-in-law owns a savings and loan. That’s not a crime. Donald Graves gave me the best deal.”

Graves? Frowning, Sammy pulled her notebook from her purse and flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “Is he any relation to a Lawrence Graves who heads the city’s Case Management Unit?”

“They’re cousins. How’d you know about that?”

“I’m a reporter.” Sammy read from her notes. “Case Management, a little known unit set up two years ago to expedite certain projects.” She looked at her father. “Now I understand how the Canyon City remodel got the green light so fast. By sidestepping the usual permit process, big developers like Greene Progress avoid delays that could cost millions.”

“You don’t think the mayor of Canyon City might want to promote a quick renovation? I don’t see a damn thing wrong with cutting through layers of bureaucracy.”

Sammy opened her palms. “Can’t argue with that. But the plans for the, uh, seismic-active system never got turned in. Or reviewed.”

“You mean the active-seismic-control system? We did turn them in. Probably weren’t filed in the right folder.”

“Aren’t those systems supposed to keep buildings up?“

“They should. If the ground starts to shake, they counter the quake forces and stabilize the building. But seismic control isn’t relevant to Canyon City. There wasn’t a quake when the tower fell.”

“But the system had been installed, right? I thought you said the tower renovation hadn’t been started?”

Jeffrey coughed into his napkin. “I was referring to the structure itself. You saw how cracked it was. Even an operational seismic-control system couldn’t prevent an unstable tower from falling, and ours hadn’t even been tested yet. Maybe if we’d had time to work on the tower’s framework, strengthen the unreinforced masonry, things might have turned out differently.”

Sammy returned her notebook to her purse. “It’s just curious. Two tall structures, both financed by Newport S and L, both renovated by Greene Progress, both collapse unexpectedly. Neil Prescott was one of the common elements, the other was—”

“Me?” Jeffrey’s tone was cold. “You certainly don’t pull your punches. Rose’s granddaughter to the core.” He wiped his mouth with his linen napkin. “I may have been behind the eight ball twenty-five years ago, but I run a multimillion-dollar business now. And it’s a clean shop. Renovations are tricky. Greene Progress has a terrific construction record. Go to Building and Safety and check it out.”

“I have,” Sammy said. “And it is. Except for these two cases.”

Jeffrey laid his napkin on the table and took a deep breath. “Before you go running to your listeners, blaming your own father for the deaths of those poor people, understand the reason we moved so quickly. That tower was at risk. We just weren’t fast enough.” He cleared his throat, seemed genuinely sad.

“Look, I’m not out to get Greene Progress,” Sammy said. “Or you. But—”

“You are out to get Neil Prescott.” The voice came from behind Sammy. She spun around to see a tall, slim, impeccably dressed brunette walk up to her father and peck him on the cheek. “Hello, carino.”

Her accent was exotic. Italian, Spanish, French? wondered Sammy.

“Trina, glad you could join us.” Jeffrey stood up halfway and pulled out a chair for his wife who sat down gracefully, at the same time extending a hand to her stepdaughter.

Close-up, Trina appeared to be a very young forty-something despite obvious traces of botox and plastic surgery. The giant diamond on her finger might be real, but Sammy was sure those oversized breasts straining against the tight silk blouse were enhancements.

Sammy politely pulled her hand from Trina’s strong grip. “It may seem that way,” she explained, “but I’m actually after the truth.”

“How utterly charming. And naïve.” Trina’s laugh was low and throaty. She turned to Jeffrey and stroked his cheek. “Reminds me a little of you when we first met. Must be in the Greene genes.”

In deference to her father, Sammy held her tongue.

“Samantha, dear, I’ve wanted to meet you ever since Jeffrey told me you’d moved here to do your little radio show.”

“My name is Sammy, not Samantha. And ‘my little radio show’ is doing quite well, thank you.”

Trina smiled warmly at a server who brought her a glass of Chardonnay. “So what were we saying, Samantha? Oh, yes, I’ve been telling Jeffrey, now that you’re in L.A., we should help you make friends, dear. Friends who can help you. Like Neil Prescott.”

“Prescott’s not someone I want as a friend,” Sammy said. Unable to control her growing irritation at this insipid woman, she added, “And neither are you. Dear.”

Trina’s dark eyes narrowed, while her tone maintained neutrality. “That’s certainly your choice. But seeing as you’re Jeffrey’s daughter, you do need to respect his choice too.”

“Excuse me?” Sammy was genuinely puzzled.

“Neil Prescott is our friend. Don’t make him your enemy,” Trina said quietly. “Don’t make us have to choose between our friends and you. That would be a very big mistake.” Resting her hand over Jeffrey’s, she stared directly at Sammy. “Have I made myself clear?”

Sammy stared back. “Perfectly.” She stood and placed her napkin near her plate. “I think I’ve had about enough. Bye, Dad, I’ll be in touch,” she said with a modicum of warmth. Toward Trina, her tone turned frosty. “Nice meeting you, Mom.”

Eager to avoid a second bone-crunching handshake, Sammy grabbed her purse and left. A glance at her watch revealed it was almost two. Barely time to make the drive downtown for her three o’clock meeting with Jim’s mystery caller. 

Ana resisted the impulse to share Courtney’s cognac. She’d raced back to the shelter, nervously checking the Vespa’s mirrors for evidence of a tail. As tempting as a chemical relaxant might be, she needed to keep her head clear.

Now she watched Courtney standing in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing the knots from her blonde wig. “Think I’ll pass?” Courtney asked, adjusting her sunglasses.

Ana studied the reflection. “You’re taller than Sylvie, but with the wig and glasses, you don’t look like Courtney Phillips either.”

“I might just go blonde after this is over. Doesn’t make my skin seem so washed out.” Courtney pulled a lock of hair over her chin.

“What are you going to tell Sammy Greene?” Ana was eager to get back to business.

“Got any breath freshener?” Courtney asked, as she ran a wet finger over her teeth. “First, I’ll scope out the place, make sure I’m not followed.”

“They’re handing out toothbrushes.”

“If Greene’s by herself and I can trust her, I’ll say I’m Sylvie. See what she wants from there.” Courtney shrugged, “I was always good at improv.”

“Maybe I should come with you.”

Courtney slung an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “You’re safer here. No one knows who you are, and no one can find you.”

“Nice of you to do this,” Pappajohn told Ortego as the detective aimed his red Mustang north on Sunset Boulevard at the entrance to Bel Air. After the scrap with De’andray, Ortego had offered Pappajohn a ride to the California Science Center. Because the site where Ana’s body had been found wasn’t far out of the way, Ortego suggested making a quick stop there first.

“No problemo.” Ortego scratched his buzz cut. “Dee doesn’t like to bend the rules. Even for a good cause. But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. That was something we all learned in Desert Storm.”