by Linda Reid
Sammy walked into the living room just as Pappajohn was hanging up the phone. She’d only had time for a quick shower, but she had to get the stink of the smoke and the morgue out of her hair. A speedy blow-dry, a long sleeved blouse, and a clean pair of jeans, and she was ready for her reunion with Susan.
Pappajohn sat staring at his hands, his expression frozen in sadness. “The priest says we could do a modified service next week.” Though his voice was soft, Pappajohn’s tight fists betrayed his anger. “So at least her soul can rest in peace.”
Sammy nodded. She knew how hard it had been for Pappajohn to make that call.
“But, it’s still not . . .” Pappajohn struggled for the word. “Kosher.”
Despite the pressure of her ticking clock, Sammy sat down on the edge of the couch beside him. “I’ve never been terribly religious, but I’ve always believed that if there is a God, he’d understand and welcome people to heaven who tried their best.”
“I appreciate the thought, but neither Ana nor I fit in that group. We both screwed up. And God’s not giving us a second chance.” He looked at Sammy. “Does your God believe in regret?”
“You kidding? We’ve got a whole day for it. Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. We’ve got enough guilt to work on for a lifetime.”
Sammy was glad to see a glimmer of a smile. “You going to be okay tonight?”
“Yeah. Go see your stepmother. I’ll be fine. Might even be a good time to catch up with my friend, Keith. See if he’s got any information to help.”
Sammy stood and raised a finger. “Speaking of, I finally connected with the cab driver who claims he drove Sylvie the night of the fire.”
“And?” Pappajohn prompted.
“I made a date to meet him when he gets off shift at seven tomorrow. I want to show him Sylvie’s picture. See if he can identify her.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Of course,” Sammy said, grabbing her purse. Feeling a rush of affection for this big man who’d lost so much, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “There’s roast chicken in the fridge. Got it fresh from Whole Foods Market this morning on the way back from Building and Safety. Promise me you’ll eat and get some rest.”
“Promise me you’ll drive safely. Kai ta matia sou thekatessera.
Sammy raised an eyebrow.
“Old Greek expression. Meaning make your eyes fourteen. In other words, watch your back.”
Sammy winked. “Always do.” She closed and locked the door behind her, warmed by Pappajohn’s paternal warning and wishing her own father would have been as demonstrative.
As she slid into her car, Sammy shook her head. Pipe dream. Jeffrey Greene had never cared about anyone other than himself.
Waking from an alcohol-induced nap, Courtney discovered the lights dimmed, the TV on MUTE, and Ana staring at herself in the bedroom mirror.
“Shee-it, girl. What’s with the Elvira hair?”
“I found a bottle of Revlon Midnight Black under the sink.”
“I can see that. But Halloween was last month.”
“It’s not far from my natural color.” Ana turned to face her, “I want Teddy to recognize me—you know, before—Besides, everyone’s looking for a blonde.”
Courtney noted her own unkempt hair. “Shame I don’t have honey blonde dye. I’ve got enough people chasing me.” She pulled a few straggly strands from her face. “Or I could shave it off.”
“You’re not that drunk,” Ana said. “And,” her voice softened, “I’m glad.”
“I’m not,” Courtney muttered, though she didn’t reach for the nearly empty bottle of brandy.
A loud buzz made them both jump.
“What’s that?” Ana cried.
Courtney frowned. “Intercom. I’m not expecting anybody.”
“Whoever it is may not be here for you.” Ana ran over to the window.
“Get away from there!” Courtney ordered in a whisper. “And keep quiet.” She switched on a video screen mounted above her bed. “I have a security camera at the front gate.”
“Malibu Patrol!” boomed the voice over the intercom. “Open up.”
Courtney adjusted the picture. At five forty p.m. it was already dark outside, making it difficult to see details, but the fact that two stocky men dressed all in black stood at the entry was clear enough.
“Recognize them?”
Trembling, Ana shook her head.
“Open the gate, please. There’s a mandatory evacuation of everyone in the area.”
“No, I just heard the last report,” Ana said, lowering her voice. “This area’s still safe.”
