by Linda Reid
“All right. I’ll have a talk with her, have her come to the office next week.”
Trina gave him a pointed look. “Now, Jeffrey. Call that cabrona right now!”
From the bathroom, Pappajohn wandered into Sammy’s bedroom. Hazy moonlight smothered by smoke and ash filtered through the window, bathing the tiny space in undulating speckled shadows. Los Angeles’s version of a snowy Christmas Eve.
As his eyes adjusted, Pappajohn explored the small bedroom, thinking how much it reflected Sammy’s personality—a kind of passionate chaos. Books on politics and several daily newspapers were thrown on the hastily made bed. The utilitarian wooden desk was cluttered with scribbled notes, a small radio, and a computer. Posters of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy were taped to the wall. Pappajohn smiled in spite of himself. The girl hadn’t changed. In the footsteps of martyred heroes, fighting impossible battles. Though he didn’t agree with the way she’d rush headlong into the fray, he had to admire her spunk.
Wondering at what windmills she was tilting, Pappajohn walked over to the desk and flipped on the radio. As expected, it was tuned to Sammy’s show. He pulled out the chair, which squeaked loudly as he sat. Leaning back as far as he dared, he closed his eyes and listened to her scolding voice.
“We have a duty to help. I don’t know about you, Mark, but I intend to be in Canyon City tomorrow serving turkey, ham, and spuds for Christmas dinner to the homeless.”
“And you think that’s going to make any difference?” the caller challenged. “The tents’ll still be there the day after. A drop in the ocean.”
“Enough drops and you create an ocean. Make a commitment. Come out tomorrow at noon and help us feed starving families. All of you. KPCF is donating food for five hundred. Come join us. Bring some toys for the children. Clothing, shoes, blankets, anything. Be a drop, and drop by.
“Twenty-eight after.”
“God damn it, I said I don’t want to go on air. I just want to talk to Sammy. Is that so difficult to understand?”
The rising timbre of Jeffrey’s voice failed to move Jim. As a longtime producer in talk radio, graveyard shifts were his specialty. He was used to handling crackpots. “If you tell me what you’d like to discuss, I can see if it fits in with tonight’s topics and—”
“Where do they get these idiots?”
“Hey, that wasn’t nice. If you insist on being rude, I’ll just hang up now.”
“All right. Fine. Sorry. Can’t you just leave her a message with my number?”
“I guess.”
Jeffrey gave the producer his name and cell number. “Just tell Sammy her father called and he’d like to see her at the Century City office of Greene Progress first thing this morning. Six a.m. sharp. It’s important.”
Jeffrey hung up, leaving a bemused Jim shaking his head. Well, well. What do you know? Jeffrey Greene of Greene Progress, Sammy’s father? Now that was a story. Jim wondered if Sammy’s bloodhound instincts could ever be aimed at her father. Jeffrey Greene and Neil Prescott seemed to be in bed together more than Cocaine Courtney and her manager. Jim looked at the paper with Jeffrey’s number and, smiling, switched on his intercom line.
“Hey, Sammy. You’ve got mail.”
While Sammy took a break at the half hour for the news and commercials, Pappajohn sat back in his chair thinking about her show. A drop in the ocean. Tens of thousands of young girls caught up in the underbelly of this city, living desperate lives with no one to turn to. That was the ocean. But there was one drop in that ocean he could’ve helped. Ana. Why had he been so hard-hearted when she’d turned to him, refusing to appreciate her feelings, to forgive her youthful impulsiveness? If only Effie had been there to help him understand that his daughter was more important than a principle. And now it was too late.
His hand brushed against a manila envelope on the desk. He picked it up and saw that it was stamped with an L.A. county coroner’s logo, and labeled PERSONAL EFFECTS: PAPPAJOHN, A. He sat up and opened the packet, tilting it so that its contents slid out onto the desk. This was all that was left of a daughter he’d so carelessly discarded. A charred silk purse. A single key. A pair of fake diamond earrings. A tube of melted lipstick. And Ana’s license.
