by Linda Reid
“French actress. My generation.” Pappajohn frowned, clicking on the file. “I doubt Ana’s heard of her.” Within seconds, it revealed a long list of names.
As Pappajohn scrolled through, Sammy recognized several well-known celebrities, businessmen, and politicians. Beside each were various comments: Coke, crack, meth, E, threesomes, domination, soixante-neuf. “It’s a client list!” And their drug and sexual pleasures, she thought, mentally translating the French. One famous actor favored tall, model types, a dot-com mogul preferred natural-no silicone, while someone called Fahim wanted blondes only, no Arab girls. Beside his name was an asterisk and the word sadist.
“Whoever trashed the apartment must have been after this list.”
Sammy had to agree. How many careers would end if it went public? How many might kill to prevent it?
Pappajohn nodded at the screen. “Looks like Congressman Prescott was a regular.”
Sammy leaned in, surprised there were no particular preferences beside his name. If it was Ana on the video, she must be the blonde who’d driven Prescott to the hospital that night. Sammy shook her head. Seemed the congressman was hiding more than just banking and real estate shenanigans. As soon as Reed released him from the CCU, she planned to get an interview.
Pappajohn had already opened the third message and started reading.
Eyes only, al-Harbi.
Op. Y2K
34.058710,-118.442183
31, 12, 99, 23, 59.
Sammy grabbed her notebook to jot it down. “What do you think it means?”
“Got me. Eyes only can be top secret. Op Y2K , Operation Y2K? I don’t have a clue about the rest. Phone number, address, safe deposit box, combination? Could be anything.” Pappajohn stared at the screen for a long time. “This one was forwarded first to a blind e-mail, then to Sylvie Pauzé, and then to me. I can’t determine the original source.”
“Any way to trace it?’
“Not from here.” He clicked forward, typed a short note, then pushed SEND. “But Keith and his buddies in Boston might.”
Sammy checked her alarm clock. 5:50 a.m. Six hours to the meeting. “There’s nothing more you can do now, Gus. Better get some sleep. You want to be rested and alert when you meet your daughter.”
Miller sat next to Fahim in the back of his parked Lincoln, listening with growing irritation. One day from his goal, and he’d been forced to take this predawn clandestine meeting in the underground lot of LAU Medical. This was not part of his carefully strategized plan.
“You disappoint me, my friend,” he said, anger crawling into his voice. “I thought you’d learned your lesson. The whore’s death was bad enough, but now a doctor?”
“It couldn’t be helped,” Fahim tried to explain. Perspiration rolling down his neck belied his calm tone. “The woman discovered the bomb.”
“Where’s the body?”
Fahim pointed to the Alabaster Chemical Truck parked nearby. “I’ll take care of disposal.”
Bowing his head as if in prayer, Miller was quiet for a long time, considering contingencies. He’d already planted “evidence” that would soon implicate Fahim al-Harbi as the terrorist leader behind the “horrible bombing that brought down the hospital on New Year’s Eve.” The phone message, the watch list notification, the money he’d wired to Dubai. He’d made sure the entire trail would be traced back to the Saudi. He’d even arranged for Fahim’s arrest the day after Y2K in Las Vegas.
Best laid plans. Perhaps he could find another use for this patsy. A smile curled his lips as he raised his head to look at Fahim. “Okay, here’s the new plan. First, my men will help you dispose of that women’s body and her car. Then I want you and that truck back here at eleven p.m. Just when the night shift starts. You’re going to make another pick up. Understand?”
“But Las Vegas?” Fahim’s voice had become a whine.
Some gambler. Miller sneered, “I’m afraid you’ve just thrown snake eyes.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thursday
December 30, 1999
Ana met Courtney outside the Internet café as the first rays of sunlight cast a pink glow on the smoky sky. She was surprised to learn that her father was in Los Angeles. “Guess I had to die to finally get his attention,” she said with a measure of sadness.
“At least yours came at all. As long as I brought in the money, mine never cared what I did.”
Ana gave Courtney a hug. “I care. No charge.”
A sudden softness flashed in Courtney’s blue eyes then retreated behind her actor’s mask. “Did you send the e-mail?”
“Yeah. Along with everything Sylvie had copied that night.”
“Good.” Courtney followed Ana onto the bus that would take them back to the shelter. “I’m ready to crash for a couple before I meet them.” They slid into an empty bench at the back. “Noon at Nate’s.”
“In Beverly Hills? Isn’t that too high profile? What if they’re followed?”
Courtney gestured at her homeless disguise. “I’ll scope out the territory first.”
