by Linda Reid
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.”
Nodding at Prescott, the press secretary handed the text to another suited assistant. “Put this on prompter. And get makeup in here. We don’t want him looking like Death.”
Prescott watched the hubbub surrounding him, delighted by the attention. He leaned over, turned off the monitors one by one, and began peeling off the adhesive clad electrodes that had monitored his vital signs. When the cameras rolled, he planned to project the image of a man in the peak of health.
Now, as long as he was out of this hospital before New Year’s, everything should go as planned.
Sammy turned her car northwest, taking surface streets to reach the imposing Byzantine Greek Orthodox Cathedral, Saint Sophia, on the corner of Pico and Normandie.
As they drove up Vermont, a few families unwilling to stay inside despite the smoky air, stopped to bargain with equally stubborn street vendors hoping to sell churros, mangos, and buttered corn. From the passenger seat, Pappajohn read the signs on the mom-and-pop stores they passed. “Carniceria, Verduras, Frutas, Lavanderia.” He shook his head. “Are we still in America?”
“Latin America. Anything East of La Brea and you need to learn Spanish.”
“Neighborhood reminds me of Greece.” As they turned left on Pico, Pappajohn pointed to a busy sidewalk café. “They even have tavernas.”
“Only they’re called ristorantes,” Sammy explained. “Look at that.” A large sign in classic font on top of a renovated building read Byzantine-Latino District.
Pappajohn actually smiled. “How—?”
“Saint Sophia’s head priest must be a master of good neighborhood relations.” Sammy turned left on Normandie and into the gates of the impressive church modeled after its Constantinople predecessor.
In contrast to the banged-up sedans and trade vehicles parked along the adjacent streets, the lot inside the church gates was filled with brand new luxury cars—a sign that these Greek immigrants had moved higher up the social ladder than the more recently arrived Latinos.
Sammy located a space near the back of the lot and waited for Pappajohn to ease himself out of the car. They walked to the front entrance of the massive church, past parishioners in their Sunday best milling about after the service. Ignoring them, Pappajohn strode somberly to the lobby, which held large gold leaf trays carrying dozens of flickering tapers.
Standing to one side of the large open bureau, Sammy observed Pappajohn reach into his pocket for a five dollar bill that he dropped into a slot box. From a nearby table, he selected a long candle and, blinking furiously to hold back tears, lit it from the tiny flames in one of the gold trays. After crossing himself, he pushed the candle into the sandy gravel holding up the other lights and moved over to an icon of Mary and a baby Jesus. Crossing himself again, Pappajohn brushed the figures with his lips.
A stern-looking older man in black robes and a priest’s collar appeared at his side and extended a hand. Sammy watched Pappajohn bow to kiss it, noting the tears falling on the bearded priest’s wrist. She couldn’t make out what he whispered in his ear.
“My deepest condolences on your loss, my son,” the priest said, his booming voice accented with a hint of Greek. “Theos ‘xorestina.” God forgive her.
Pappajohn’s voice cracked in response. “To koritsaki mou. My little girl.”
“You may not understand it now, but some higher purpose has been served by this terrible tragedy.” The priest placed an arm around Pappajohn’s bent and trembling shoulders.
“Everything happens for a reason, my son. She is one with God now and safe in his arms.”
Pappajohn nodded somberly. “They said I can pick up her body tomorrow. Can we make the arrangements for Tuesday?”
The priest slid a hand into his gown and drew out a card. “Call my assistant on Monday morning. She’ll review everything.” Smiling, he patted Pappajohn on the arm, then rushed away to greet a well-known Hollywood couple entering the apse.
Pappapjohn stopped by the gold tray for one last wistful look at Ana’s flickering candle.
“You okay?” Sammy asked, taking his hand.
Pappajohn stared at her, his expression tight, his eyes dry now. “No. Not until Ana is.” He shook his head. “She will not be safe in God’s arms until I have buried her.”