Pappajohn gazed at the streaked photo. Even though she’d obviously dyed her dark hair blonde, she was still a beauty. Like her mother. The ebony eyes staring back at him so reminded him of Effie. Now he’d lost them both. Stifling a sob, he kissed the photo and whispered softly, “S’agapo.”
For a long time he stared at the few items strewn across the desk, then grabbed the envelope and shook it to make certain he hadn’t missed anything. Empty. Where was her cross? he wondered. She’d never taken it off, not even for a day, since her baptism. She’d run from her family, but had she also turned away from God?
The pain of his loss grew into a real discomfort deep in his gut—an internal fire alarm he’d battled for years. Searching his pocket for the Rolaids he usually carried in packs, he realized he’d forgotten them in the rush to make the plane. He rose with a loud grunt and wandered back into the bathroom to check Sammy’s medicine cabinet. Except for toothpaste, toothbrush, antiperspirant, and a tiny bottle of makeup that appeared to be a sample, the shelves were bare. No antacids. No surprise, he thought wryly. Sammy was the type to give rather than get heartburn.
Pappajohn walked down the hallway into the tiny alcove that served as a kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Sammy was not kidding when she’d said there was “not much” food. Only a carton of skim milk expiring the next day, two wrinkled tomatoes, and a few bagels hard as rocks sat on the otherwise empty shelves. Kid was no homemaker. He reached for the carton, smelled the contents to make sure the milk was still fresh, then poured himself a glass.
Settling back down on the lumpy living room couch, he picked up the remote on the adjacent coffee table and aimed it at the small TV on the newspaper-littered stand across the room. Channel after channel had infomercials. Whatever happened to the days when stations ran classic old movies in the middle of the night? Bogart, Cagney, It’s a Wonderful Life, Something to take his mind off of—
He stopped surfing on a local news station displaying a graphic map of the Los Angeles fires with at least ten iconic flames scattered throughout the city’s hills and canyons. The weatherman spoke soberly about the unrelenting winds that hadn’t given firefighters a break since the first ember ignited the Bel Air brush twenty-four hours earlier, then shifted gears to flirt with the skimpily dressed, olive-skinned female anchor.
Pappajohn took a gulp of milk to quiet his stomach pain while the woman gushed about some actress, Courtney something, who’d left the hospital against medical advice. The male anchor reported the official story of exhaustion, then winked at the camera, disclosing the “buzz” suggesting too much partying. Sniff, sniff.
Pappajohn threw the remote on the carpet. Fires and young girls on drugs. Everything came back to Ana. He thought back to how as an idealistic young cop he’d volunteered for the toughest assignments in Boston’s South End. He’d been what they called a “street dog”—out there pounding the pavements—getting rid of pimps and pushers, addicts and johns, cleaning up the neighborhoods so kids like Ana could have a future. For all the awards and commendations he’d received, what good had any of it done for his daughter?
Scolding himself for his weakness, he blinked the tears from his eyes, and reached over to pick up the remote just as the screen displayed a video of Courtney’s transport and admission to the LAU Medical Emergency Room. By the time Pappajohn had returned to watching the TV, the camera’s brief glimpses of Ana in the ER parking lot had passed.
“How’d he find out I was in L.A.?” Sammy groaned when Jim delivered the message from her father. She let her purse and papers drop on the counter as she sat in a chair beside Jim.
The producer looked at her with cool amusement. “I take it you and your father are not on speaking terms.”
“Hardly. I haven’t
seen or heard from the schlepper in six years. Never seemed to have time for a kid in his life.”
“Most moguls only make time for their ambitions,” Jim said as he pushed some buttons on his console. The three a.m. news feed bored through the speaker in his studio.
“Mogul? You know my father?”
“Everyone around here knows your father, so to speak.” Jim was unable to hide a smirk. “Jeffrey Greene is California’s answer to Donald Trump. With better hair,” he chuckled.
Sammy digested his information. “I had heard he’d moved into fancy new offices in Century City.”
“Speaking of which, he wants to see you there this morning. Six a.m. sharp, I quote. Says it’s important.”
“You’re kidding. Nothing for years and suddenly it’s a command performance?” Sammy shook her head. “Well, I’m not going. We’ve got the Christmas food drive today.” She stood. “Next week, if I find time. Or maybe next year.”