“We have orders to check every residence. This isn’t voluntary. Open the gate!”
Staring at the video screen, Ana’s eyes widened in fear, “Look, that one’s got a gun!” The glint from the object in the man’s hand suggested she was right.
“Okay, we have to improvise.” Courtney pressed the intercom speaker and affected a lazy drawl. “Sorry, officer. I was fast asleep. Can I help you all?”
While waiting for a response, Courtney grabbed a blonde wig from her closet and slipped on a pair of jeans and tennis shoes. “Take the Jazz drive and the copied disk,” she told Ana while she tied her shoes.
“There’s a fire, lady. You’ve got to evacuate. We’ll escort you out. Open the gate.”
Courtney flipped a switch on the wall panel sending bright arcs of light over the front of the mansion including the entry. Both men, built like prizefighters, were now clearly visible. And so were their guns.
“Hey!” One of them held a hand over his face as a shield from the blinding light. His partner whispered something that sounded enough like “Let’s just shoot the damn lock open and get that Sylvie bitch” to make Ana panic. It took her every bit of self-control not to scream. She looked at Courtney, terrified. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Courtney pushed in the speaker again and reprised her southern damsel. “Why you all just hold your horses, there. After I buzz you in, stay on the path to the house. I’ll meet you at the front door.” She opened the gate.
“Are you out of your mind?” Ana hissed.
In response, Courtney flipped off every light and dragged Ana from the bedroom. “Just follow my lead. I’ve got a plan.”
“What do we do?”
“We’re going to sneak out the back and run like hell!”
Susan was seated at a back booth of the Souplantation in the middle-class Orange County town of Costa Mesa when Sammy entered a little after seven. She returned Susan’s wave and hurried over. “Sorry I’m late. The 405 was a parking lot.”
“It’s like that even without the fires.” Susan stood and gave her a genuine hug, which the motherless child in Sammy happily reciprocated, momentarily transported back to her freshman summer when she’d last visited Susan and her Dad. It hadn’t taken long then to realize it was her stepmother who’d wanted to forge a reconciliation, not Jeffrey.
Pulling back from the embrace, Sammy studied Susan. Though she still had the slim figure and lovely face that had once attracted her father, the new lines around Susan’s eyes and mouth mirrored the wear and tear she’d been through the past six years. Unlike Trina, the trophy wife, who Sammy’d guessed, based on her photo, kept Beverly Hills plastic surgeons in business. “It’s really good to see you again,” Sammy said.
“And you look gorgeous! I love what you’ve done to your hair.”
Unaccustomed to compliments about her appearance, Sammy merely blushed. “Should we get in line?” She pointed to patrons sliding trays along the soup and salad stations. Not the posh fare of Beverly Hills, this was a reasonably priced restaurant that catered to families. Lots of salads, muffins, pizza, and pasta. And the best clam chowder on the West Coast. Comfort food.
As they traveled through the line, making their selections, Sammy shared the reasons she’d ended up in L.A.
“It sure sounds as though you’ve landed on your feet,” Susan
said. “But that doesn’t surprise me.” She poured oil and vinegar dressing on the vegetables neatly arranged on her plate. “You know, my neighbor insisted I turn on your show. Said it was the best talk radio in town. I’ve been listening every night since. And,” she laughed, “missing precious hours of sleep.”
“Sorry.”
“Nonsense. I couldn’t be prouder of you.” They’d reached the cashier. Susan told Sammy to put her wallet away. “Your father may not have been the most generous man, but he didn’t leave me destitute. Besides, I made enough profit on the Encino ranch to buy a condo down here and still have a little money left to live on while I finish my degree at UC Irvine.“ She paid the tab and followed Sammy back to their table. “One more semester and I’ll earn my MBA.”
“Mazel tov.”
“So,” Susan began once they were both seated. “there was something you wanted to ask me?”
“There’s a lot I’ve wanted to ask you,” Sammy said. “Why don’t I start with an easy one. Do you think my Dad has changed? ”
Susan raised an eyebrow. “That’s an easy one? What do you mean ‘changed?’ ”
Sammy explained how after all these years—decades, actually—of showing no interest, Jeffrey had tracked her down at the station, insisting they meet. “Said he was sorry we’d never been close. That he really wants a relationship now.”
