Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Wednesday,

  December 29

  At seven fifteen a.m. Sammy and Pappajohn stood on the sidewalk outside her apartment watching Sandoval wedge his yellow Checker taxi into a tight parking space, bumping cars on both ends. Stepping out of his cab, the beefy forty-something man reminded Sammy of how Pappajohn must have looked a decade earlier—when his bushy mustache was still dark. They were even the same height.

  “Mr. Sandoval,” Sammy said, offering a handshake. “I’m Sammy Greene.”

  “I’m too late,” he responded. “Fires, fires, fires. Sunset, Wilshire, Santa Monica. All closed. Maldita wind! Nobody going out this week. My business is screwed.” Unlike his wife, Sandoval spoke fairly good English, albeit still lightly seasoned with the accent of his native El Salvador.

  Sammy brushed back wisps of hair from her face. “No problem. We appreciate your coming by.”

  “You got the ten thousand?”

  “Not til we find our girl. We hope you can help us.” She nodded at Pappajohn. “This here’s my buddy, Sergeant Pappajohn.”

  Sandoval’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the deal?” He pointed to his chest with obvious pride. “American citizen. Fifteen years.”

  “He’s a cop, not INS,” Sammy explained.

  The wariness remained. “Hey, my taxi license, all my papers, they’re up to date.”

  “We’re not interested in you,” Pappajohn assured him. “We want to know if you picked up a young blonde last Friday night.”

  “Christmas Eve.” Sandoval pulled a much-used hankie from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Sí. I remember ’cause of the fires. Sunset was closed and Wilshire was jammed with cars. We had to take Santa Monica.” He smiled at Sammy. “We listened to you on the radio. Like I told the guy at the station.”

  “Okay,” Sammy said. “And what time did you pick her up?”

  “After midnight. Maybe two or three o’clock.”

  “Can you check your log?” Pappajohn asked.

  Sandoval opened the front door of the cab and leaned in to unlatch the glove compartment. He pulled out a ratty spiral notebook and flipped to a page, “Here it is. Two thirty-seven, Wilshire Boulevard, Westwood. Three forty-two, Ashland Street, Santa Monica. One hour to go five miles! Maldita fires!”

  Sammy and Pappajohn stared at each other, acknowledging the street where Ana and Sylvie lived.

  Pappajohn let out a deep breath and produced the snapshot of both girls. “Think you could identify the young woman?”

  Sandoval took the photo and held it at arm’s length as he pulled out a pair of drugstore reading glasses from his pocket. Squinting, he studied the image of the two blondes. “Twins?”

  “No,” Sammy replied, “but they do look alike.”

  “Did you give a ride to one of these girls?” Pappajohn demanded.

  Sandoval’s finger hovered over the picture, until, finally, he chose Ana. “I think it was this one.”

  “Jesus,” Pappajohn mumbled, shaking his head. He pointed to Sylvie. “You sure it wasn’t this one?”

  Sandoval scratched his chin for a long moment, then bobbed his head up and down. “Sí, that’s the one I gave the ride.”

  Pappajohn leaned back against the cab and closed his eyes as Sammy gently probed. “Okay, you took her to Ashland. What address?”

  Sandoval checked his log again. “She told me twenty-three twenty-five. But I remember. She jumped out a block away. Gave me a lousy two dollar tip for my trouble,” he grumbled. “Had to drive all the way back to LAU Med for another fare.”

  “You said you picked her up in Westwood?”

  “Promenade Towers on Wilshire. The doorman, he calls me, you know, we’re partn—” Sandoval stopped himself when Pappajohn opened one eye and turned in his direction.

  “Anything you can tell us about her condition?” Sammy asked.

  “She seemed muy nervioso, nervous. Could have been high,” Sandoval speculated. “I think maybe she was a pu—working on the streets, you know, very tight dress, high heels, and pink purse.” He looked at Pappajohn, waiting for a reaction and when none came, continued. “Didn’t talk much. Looked like she had a bad night. Arms, legs, all scratches. Even got blood on my backseat.”

  Now Pappajohn stood up straight and opened the rear passenger door, triggering the roof light. A few streaks of blood stained the cloth seams where the girl’s calves must have rested.

