by Linda Reid
Sammy marched into the West L.A. precinct and found De’andray buried in papers at his desk.
“Not you again!” the detective groaned, looking up. “One of these days I’d like to get out of here before noon.”
“Not until my daughter’s murder is investigated,” Pappajohn boomed from the doorway.
“Gus,” whispered Sammy, aware that the roomful of police officers were all staring.
“I don’t give a damn,” he growled, as he headed for De’andray. “I’ve had enough. Ana may have been a working girl, but she had a father. A father who wants to know who beat her up and left her to die alone in the street.”
De’andray stood up to his full six-foot-two height, towering over both Sammy and Pappajohn. “How about we take this private?” Without waiting for assent, he led them into a conference room whose walls and whiteboards were decorated with crime-scene photos and mug shots. No pictures of Ana anywhere, Sammy noted, with a measure of puzzlement and relief.
De’andray opened the folder he’d carried in with him and removed a fax. “The autopsy report. Just came in this morning.” He tossed it onto the table, took a seat, and pointed to two chairs on the opposite side.
Pappajohn picked up the document while Sammy drew her own chair closer so she could read over his shoulder. As Reed had relayed to her, the report showed no mention of injuries beyond the frontal skull fracture that had supposedly knocked Ana out.
De’andray leaned back and shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing suggesting murder there.”
Sammy shook her head. “We know the ER doctor had concerns about a possible beating. That’s why she made a police report. Yet the injuries documented in Ana’s ER chart aren’t in this autopsy report.” She grabbed her notebook from her purse and flipped it open. “Nothing about jaw looseness, teeth embedded in the cheek, fracture of the, um, xylophonic arch.” She wasn’t sure she’d gotten all the terms Reed had mentioned exactly right, but her point was to highlight the discrepancy.
De’andray’s dark eyes narrowed. “How did you happen to see the ER chart?”
“I didn’t see it.” Sammy was reluctant to implicate Reed. “I . . . uh . . . my source is reliable.”
“Your source! You think ’cause you have a damn radio talk show, you’re a detective? Offering a reward for leads to a possible suspect? You’re pushin’ it, honey. We don’t cotton to vigilantes in this part of the West. Even if it’s all to boost your ratings.”
“Now, hold on,” Sammy sputtered. “I’m an investigative reporter, and, I know the law. According to the fourth amendment, I have a right to investigate. Including murder.”
“Better put the word alleged in your dictionary then, or you may need a lawyer when you’re hit with a libel charge.” De’andray turned to Pappajohn, “And you. You used to be a cop. You should know better. We can’t have civilians running around town playing policeman. The medical examiner says right here,” he tapped the autopsy report, “cause of death was accidental. Case closed.”
“No, sir!” Pappajohn banged his fist on the table. “Sammy’s right. Those findings reported by the ER doctor were missing from the ME’s version. Damn well sounds like a cover-up to me!”
De’andray’s deep exhalation was an obvious display of frustration. “Why? Why would he go to all that trouble just for a—” he didn’t finish his sentence.
“Say it!” Pappajohn shouted, jumping out of his chair. “For a prostitute. Say it!” He rose and strode toward De’andray, fists clenched.
The door opened and Ortego stepped in between them. Nodding toward the hallway, he gestured at De’andray. “Call for you on line two.”
De’andray seemed about to speak, then stood and walked out without a word.
Ortego turned to Pappajohn. “Sorry my partner upset you. He’s been pulling extra duty for a week now with the fires and the homeless and all. His wife’s pissed that he’s not around for the holidays. You know how that goes.”
“Yeah, I do.” Pappajohn sat down again.
”Maybe I can help,” Ortego said gently, taking the seat his partner had vacated. “How ’bout you tell me what’s going on.”
Sammy quickly itemized the disparities between the two examinations they’d discovered.
Ortego frowned. “That does sound strange. Honestly, though, the ER doctor never said anything to me about loose teeth. Or that xylophone thing you said.”
“Then why call you in the first place?” Sammy asked. It wasn’t routine for police to be called in on accidental deaths.