Ana shook her head. “Maybe you shouldn’t bring them to the shelter. How about the diner on Lincoln and Broadway? I can hide in a booth until I’m sure it’s safe.”
Courtney made a face. “That place is rank.”
“It’s homey, it’s walking distance, and I can call Mrs. Darden from their pay phone. Teddy should be back in town this morning.”
Courtney shrugged, “Okay, but I was really looking forward to ditching these threads.”
“Not as much as me,” Ana said, pinching her nose.
By nine forty-five a.m., the police officer calling in to the Department of Child Protective Services had persuaded the supervisor to trace foster home records for the name and whereabouts of Ana Pappajohn’s son.
“Here we are,” he said when he’d come back on the line ten minutes later. “Theodore Pappajohn, age ten. Mother, Anastasia Pappajohn; father, unnamed. Mother voluntarily surrendered the boy into the system in nineteen ninety-five. Hmmm.”
“What?”
“It says here Theodore’s a special-needs kid. CP. Cerebral palsy. No wonder his file’s so thick. Hard to find foster parents who’ll take on the responsibility. Seems he’s been moved from home to home in the last four years.”
“Where’s the kid now?”
“Let’s see. He’s with the Dardens. Good solid family. No children of their own, but these folks have taken in a dozen with special needs since nineteen eighty-nine. Right now Theodore’s their only one. Lucky kid.”
Lucky indeed, the officer thought, jotting down the address before disconnecting. As he dialed Kaye’s private line, he couldn’t stop wondering why she was so interested in a dead whore’s son. Bait to flush out Sylvie? Nah, Sylvie didn’t seem the type to care. It had to be something else.
Determined to discover the real reason, he finished his call to Kaye, then picked up his jacket and, waving to colleagues, headed out to his car.
Forty minutes later, Courtney hopped off the bus at San Vicente. With her cap set low over her head to shield her from the warm Santa Anas, she walked south toward the twenty-four-hour delicatessen in the busy shopping district of Beverly Hills. Hardy socialites used umbrellas to block the soot and ash that flew by their delicately nipped and tucked faces as they made the rounds of Tiffany, Gucci, and Ferragamo.
Courtney leaned against one of the stores’ faux brick walls, stole a swig from her brandy flask, and observed the parade. Dressed in threadbare clothes, she was invisible to the same women who normally begged for autographs. Capping her flask after a few sips to take the edge off her withdrawal nausea, she set off back into the wind toward her destination.
Rounding the corner, she encountered an unexpected procession of homeless people crowding the middle of the next block, spilling into the street. Many carried makeshift banners and signs that read: Exile and Murder, Take Back Beverly Hills, and Homeless Rights, not Wrongs! Some shouted epithets, “Murder
, Genocide!” and “We’re back and we’re not going away!” A police car skidded around the turn a few feet from Courtney and sped toward the gathering.
The mob pushed into the center of the boulevard, forming a human barricade that stopped traffic. More policemen appeared from each end of the block. Frustrated drivers of late-model luxury cars began honking horns. Some even rolled down their windows to curse or make rude gestures as the homeless approached.
Fascinated, Courtney neared the slow-moving group, just when a half dozen uniformed men jumped from a Beverly Hills Police Department van that had pulled over to the curb. A gray-haired officer used a megaphone to order everyone out of the street. Unyielding, the protesters continued their march while additional cars backed up and added to the cacophony of horns and cries.
One homeless woman a few feet ahead of Courtney picked up a chipped brick and hurled it through the window of a jewelry store, setting off the security alarm and triggering police whistles. Courtney turned as two policemen jogged up, shouting instructions inaudible amidst the chaos. She tried to step aside, but felt her shoulders and arms pinned back, and her body knocked to the ground.
Handcuffs? She was being arrested! “Wait!” she cried, when the two officers lifted her up and shoved her toward the paddy wagon. “I’m not one of them, I’m Courtney Phillips!”
“Yeah, and I’m Britney Spears,” one of the officers snickered, shoving her through the open van doors, alongside a few equally unwashed companions.
Within minutes, the van filled with demonstrators under arrest, none sympathetic to Courtney’s protestations. It jolted as its driver backed out of the melee, using the sidewalk to take the first wave of prisoners to the Beverly Hills courthouse and jail. Knocked off her feet, Courtney rolled into a corner of the van.
Cursing her bad luck, she knew it would be hours before she could call her lawyer. Sammy Greene and Ana’s father would assume she’d stood them up. Again.
Ana used the diner’s pay phone to call Teddy’s foster mother. “I spoke with your husband. I’m Sylvie, Ana Pappajohn’s friend,” she said, affecting Sylvie’s Quebecois accent.