  Sammy winced at Sandoval’s lack of hygiene, but Pappajohn had already pulled out a wad of bills from his pocket, along with a Swiss Army knife. “Gus?”

  “Three hundred dollars, and we take this patch. Get it reupholstered, or at least washed, okay?” Pappajohn thrust the bills at the driver, then reached over and started dissecting out a large swatch of the bloody upholstery. “Damn,” he cursed as he cut his finger and a couple beads of his own blood dripped onto the fabric. Ripping the sample into two sections, he handed them both to Sammy “Just hold the bottom. The evidence may already be degraded, but if we get this out of the sun and into paper bags right away, there’s a chance they contain enough DNA to make an ID.”

  “Of course,” Sammy replied. If Sylvie had an arrest record as De’andray claimed, her DNA should be in the system. What better way to confirm that she’d left the area where Ana was killed than by placing her in this cab? Carefully balancing the samples, Sammy hurried up to her apartment, at the same time conjuring up a backup plan of her own.

  “Police station, right?” Sammy aimed the Tercel north on Sepulveda, anticipating Pappajohn’s next move. She figured he’d want Ortego to run the blood sample, confirming Sylvie as the passenger in Sandoval’s cab.

  “No, let’s go catch that creep ME, first. I don’t want to miss him again.”

  Sammy nodded. Time for Gharani to explain his actions in what clearly seemed a cover-up for Ana’s murder.

  West Hollywood’s clubs and restaurants blossomed in the night, and woke up slowly in the morning, but even at eight fifteen, Sunset Boulevard was unusually deserted. Though the winds had taken a short breather, the stench of smoke still kept most people indoors.

  Sammy was about to turn onto Westbourne Drive when she noticed the entrance to Gharani’s street cordoned off with orange cones. A uniformed policewoman stationed behind a wooden barricade held up a palm to block both vehicle and pedestrian traffic. Nevertheless, a small crowd of gawkers, some dressed as if they’d just rolled out of bed, huddled nearby.

  Sammy parked on Sunset and flew out of her car to ask what was going on. Pappajohn followed behind.

  “Fire in the middle of the night. Woke us all up,” a grey-haired woman in a bathrobe complained.

  “Damn Santa Anas. Every fucking year. Lucky it was only one house.” A tattooed man pointed toward the end of the street. Where the weather-beaten bungalow on the corner lot had once stood, was now a pile of blackened ashes. Yellow tape attached to one of the two standing pilings fluttered loosely in the hot breeze.

  A coroner’s van was just pulling away from the curb.

  “That’s Dr. Gharani’s,” Sammy cried. She raced up to the officer and flashed her press pass.

  “Sorry, no one’s allowed until fire and police finish their investigation.”

  “I was supposed to interview Dr. Gharani this morning.”

  “You knew the victim?”

  “Victim?” Sammy blanched. “You mean—”

  “They just removed the body.”

  “But how?” Sammy swiveled to see Pappajohn, breathing heavily, standing behind her.

  The policewoman shook her head. “They don’t call these ‘devil winds’ for nothing. All around the city we’re seeing it. One house stands, another goes up—literally—in smoke. Terrible accident.” She shifted her attention to a neighbor about to cross the barricade. “Hey!”

  Pappajohn, hovering on the brink of rage, waved Sammy over to an empty spot on the nearby sidewalk. His eyes were glued to the smoldering ruins now overrun by LAFD
’s Arson Investigation Unit. “I don’t care what anyone says. This was no accident.” He nodded at the investigators. “And I’ll bet they don’t think so either.”

  “Should we talk to them?” Sammy asked, looking for a way past the policewoman.

  Pappajohn shook his head. “This loose end’s been tied up. Our only hope is to track down Sylvie.” He checked his watch. “Almost nine. Let’s see if we can follow her trail at the library.”

  “Wake up.” Ana nudged Courtney’s shoulders. “Courtney, wake up.”

  “Shhh!” Courtney lifted her head from the cot, her face registering a wave of nausea. It had been over twelve hours since she’d had a drink. “I’m Sylvie, remember?” she whispered.