Susan remained silent, but the way she lifted her other eyebrow seemed to echo Sammy’s own surprise at Jeffrey’s gesture.
“I just don’t know if I can trust him,” Sammy said. “It’s not something I have to do.”
Susan sat back. “Look, Sammy. Your father’s not a bad man.”
“But?”
Susan exhaled. “But, he’s a man with certain . . .” She seemed to be searching for just the right word, finally settling on “challenges,” then described how Jeffrey had been struggling with one failed business idea after the other when they’d first met in Los Angeles. Her solid skills as a CPA complemented his dynamic, larger-than-life enthusiasm, and, together, they built some successful investments. “Looking back, I often wonder about the attraction. Guess his energy and ambition was the aphrodisiac.”
Susan took a sip of water. “When we married, I introduced Jeffrey to real estate. It was exciting back in the eighties. We could buy houses with little down, fix them up, then flip them—sell them—as their value soared.
“Unfortunately, what the experts say is true: ‘what goes up must come down.’ Jeffrey refused to believe me when I thought the market was too hot, that we ought to take our winnings and sit on the sidelines for a while. Instead, he started taking on bigger and bigger risk, leveraging real estate buys like a monopoly player.
“I got nervous. Told him I wouldn’t go along. That really made him mad. I think he felt I was standing between him and his dreams of great wealth. That’s when he started ‘working late at the office,’ going on ‘business trips,’ and hitting parties with ‘investors’ without me.”
She lowered her voice as if masking her shame. “I never imagined he was cheating on me at first. When he’d come home smelling of other women’s perfume, I actually believed he was wining and dining investors. The thought that it might be something more did cross my mind, but I rationalized, figuring that if he was having affairs, they meant nothing, that he needed to build his empire. And his self-esteem.”
Susan summoned a tenuous smile. “Then he met Trina. She tried to put him into a few dirty deals I was sure would cause trouble with the real estate board or worse, but he went ahead anyway. That’s when I said enough. The minute our divorce became final, Jeffrey married the woman.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be. I learned my lesson.” She reached out and patted Sammy’s hand. “And I got to have you in my life. I always wanted a daughter.”
Sammy put down her fork and looked directly into her stepmother’s eyes, “And I’ve always needed a mom.”
They ate for several minutes, focusing on their food.
Finally, Sammy broke the silence. “Do you know anything about Neil Prescott?”
“The congressman?” Susan frowned. “He’s an institution in his district. I’m certain you probably picked up a lot of buzz when you were in D.C.”
“I gather he’s not your cup of tea?”
“Not his politics,” Susan replied. “Lower taxes, less government. But he does speak to a lot of voters in Orange County. This is a pretty conservative area.”
“My father seems to be one of them.”
“I’m afraid so. Jeffrey and Trina are among his biggest fund-raisers.”
Sammy nodded. “I got that from searching the Internet. Lots of pictures of Dad and Prescott looking chummy.” Sammy pushed some peas around her plate with her fork. “A hotel Dad’s company was renovating collapsed about a year ago?”
“The Palacio Real. The old queen of Newport Beach,” Susan said. “That was one of those crazy deals I was talking about. Jeffrey bought it anyway. Prescott arranged for financing through his brother-in-law’s savings and loan. Frankly, if it hadn’t been for the accident, Jeffrey would have lost his shirt. After the building collapsed, with FEMA funds and insurance, he was able to build the Montagne Olympus and turned a tidy profit. For a year’s tuition, I can treat you to dinner there some time.” She sighed. “But, it did buy Jeffrey his suite in Fox Plaza, and an estate on the Newport coast.”
“I heard there was an investigation. The DA suspected something criminal?”
“That you’d have to ask your father,” Susan said. “I will tell you this, if there’s one man I definitely wouldn’t trust, it’s Neil Prescott.”