CHAPTER TEN
December 27, 1999
Monday
Sammy drove slowly along Ashland Street, straining to discern house numbers in the dawn’s first light. After another restless night, Pappajohn had insisted on an earlier start than originally planned. His lumbering around the apartment provided Sammy’s wake-up call well before six a.m.
Now, at six thirty, she found the beachside neighborhood eerily quiet for a Monday morning. No people jogging or walking their dogs. Just a few parked cars, each coated with a fine layer of ash from the fires still out of control a few miles away. The weatherman on her car radio predicted Santa Anas and red flag fire conditions through New Year’s.
“Twenty-three twenty-five. This is the place.” Sammy stopped the Tercel in front of the address listed on Ana’s license. Pappajohn, who’d said little during the short drive from Palms to Santa Monica, grunted an assent. His eyes focused on the four-story apartment building where his daughter had lived. Sammy could only guess at the whirlpool of emotions churning inside his controlled facade. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.
“You okay?” she asked, shutting off the engine.
Pappajohn let out a deep sigh as if to expel the tension with his breath. “Yes.” He reached around to the backseat for the manila envelope from the medical examiner and stepped out of the car. Sammy followed him through the courtyard and up the stairs to the third floor.
“Locked,” Sammy said after trying the doorknob to apartment 3B. “Promise not to arrest me and I’ll pick it with my handy penknife.” She’d used the skill learned growing up on Brooklyn streets more than once in her days at Ellsford.
“This should work.” Pappajohn pulled a key from the envelope. “Ana’s,” he explained as it slid smoothly into the keyhole, unlocking the door with one turn.
Sammy and Pappajohn stood in the living room of the apartment in stunned disbelief. Chairs upended, sofa bed cushions slashed open, papers and books strewn about. The place was a complete mess.
“Looks like an earthquake,” Sammy declared. Pappajohn said nothing. Sammy turned to look at the ex-cop and was surprised to see his demeanor had changed. No longer the weary devastated old man, Pappajohn stood stiff and poised like a foxhound, his piercing gaze scanning the room from corner to corner.
“They didn’t find it.”
“Find what?”
“Whatever they were looking for.” His lips were pressed together, his expression tense. “Don’t touch anything.”
Sammy raised her hands up in a gesture of compliance, then stuffed them in the pockets of her jeans. “Should we call the police?”
“They’ve been here.” Pappajohn pointed to a strand of yellow plastic tape peeking out of the kitchen trash can. “They didn’t find it either,” he added in a gruff tone. “Follow me.”
Sammy tiptoed behind Pappajohn into Ana’s bedroom. The “earthquake” had not spared this room either. Every drawer had been pulled open, clothes and shoes flung randomly on the carpet. A Payless shoe box lay on its side on the floor of the closet.
Pappajohn stood on a clear spot of hardwood and surveyed the chaos, in foxhound mode again. Bending over, he picked
up a pencil he found lying on the floor and, turning it to extend the eraser end, began an examination of the room, lifting objects, then laying them down after studying them carefully.
Sammy watched as he wandered from item to item: a micro-skirt, a sequined bra, a pair of risqué panties minus the crotch, a pasty, a riding crop, some loose uppers and downers, leather handcuffs, and flavored condoms. All the while, Pappajohn remained stone faced, a detective investigating a case, not a father searching for clues to the path his daughter had taken since she’d run away from home.
That path was heartbreakingly clear to Sammy. Evidence suggested Pappajohn’s daughter had chosen a less than respectable lifestyle. Sure he’d been aware that Ana hadn’t opted for the high road, but to confront it here like this would break any father’s heart. Sammy guessed the coldness reflected in his face now was willful, determined ignorance. His daughter, the little girl he loved, could never have called this place her home.
“Here!” Pappajohn stood by the smashed computer. “It was here.” He probed the pieces of metal, plastic, and glass with his pencil. “Didn’t leave forensics much to work with,” he said, shaking his head.
Taking a step closer, Sammy nearly tripped over a couple of unmatched designer spikes. How could anyone wear shoes like that, Sammy wondered as she pushed them aside with her Vans and stooped to check size eight written in one heel and size six in the other.