  “Right,” Ana swallowed the lump in her throat. “Sorry.”

  “Why’d you wake me?” Courtney rubbed her temples, “What time is it?”

  “Just before nine. The library opens in a few minutes. I want to send an e-mail to my father.”

  Courtney groaned. “Why don’t you take the Vespa and let me sleep?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “I mind not sleeping. And pick me up a few bottles of Korbel on the way, okay?” She rolled over on her side and covered her head with her sweater.

  Seeing no choice, Ana took the scooter’s key from Courtney’s purse along with a few dollars.

  “Mission accomplished.” Miller heard the caller say this time. “Smoking kills.”

  He allowed himself a smile. “Any luck finding the girls?”

  “Trail’s cold.”

  “Not entirely,” Miller said. “Our tap of the radio station got us a bite. California Science Center at three p.m. IMAX Theatre. I’m betting it’ll be either Courtney or Sylvie.”

  The Santa Monica library is a stately building just a few blocks from Ocean Avenue and the Pacific beyond. Today, its proximity to the ocean’s breeze provided an oasis of respite from the smoky haze hanging over the rest of Los Angeles. Sammy relished taking deep gulps of fresh air for the first time in days. Even Pappajohn seemed to breathe more easily.

  “Keith tracked the IP address—the computer’s name, so to speak—to this library,” Pappajohn explained as they entered. “They probably have a bank of public-access computers Sylvie could have used.”

  The young man at the information desk confirmed Pappajohn’s deduction, directing them to the second floor. Though the library had just opened, every PC in the Computer Center was already occupied. Pappajohn walked over to the front desk where a stern-looking, elderly librarian sat reading a book.

  “Good morning.”

  The librarian looked up. “ID, please.”

  “Uh, no,” Pappajohn said. “I’m a police officer. I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  “Santa Monica police?”

  “I’m working with the West L.A. precinct of LAPD.” Pappajohn flashed his badge so quickly that only Sammy recognized the Ellsford University logo.

  The librarian peered at both of them over her glasses. “What do you need?”

  “We’re looking for a young woman, blonde, about five four, mid-twenties, who might have been here the morning of December twenty-fourth,” Pappajohn explained.

  “You expect me to remember every single person who walks in this room?”

  “Of course not.” Pappajohn produced a smile so charming that even Sammy was wowed. “But I expect you’ve got a sign-up sheet and log before you let anyone use the computers.”

  The charm worked. The librarian’s sharp features softened. “As a matter of fact, I do.” She reached down to open a large drawer and removed a thick spiral notebook. “December twenty-fourth, let’s see. Do you know what time?”

  “Between ten and eleven,” Sammy said.

  The librarian leafed through the pages. “Here we are. Friday morning, December twenty-fourth, we had three women come in. Loretta Magid, Sylvie Pauzé, and—”

  “That’s the one, Sylvie Pauzé,” Sammy cried, causing nearly every computer user to turn a head her way.

  The librarian frowned. “Has she committed a crime?”

  “No, ma’am. She may be a witness to one.” Pappajohn lowered his voice. “Do you have an address, a phone number? Some other contact information?”

  “Well, they do have to show ID,” the librarian said. “I vaguely remember her, come to think of it. A blonde, right?”

  “Right,” Pappajohn responded. “Did Sylvie say anything to you? About where she was going, what she wanted to do?”

  “No, just that she needed to use the computer.” The librarian seemed lost in thought. “I do remember that she fell asleep on one of the chairs in the back. Must have been there most of the day. We were closing early ’cause of the fires and—”

  “Did you see any scratches on her legs?” Sammy interrupted.

  “No, I believe she wore trousers. Slacks, jeans.”

  Pappajohn reached into his pocket and produced the photo of Ana and Sylvie. “She was one of these two, right?”

  The librarian pulled her head back, straining to study the images. “I need a new pair of glasses. My arms aren’t long enough any more.” She squinted to focus. “They look so much alike. It’s hard for me to see, but I believe that is she.”

  Pappajohn and Sammy did a double take. For the second time that morning, a witness was pointing to Ana.

  “That’s the one you want, isn’t it?” the librarian asked.

  Pappajohn’s voice quavered. “You’re certain this is the girl you saw?”