“Suit yourself.” Jim shrugged. He put on his headphones and turned his back to her, reaching for his mic. “By the way, word is your father and Congressman Prescott are pretty tight.”
Sammy’s brow lines converged again. “You don’t say.”
“Could just be a rumor. Then again, in this town, where there’s a rumor, there’s a fire.” Jim clicked on his mic and welcomed his listener or two with his sonorous voice. Frowning, Sammy gathered her purse and papers and tiptoed to the door. She missed Jim’s reflection in the glass eyeing her as she eased out, including the satisfied smile inching across his face.
Pappajohn wasn’t the only insomniac glued to the flickering screen of a TV. Troubled by the fiasco at the Santa Monica pier, Kaye had forsaken the comfort of her bed and was now seated at her kitchen counter, nursing a vodka on very few rocks. Other than to refill her glass, she’d remained on her stool, clicking from channel to channel, hoping not to hear disturbing news about Prescott or Sylvie.
Thankfully, nothing. The names of fire victims were likely being withheld until families could be notified. That would give Yevgeny a few extra hours to find Ana before her name was plastered on the TV. Before Miller learned the truth.
Kaye drained her drink and poured another. Now that they’d shown their hand, the girl would never give herself up. It would take serious detective work to track her down in this enormous city. Assuming she hadn’t already hightailed it for the border.
The news program running had shifted to weather and descriptions of the hot, windy Christmas Eve.
“It’s been smoky enough flying above the city tonight,” the TV meteorologist joked. “Santa’s not gonna want to shimmy down any chimneys. He’d better be careful his reindeer don’t get road burns. And tomorrow’s picture’s no better. Wind gusts up to sixty miles an hour are expected across the canyons—”
Unsmiling, Kaye took another swig of her drink. After the requisite insipid back-and-forth chitchat, the gray-haired anchor turned to update the pre-dawn audience on Courtney Phillips’s status. As if anyone gives a damn. No discipline, that one. Not like my girls.
The screen replayed the chaos of Courtney’s arrival at LAU Medical the night before. The camera zoomed in to reveal the disheveled, combative star. About to turn off the TV, Kaye noticed a flash fill a tiny corner of the scene, the camera’s light momentarily exposing a familiar looking woman.
Govno! She knew that face. Ana must have been hiding behind the ambulance while the paparazzi stalked Courtney. Kaye was filled with rage. How much more trouble could that girl cause? What if Miller saw this footage and realized that Ana was still alive? And assumed that Kaye had double-crossed him? That was something Kaye could not afford.
She grabbed her cell and dialed Yevgeny. Waiting for his pick up, she vowed to find Ana and make sure the girl disappeared for good.
Jeffrey Greene and Neil Prescott.
Sammy wondered about Jim’s stake in all this. He sure seemed to have an ax to grind. Still, the lure of a juicy story was ultimately too tempting to rebuff—even if it meant going to see her father when she didn’t feel emotionally prepared for the confrontation.
Biding her time in the dark and deserted sales office, Sammy surfed the web, typing in the names Neil Prescott and Jeffrey Greene on the search engine. Interesting, she thought, as she digested the stories she found. In some ways, Prescott’s history paralleled her father’s. Both men were born in homes where money was scarce—Prescott in a working class neighborhood in Houston, Jeffrey in an even poorer area of Brooklyn. Neither were great students, but both had married well—Prescott on the first try with the heiress to a Texas fortune, Jeffrey after abandoning Sammy’s mom and then Susan.
Prescott had parlayed a medaled army stint from his tour of duty in Germany during the Vietnam War into a long, winning career as a California congressman. Jeffrey had built a successful empire by buying up choice California real estate. Sammy noted that most of his mogul multimillions had been made in the past five years—after his marriage to Trina. Several online features recounted the couple’s philanthropic endeavors as well as galas her public relations firm hosted for local politicians such as the congressman. Interestingly, although there were lots of pictures of her father beaming at local officials, shaking hands with Hollywood movie stars, even one in a hard hat at a ground breaking ceremony for a project in Laguna Hills, Sammy couldn’t locate any of Trina. She’d like to have studied the woman who seemed to have literally transformed her father’s life.