Ortego nodded. “I hear your concerns. Did she knock herself out and die in the flames? Or did she die first from something else, and then get burned? Wasn’t a question the docs in the ER or the police were qualified to answer. Frankly, after the fire did its work, I don’t think anybody really could. In the end, it’s the ME’s report we have to rely on.”
Pappajohn clasped his hands tightly in his lap. Ortego reached over and gave his arm a comforting squeeze. “We’re all really sorry. I appreciate what you’re going through. But, as a fellow cop, you know what you’re asking is almost impossible. We’ve searched the site where she was found and the nearby area. We’ve interviewed the kids who called it in. We’ve talked to her doctors. We got a damn fast report from the ME. There’s nothing left roadside for us to gather. Everything was burned out by the fires. Only residual drainage in that gully kept her from dying on site.”
Pappajohn remained stone-faced and silent.
“Tell you what, “Ortego said. “I’ll give, uh—” he turned the autopsy report over, “Dr. Gharani a call. See if he can reexamine your daughter’s face and teeth. Just in case he did miss something. You never know.” He rose from his seat, indicating the meeting was over.
Pappajohn stood and shook his hand. “Appreciate that, Detective.”
“Emilio.”
Pappajohn nodded.
“Good, then, Gus.” Ortego began ushering them through the precinct.
“Oh, one more thing,” Pappajohn said when they’d reached the exit. “Were you able to locate the roommate?”
“APB’s been out for two days, but nada.” Ortego threw up his arms. “Vanished into thin air. Not a clue.” He turned to Sammy with a disapproving glance. “In the meantime, senorita, you don’t have to do our job for us. We’ll find her. Okay?”
Sammy merely smiled. Sometimes investigative reporters could open doors closed to the police, she thought. Like the cabbie. If he panned out, she’d send him Ortego’s way. If not, no harm, no foul. No point in further provoking De’andray. Instead, she waved goodbye and watched Ortego disappear back inside.
“So, what do you think?” she asked Pappajohn as they walked to the car.
Pappajohn took a long deep breath and then stared at her, his expression transformed from one of resigned despair to fierce determination. “They’re right. They should be able to do their job. But I’ll be damned if that’ll stop me from doing mine. I have to know if Ana was killed. If Dr. Gharani’s going to take a closer look, he’s going to do it with me standing right there beside him.”
“What’s the name again?”
The caller sounded impatient. “Anastasia Pappajohn. We don’t know the kid’s name. First foster placement through Social Services should be in nineteen ninety-five. Just check your computer.”
“As soon as the department servers are up again. They’re doing the Y2K refit this week,” the clerk explained.
“No paper records at all?”
“Sure, but I can’t get into the file room. The Omni lock to the place is on the computer system. I’ll have to ask my supervisor for a special key.”
“Get him on the phone. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help the police”
“Can’t. He’s in Hawaii til Thursday. Better call early. We’ll have to go through a stack of card files. If this Anastasia’s anything like our typical clients, she’s probably moved a lot since ninety-five. Without those welfare checks coming in any mor
e, they keep getting evicted. It’s awful, really. We have to go out and pick up their kids, find foster homes, go to court and—hello? Officer? Are you there?” the clerk shouted into the receiver,
But the connection was broken, the caller having long ago hung up.
With a short stop for lunch, it was a little past two p.m. when Sammy turned into the parking lot at the L.A. County morgue. Pappajohn had called the funeral home and asked to delay Ana’s pickup until the next day, hoping Dr. Gharani could reopen the autopsy and investigate their concerns. Pappajohn didn’t wait for Sammy before heading down the stairs to the basement level.
An Indian woman in a white coat over a colorful sari stopped them in the hall. Sammy guessed the doctor was in her mid-thirties. Probably just out of residency. “Sorry sir, the public’s not allowed down here.”
“I have an appointment with Dr. Gharani,” Pappajohn told her.
“The doctor was called out this morning. Some kind of family emergency.”
“Well, maybe you can help me,” Pappajohn read her name tag, “Dr. Mehta.” He quickly told her why he’d come, that he needed to have someone in the ME’s office reexamine the body.