“Did Ana live here alone?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Pappajohn had to admit. “Why?”
Sammy strode over to the closet and began digging through the mound of expensive clothes piled on the floor. She shoved away the Payless box to get to the dresses. “Aha!” She held up a couple of matching outfits. “Unless Ana bought everything in twos, I’m guessing she had a roommate.” Sammy pointed to the different sized shoes. “I doubt an eight could wear a six or vice versa.” She reached another arm into the pile. “Oh my God!”
“What is it?” Pappajohn rushed over.
The pink silk handbag Sammy showed him was identical to the one Ana had with her when she died.
Pappajohn’s face paled. The purse from the coroner was charred in the fire. This was pristine. He grabbed it from Sammy and reached inside. But there was no wallet, no credit card. Nothing to identify its owner except a dog-eared color photo of two smiling blondes, dressed in matching red and white sundresses. Pappajohn stared at the picture for a long time.
Peeking over his shoulder, Sammy saw that one girl was obviously Ana. But the other? “Gosh, they look like twins. If she‘s Ana’s rommmate, where is she?”
“And,” Sammy added, “who is she?”
Pappajohn’s turned to her, his face expressing grim determination. “Let’s get out of here. That’s exactly what I plan to ask the LAPD.”
“Aargh!” Sammy’s cry brought Pappajohn running out the apartment door. In the hallway, Sammy’s legs were trying to dodge the affectionate assaults of a very energetic canine whose long flowing double coat resembled a dust mop.
“Get over here, Princess. That’s not Ana.”
Pink bow, rhinestone collar, Princess was an apt name, Sammy thought. She watched the dog retreat toward a tall, skinny man who’d just exited the apartment next door.
“Are you her owner?” she asked.
The neighbor sported a two-day ration of beard stubble and appeared to be in his late thirties. Dressed in running shorts and tennis shoes, he carried a leash and plastic baggie. He erupted with a high-pitched laugh. “Princess is a Shih Tzu, a member of a distinguished breed that goes back a thousand years. She is my owner.”
He swept the dog up in his bony arms, frowning at Pappajohn, who’d just finished closing and locking the door. “Are you cops? ’Cause with these fires, no one seems to care that we’ve been getting lots of burglaries in the building. I just moved in a few weeks ago and I’m thinking of breaking the lease. Luckily, Princess is a great alarm system.”
The sweet-faced toy dog was wagging her furry tail, begging for attention. Pappajohn leaned over to pet her, then looked over at the man. “I’m Ana’s father,” he said. “She died in the fires.”
The neighbor appeared genuinely upset. “Oh my God. That’s awful. She is, I mean was such a nice person, wasn’t she, Princess?” He scratched his dog’s head and hugged her closer. “Princess loved her. I’m so sorry.” He reached over to Pappajohn and, holding Princess in one arm, extended the other. “Name’s Matt Henderson. I live next door.”
Pappajohn accepted the handshake. “Gus Pappajohn. My friend, Sammy Greene. So there’ve been a lot of break-ins here?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Hernandez in One C had her TV stolen last month, and last week somebody smashed my car window and took my laptop right out of the backseat. Now I have to start all over on my screenplay.”
Pappajohn nodded politely. “Yep, I’ve learned the hard way, too. Can’t have too many back-ups. You didn’t happen to see or hear anything unusual three nights ago, did you?”
“Sorry, I’m a pharmacy tech at Harbor. Between the fires and the holidays, I’ve been doing double shifts. Except to walk Princess, I get home, lock the door, and hit the sheets. But Mrs. Hernandez told me the cops were here.”
“How about before that? In the evening?”
Henderson shrugged. “She didn’t say anything else. But, she’s hard of hearing. Keeps the TV really, really loud.”
“We think Ana had a roommate,” Sammy said. “Have you seen her?”
Pappajohn showed him the snapshot of the two girls.