Just before logging off, Sammy found an account on The Orange County News website of a recent lavish ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner for Prescott held at the Greene’s Orange County mansion. According to the article, the couple had raised more than two million for the congressman’s reelection. What do you know? Sammy had just outed Prescott on air, decrying his failure to allow homeless in the Beverly Hills neighborhood where he owned property. And who would she guess had helped finance the shmuck? Her own father!
If their biographies were to be believed, Neil Prescott and Jeffrey Greene were both pillars of the community, without the slightest blemish in their public relations-polished images. Sammy knew that what she’d read online was obviously the whitewashed version. In fact, besides the dirt she’d already broadcast on her show about Prescott, she was sure she remembered hearing something smelly about him from her Washington days. But what? She’d need to do some real digging—after the Christmas food drive and once she’d helped Pappajohn bury his daughter.
Sammy glanced at her watch. 5:30 a.m. She should blow off her father’s command, drive home, and check on Pappajohn. That would be the more compassionate choice. And, she sighed, the easier one.
At four a.m., the corridors of the Schwarzenegger Hospital had slipped into the eerie twilight zone suffused with the soft lights and muted voices that typify the night shift. The sound-absorbing plush carpeting of the VIP ward masked Miller’s footsteps as he walked past closed doors that muffled an occasional cough or moan.
Slipping into the men’s room off the empty corridor, Miller pulled out his cell and speed dialed a contact, initiating a prearranged call to the nurses’ station. Several minutes later, he opened the bathroom door a crack to see the one nurse staffing the floor head off in the direction opposite his destination. Quickly, he crossed the corridor and entered suite 501.
Annoyed at having to risk being seen, Miller shook Prescott awake.
“Wha—? You—?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I only have a few minutes. We’re almost in the homestretch. I need to know you’re a hundred percent on board.”
Prescott sat up, eyes wide. “Of course I am. This was as much my plan as yours.”
Miller gave him a pointed look. “When the game is over, neither of us will be taking credit. Understand?”
“Of course.”
“So what do you think Bishop heard?”
“Not sure,” Prescott admitted sleepily. “The cardiology fellow said there’s some spy center in the basement recording everyth
ing. I’ve got a real estate deal I need to keep private—among other things.”
“I’m sure you do,” Miller said. “But, if he’s referring to the Incident Command Control Center on B3, don’t worry. We’ve got that covered. My man will make sure none of your conversations ever happened.”
“That may keep me clear in superior court, but I’m concerned about home court. If Bishop gets suspicious and starts asking Julia questions, I could face some tough cross-examination.”
“After all these years, she still controls the purse strings? Stop worrying about Bishop. If that happens, we’ll just remind him that curiosity killed the cat.” Miller’s expression left no doubt about the sincerity of his threat. “You get some rest now, and make sure you’re discharged before Friday. Operation Y2K goes off at midnight sharp.”
At the door, Miller looked both ways to be sure the coast was clear before hurrying off to the elevators down the corridor. He didn’t see the nurse at her station—she was still on a well-engineered wild-goose chase at the other end of the ward. And he didn’t notice Reed, on his way to check on Prescott, standing behind the open door of the adjacent empty suite.
Back in his high-rise office, oblivious to the pink streaks of the rising sun painting the gray sky outside his panoramic window, Miller was crouched over his monitor and keyboard, worming his way into the confidential files of the secretary of the army.
It took only a few minutes to find the file he sought. Uploading it, he scanned page after page. Franklin Bishop, MD, FACP, Col. USA, Ret. Age 61. Divorced, no kids. Born in a working-class suburb of Houston, Texas. Attended River Oaks Prep on a football scholarship. Eschewed Texas A & M for West Point. Medical School at Baylor. Internal Medicine residency at Walter Reed, Cardiology Fellowship at Baylor under DeBakey. Spent 29 years in uniform, starting with two tours in Nam. Stationed at Brooke, Stuttgart, Madigan, Tripler, and many years at Walter Reed. Exemplary performance reviews from all his superiors. Made Colonel two years early. Buzz about his being up for flag rank. Billeted as assistant chief medical officer in Desert Storm.