“I’m pretty new here. I—”
“Please, doctor. Ana was my only child. If she was murdered, I have to know.”
His appeal had the desired effect. “Okay, have a seat in here,” she said ushering them into a tiny cubicle off the sterile hallway. “Let me see what I can find out.”
Less than five minutes later, Dr. Mehta returned with the same African-American clerk who’d helped them before. Instead of a smile, now she appeared anxious. “Mr. Pappajohn, I don’t understand.”
“Understand what?” Pappajohn asked, rising.
“You called to have your daughter cremated. That’s what Dr. Gh—”
“Cremated?” he screamed, slapping his forehead with his hands. “The-eh mou! Ochi! Einai amartia!”
Sammy took Pappajohn’s hand and gently urged him into the chair. Shaking his head and muttering in Greek, he finally looked up, his expression pure anguish, his face wet with tears. “You don’t understand. We don’t cremate in the Greek Orthodox Church. The body is God’s creation and cannot be burned. It’s a mortal sin!”
Clearly distraught herself, the clerk apologized. “We’re so very sorry. We didn’t know that. Dr. Gharani said he spoke to you.”
“I would never consent to cremation!” Pappajohn insisted. “And I haven’t spoken to Gharani since I was here last week.” Pappajohn buried his face in his hands. “I’d hoped Ana’s path to heaven would be free of struggle.”
Sammy turned to the two women. “Give us Dr. Gharani’s address. We’ve got to find out how this horrible mistake happened.” It was as much demand as request. How much more should Gus have to endure?
The clerk chewed her lip. “I don’t have his address. Only his emergency number. I could call and see if you could talk to him.”
“I have his address and his cell phone number,” Dr. Mehta interjected, her eyes moist at the sight of Pappajohn. She raised a hand at the clerk. “I know it’s not protocol, but I respect traditions. And this man needs to find out why Dr. Gharani didn’t.”
“Okay that should do it.” Bishop quickly deflated the balloon in Prescott’s right coronary, removing it along with the catheter. “No muscle damage. Looks like our patient dodged another bullet.” He slipped off his gloves, putting one over the other, and tossed them neatly into the trash bucket.
Reed found himself exhaling a deep breath. Throughout the thirty-five-minute procedure, he’d been second guessing his actions the night Prescott had come into the ER. Between little sleep and his shock at hearing Sammy’s voice after so much time, he wondered if he’d been too distracted, perhaps had missed something. “That artery was barely occluded when I did the original angio,” he stammered.
Michelle, who’d been allowed to observe the procedure, looked puzzled. An unwritten rule residents all learned early was not to call attention to mistakes. However, Bishop’s mentoring had taught Reed that owning up to errors produced better patient outcomes, even if one’s reputation lost a bit of shine.
Expecting criticism, Reed was surprised that Bishop merely nodded. “Obviously flipped another clot. Happens more than you know.” He strode over to the door and pulled off his mask and surgical gown “All yours, Dr. Wyndham. I’ve got to run to an Emergency Operations committee meeting. Hang a heparin drip and get him back to CCU. Looks like he won’t be going home til after Y2K.”
“No, Op . . . Y . . . ” Prescott muttered, shaking his head..“Home. Friday. Y2 . . .”
“He’s coming out of it,” Bishop said. “Let’s keep him sedated for the next twelve to twenty-four hours. And no TV,” he added as he left the procedure room.
Twenty minutes later with Prescott settled in the CCU and Michelle headed back to the ward, Reed pressed the button for the express elevator down to the first floor, lost in thought. Prescott’s mumbling had reminded him of the conversation he’d overheard the other night outside the VIP suite between Prescott and another man. Reed hadn’t recognized the voice then and he never saw the man’s face. But he had caught some of of his words.
Op . . . Y . . . Home, Friday . . .Y2.
Thinking back, Reed was certain the man had mentioned Prescott getting discharged before Friday and something about an Operation Y2K.