Henderson rested Princess gently on the stained carpet and pulled the photo close to his eyes. “Yeah.” He pointed to the blonde next to Ana. “Sometimes she goes out in the evenings, never comes back before I have to leave for work. Princess doesn’t like her, so we’ve never really talked. She’s not home?”
Sammy shook her head. “No. We were hoping to touch base, but—”
“Any other neighbors who might have been around that night?” Pappajohn pressed.
Henderson shook his head. “Not that I know of. This isn’t a very friendly building. That’s another reason I’m considering moving out. Mrs. Pascali on the other side of Ana’s place is okay. Went to Phoenix last week ’cause her daughter just had a baby. And Dean Foster, he’s not around so much any more. Hot and heavy at his girlfriend’s place, you know. Wish I could help.”
Princess was jumping up and down at Henderson’s feet. “Okay, sweetheart, we’re going.” He snapped the leash on the dog’s collar. “She’s got to do her thing and I’ve got to get to bed,” he said to Pappajohn. “Really sorry about your daughter, sir.”
“Thanks,” Pappajohn replied mechanically as he watched Henderson and Princess scamper down the stairs toward the street below.
Sammy yelled after him, “If you see Ana’s roommate—” But the odd couple was long gone.
“You boys busy?” From the doorway, the desk sergeant leaned into the precinct break room and waved to De’andray and Ortego. Still in their dusty suits, the two detectives sat at a wooden table laden with Styrofoam coffee cups and a half-empty tray of donuts. Breakfast at eight a.m. after a long night on call.
Before they could respond, their sergeant stepped aside and introduced Pappajohn. “Gus here’s retired Boston PD, on the job twenty-five years,” he said, in an obvious effort to establish instant camaraderie. “His daughter—” He looked at Pappajohn, at the same time wrapping an avuncular arm around his shoulder: “Anastasia?”
Pappajohn nodded confirmation.
“The vic from the fire.”
Standing behind both the sergeant and Pappajohn, Sammy winced at the cavalier use of the word vic, though she guessed that as an ex-cop, Pappajohn was inured to this kind of shoptalk.
“Gus has some questions. I’ll keep the rest of the squad out while you guys talk with him and—” he turned to Sammy.
“Sammy Greene. I’m a friend.”
“She’s with me,” Pappajohn’s sharp tone prohibi
ted challenge.
The desk sergeant nodded. “Okay, then. I’ll leave you two in good hands.”
As soon as he’d departed, the detectives pushed their chairs back and came over to shake Pappajohn’s hand.
Mutt and Jeff, Sammy thought when the two introduced themselves.
“Damn shame what happened,” Ortego said with genuine sympathy. “Sorry for your loss, Gus.”
“Likewise,” De’andry repeated, though Sammy thought his flat tone seemed less than sincere. Frowning, De’andray spun to focus on her. “Have we met?”
From his lofty six foot two the officer made the barely five-foot Sammy feel like a small child. “Not that I know of.” Her laugh was forced. “I haven’t been in town long enough to get in trouble.”
De’andray’s serious ebony eyes continued to probe. “No, no. I’m great with faces. No it’s—wait a sec. What’s your name again?”
“Sammy Greene.”
“That’s it.” He nodded to his partner. “That night radio chick. Saw your picture on a couple of benches at the bus stops this month.” He brushed some dust off the front of his jacket, adding with evident sarcasm, “Mother Teresa of Canyon City.”
Sammy gritted her teeth. Was he accusing her of something? Feeding the poor wasn’t a crime.
“Coffee?” Ortego interjected, an apparent effort to defuse the tension. He found a couple of folded bridge chairs in the corner and carried them over to the table.
“Nothing, thanks,” Pappajohn replied, sitting down.
Her stomach growling, Sammy eyed a cruller. “I wouldn’t mind a donut.” She reached for one from the tray and took a bite. They’d left so early that breakfast had not been on Pappajohn’s schedule.
De’andray closed the door on the din in the main office and joined them at the table.
“So,” Ortego said, “how can we help?”