  The librarian shrugged. “I see so many people here. No, it could be either one. I’m not sure.”

  Pappajohn nodded, thanked her, and headed out with Sammy at his heels.

  “Look, Gus, we will find Sylvie,” Sammy tried to comfort him. “Jim got a call this morning from a woman who says she knows where Sylvie is. I’m going to meet her at the California Science Center at three in the IMAX theatre. How about I take you to the police station so you can drop off the blood sample while I have lunch with my father. Take a cab when you’re done and meet me at the theatre. Hopefully, we’ll get answers from somewhere today.”

  “I’d been hoping for answers here this morning,” Pappajohn said. “Now all I have are more questions.”

  Ana pulled the Vespa into a space just vacated by a blue compact. The car was too far away to be sure of the make, but it looked like a Toyota Tercel, a model she’d been saving for back when she’d planned for a better future. Or any kind of a future for that matter.

  Courtney’s cognac bottles rattled in the storage bin of the scooter as Ana dismounted and set up the kickstands. Who would have thought the liquor store would be so crowded at this hour of the morning? Seemed as though everyone wanted to try their luck with the lottery today. The Super Lotto pot had grown to nearly seventy million dollars.

  Ana had spent some of her time in the checkout line imagining the wonderful life she and Teddy could have if she became the lucky winner. She’d even bought a ticket, just for the heck of it, knowing the odds of winning were less than being struck by lightning. Like Sylvie’s her bad luck had been a lightning strike. Wasn’t it time for a little good luck?

  Pushing open the doors to the computer center, she headed for the check-in desk where she handed over Sylvie’s driver’s license.

  The librarian glanced at the ID, then back at Ana, her forehead creasing.

  “Something wrong?” Ana felt her pulse quicken.

  “Would you mind taking a seat over there?” The librarian pointed to an empty chair in the corner. “I need to check something with my supervisor.” She reached for the phone, then turned her back as Ana started to walk away. “West L.A. precinct?”

  Although the librarian spoke in a whisper, her words were loud enough for Ana to hear. The police! By the time the librarian glanced back, Ana had grabbed Sylvie’s license off the counter and disappeared.

  De’andray was headed out of the building when Sammy dropped Pappajohn in front of the West L.A. precinct s
tation. The tall detective rolled his eyes as he watched Pappajohn climb out of the car. “Man, thought I’d finally get out of here on time today. What do you two want now?”

  “Just me.” Pappajohn’s tone was all business. He held up a brown paper bag. “Got something for you. Let’s go inside.”

  The detective followed Pappajohn back into the building as Sammy drove off. At De’andray’s desk, Pappajohn pulled over an adjacent chair and sat down. “So, you got any news for me? Have you found Sylvie?”

  De’andray pressed his lips together. “No and no. We do have other priorities right now.” He pointed to the window where haze from the fires had colored the sky beige.

  “Finding a murder witness was always a priority at Boston PD.” Pappajohn laid the brown paper bag on the officer’s desk. “The cab driver who picked up Sylvie in Westwood said her arms and legs were all scratched. He dropped her off in Santa Monica—after the murder. I got some blood samples from the taxi for you to confirm her DNA.”

  “Look, Gramps, don’t you know what retired means? You’re not a detective anymore. Stay the hell out of police business.”

  Pappajohn shot to his feet and leaned on the desk with both arms. “You want me to take this public? LAPD refuses to investigate a murder?”

  “You and your bigmouthed radio friend have already done enough damage,” De’andray responded. “Get it through your thick head. Your daughter’s death was an accident. Get out of here or I’ll have you busted for interfering with an active investigation.”

  “Active?” Pappajohn sputtered. “What investigation? You’re doing nothing, and that’s criminal!”

  “Hey, hey.” Ortego stood at the door of the conference room. “In here. Both of you. Now.”

  De’andray smirked, shrugged, then rose and went inside.

  Pappajohn grabbed the paper bag before following.

  Taking seats at opposite ends of the table, Pappajohn and De’andray continued to glare at each other like prizefighters in a ring, while Ortego, the referee, tried to make peace. “So, how can we help?” he asked.