Thick clouds of smoke blowing south from the Cahuenga Pass made the stop-and-go freeway traffic unbearable, so Sammy decided to exit and take Sunset Boulevard to the medical examiner’s home. For her, the long thoroughfare that cut a twisted swatch from downtown’s Olvera Street Latino district westward to the Pacific near Malibu and its lavish ocean view villas was a study in contrasts that no words could describe. She’d traveled it only once since she’d come to live here, amazed by the changing landscapes along the winding boulevard’s twenty or so miles.
Today her route ended in West Hollywood, a diverse region of apartments, homes, restaurants, and boutiques. Rich and not so rich mingled in its inclusive borders that were much more welcoming for Sammy than the opulent mansions and wide, treelined avenues of Beverly Hills or Bel Air. To Sammy, those neighborhoods looked plastic, like an upscale Main Street at Disneyland.
In West Hollywood, the character was more eccentric. Many of the homes were vintage bungalows from the 1920s, others were modern and gleaming with glass and steel. The streets, even on a smoky, windy day like today, were filled with seniors and young families, refugees from Europe and the Middle East, straights and gays. A careful observer would note a polyglot of languages, an assortment of lifestyles. Almost like Sammy’s memories of Brooklyn in her childhood.
Sammy drove by several trendy-looking shops and nightspots before she found Westbourne Drive. Slowing the car, she rolled down her window to stop a couple of handsome men stylishly dressed in muscle shirts and low-cut jeans strolling arm in arm. Both wore paper face masks, presumably as protection against the effects of the smoky air. “We’re looking for 3148. Around here?”
They pointed toward the end of the block.
Sammy parked in front of a weather-beaten bungalow. The rusty mailbox bore a hand-printed Gharani. The lawn displayed a prominent For Sale sign. This won’t sell anytime soon, Sammy speculated, eyeing the chipped paint and loose shingles of the tiny house.
Sammy glanced at Pappajohn. On the surface he appeared composed, but she had little doubt he was holding back his fury. Both she and Pappajohn were now convinced Gharani possessed the key to the mystery of Ana’s death. Otherwise, why bother to whitewash the autopsy, then eliminate all evidence that might prove his daughter was murdered? “Ready?”
Pappajohn nodded.
They got out of the car and walked over the cracked pathway to the front of the house. Sammy searched for a bell, but saw only a few ragged wires sticking out of a hole by the door. She knocked several times.
No answer.
&nbs
p; Pappajohn tried rapping more loudly, then banging with his bulky fist. Still no response. They peeked through the front windows, but the house inside was dark. And there was no sign of activity in the yard.
Pappajohn waved at Sammy, then took off around the house. A few minutes later, he returned, shaking his head. “Looks like no one’s home.”
“The clerk said he had some kind of emergency. Maybe we should call,” suggested Sammy, pulling out her phone. Shortly after punching in the first number, a traditional ring trilled from the house. Sammy let the phone ring for several minutes before giving up. Frustrated, she tried Gharani’s cell. After a few rings, she snapped her phone shut. “Not in service at this time.”
“I’ll wait,” Pappajohn said tersely.
“I know how you feel, Gus, but, Gharani could be gone for a long time. Even out of town.” She sighed. “I’d stay here with you, but I promised my stepmother I’d meet her for dinner in Orange County. If the traffic earlier was a hint of rush hour, I’ll just have time to drop you off at home and hit the road.”
“Okay, but we’re coming back tomorrow,” Pappapjohn said, following her to the car.
As they drove off, neither noticed the black Lincoln parked at the other end of the block whose tinted windows hid the two men who’d been following them all day.
Ignoring the plumes of smoke rising from the hills outside his panoramic window, Miller sat at his desk, concentrating, meticulously going over every phase of the operation, making sure there were no loopholes, nothing that could go wrong. His thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of his phone.
“We’ve found the girl. MILSTAR traced her to a location in Malibu. We’ve ID’d the house as belonging to a Courtney Phillips.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Miller said, genuinely surprised.
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
“You boys close?”
“ETA twenty minutes, unless we hit road closures. You want us to bring them in?”
“Yes, indeedy. That I do.” Miller’s voice dropped several decibels. “And here’s how it’s going to go down.”