Courtney slid open the glass doors facing the wide backyard and grabbed Ana’s hand. “Run!” she shouted. With the lights off and the moon obscured by the fire’s smoky haze, she knew they had cover. If they could reach the hill at the far edge of her property, they’d be okay.
Warm winds whistling past them could not dampen the loud curses of the two men as they stumbled in the darkness, trying to find the front path.
“They’re going to kill us!” Ana panted from exertion and fear.
At a cluster of trees two-thirds of the way between the back of the house and the hill, Courtney signaled to hunch down to rest. “Just a little farther.”
“What is?” Ana asked.
“The hill. I figure it’s another fifty feet. When we get to the edge, there’s a low wall and a steep path we’ll have to manage. So be careful.”
“I can’t see a thing.”
“Hold on to me.”
They heard a bang followed by the sound of the front door being kicked in.
“Oh my God, Courtney, they’re in the house.”
Both girls watched the lights inside the mansion flip on. First the living room, then the bedrooms upstairs.
“What are we going to do?”
Without a word, Courtney pulled Ana up and, hand in hand, they sprinted toward the hill. They were within a few feet when the backyard floodlights burst on, exposing them.
“Jesus, they found the control panels. Hurry.” Courtney pointed to a three-foot brick wall that bordered the hill.
Ana lifted one leg over, hoisted herself up to straddle the wall, then hopped down onto the first flat, narrow level of a steep terraced path on the other side.
Courtney was ready to take her turn when a chunk of brick exploded right beside her.
“They’re shooting at us!”
Without looking back, Courtney put two hands on the wall, vaulting over it, and tumbling to the other side in a heap. “Duck!” she yelled as two more shots reverberated, sending pieces of brick in the air.
Ana dove head first onto the hard dirt.
“You okay?”
Ana pushed herself onto her knees, careful to stay huddled behind the wall. “I think so,” she gasped. Except for a few scrapes on her head and arms, she seemed to be in one piece.
“Follow me,” Courtney ordered
. Using her arms as support, she slid on her backside down the first few steps of the terraced path until sure they couldn’t be seen by the men who’d now found their way out of the house and could be heard bounding toward them. As soon as Ana reached the same level, they both stood and rushed down the remaining steps to the street below.
Breathless, Courtney whispered, “This is how I sneak onto the property, when I’m not supposed to be here. And this,” she said pointing to a red Vespa parked nearby, “is our ticket out.” She motioned for Ana to take a seat on the back of the scooter while she hurried to the side of the last step and flipped a switch, engulfing everything in total blackness.
A loud thud, high above them indicated that one of the men had tripped on the wall. His screams of pain were accompanied by dual curses.
Courtney inched her way over to the Vespa and jumped on. Turning the ignition key, she kicked down on the starter pedal until it coughed to life. “Hold on,” she shouted as another volley of shots rang out. Without a backward glance, Courtney gunned the throttle, rocketing the scooter toward Pacific Coast Highway and south to Santa Monica, their pursuers far behind.
A half hour into her drive north on the 405, Sammy hit gale-force headwinds that blew drifts of thick smoke and cinders across her windshield, obscuring her view. The sluggish pace of the Tercel’s old wipers only accentuated the problem. The fact that it was a moonless night didn’t help either. The car’s headlights illuminated no more than a few feet ahead, forcing her to slow to a crawl. Just like the time she’d driven a drunk Pappajohn home through a Vermont blizzard, except that this snow was black, not white.
When several cars passed her, she decided to move over to the safety of the farthest right lane. Even so, two fire trucks, sirens blaring, rushed by, nearly sideswiping her. Where were they headed? Five days and there seemed to be no let up to the outbreak of wildfires across the southland. The minute one blaze was extinguished, another took its place. Bel Air, the Hollywood Hills, Malibu, Topanga Canyon.
As much as Sammy wanted to rage at the LAPD’s apparent indifference to investigating Ana’s death, she knew the area’s police and firefighting resources were strained to the limit. Even Reed was working overtime, caring for patients made sick by the fire’s residue. Sammy anxiously switched on the radio, hoping to catch updates, but the whine of wind hissing against her windows drowned out the news and she shut it off.