“That poor girl. So young,” Mrs. Darden cleared her throat, “I didn’t have the heart to tell Teddy.”
Ana hated the ruse, but she had no choice. “Um, I was wondering if I could come by this morning and see my—see Teddy.”
“You just missed him. The social worker came by—”
Ana felt her stomach tighten. “Social worker?”
“A family wants to adopt him.” Mrs. Darden sniffled. “It’s all so sudden. If we were younger, we’d adopt him ourselves. We love the boy. I asked if he could stay until New Year’s, but the social worker said the family expects him today. I only had time to pack a few clothes. We forgot his Game Boy.”
It took all Ana’s self-control not to shout into the phone. “What was her name?”
“The social worker?” Mrs. Darden blew her nose. “Gosh, I don’t remember. But I’m pretty sure her accent was Russian.”
Russian? Ana dropped her own faux accent, screaming, “Oh, my God!”
“Where the hell are they?” Pappajohn finished his second round of coffee and waved for the waitress to refill his cup.
“They’ll be here. It’s only ten after.” Sammy said. “Go easy on the caffeine, okay?”
Pappajohn glared at her. “This actress. Fool me once—”
Sammy nodded, weary. “But the cross?”
Pappajohn laid the cross on the Formica table. It glistened under the fluorescent lights. “Shame on me,” he muttered.
“She’s alive! Then who’s in the ashcan?”
“Sylvie Pauzé, according to CODIS. Looks like you got punked, bro.”
Miller slammed down the receiver, his fury mounting. It was the second interruption that morning. First the Arab’s screwup and now Kaye. This call had confirmed his suspicions. Maybe the madam could pull the wool over the eyes of others. But swindle him? Dean of Special Ops? Not a chance. And certainly not now, with the future of the country at stake. He’d waited eight long years for the chance to help his world vision find a home in the White House. Offense, not defense. Preemptive tactics. That was the way to keep enemies at bay. Why couldn’t those soft-bellied Washington elites understand? Well, no matter. By the strike of midnight tomorrow they would all be uniting in the call for military revenge.
In the meantime, he had to deal with yet another complication, eliminate certain loose ends. Otherwise his plan could literally blow up in his face. He picked up the phone again. Still, nothing to lose sleep over. To Miller, it was the necessary cost of getting the job done. After all, in any war, one had to expect collateral damage.
Sammy frowned as she exited Nate’s with an angry Pappajohn in tow. Red lights flashed in the distance, a line of cars were backed up for blocks. “What’s going on?” she asked, handing her parking stub to the valet.
“Homeless protest.” The attendant stamped her ticket and asked for eight dollars. “Cops arresting everyone.”
Momzers! The Canyon City tower collapses and the rich of Beverly Hills still can’t open their hearts to show a little real charity. Sammy shook her head, thinking she’d report this tonight on her show. A good follow-up to her focus on the homeless.
The buxom policewoman shoved Courtney into the holding cell with a dozen other women from the protest.
“I get a call, bitch. I know my rights! My lawyer will have your balls!” Courtney shrieked as the door slammed shut.
“I’ll put you on the waiting list,” the policewoman laughed on her way down the hall.
Courtney kicked the bars in frustration, grimacing at the pain in her toes. How had she ended up here? Her last album had made Billboard’s Top 10. They’d even taken her cell phone. And left her to rot in this stinkpot with—these people. This game wasn’t fun any more.
There was no room for Courtney on the benches, which were bolted to the concrete floor. Not that she wanted to be too close to any of these women. She chose a corner spot where she could feign a sense of privacy and think. Dammit all, she’d really messed up. Now Sammy Greene would never believe she’d told the truth about Ana. Ana would be waiting at the diner, maybe with Teddy, and no one would come.
Fucked up royally. She reached for her flask. Jeez, they’d taken that, too. Not only would she be stuck here for who knew how long, but she’d be stuck here sober.
A wave of panic washed over Ana like a tsunami. Teddy gone? She had no doubt the social worker with a Russian accent was Kaye. Why had she ever told Sylvie—a pipeline to Kaye—about her son? She closed her eyes, breathing in and out, forcing calm. She needed to think.
Trembling, she checked the diner’s wall clock—12:05 p.m. Even if her father agreed to come, he wouldn’t arrive for an hour. She couldn’t wait. Who knew what Kaye was capable of? She’d already tried to have Ana killed. What if she was behind Sylvie’s death?
Fishing in her pocket for the phone card she’d purchased, Ana dialed the memorized number. When the call was finally picked up, she didn’t wait for a greeting, but blurted into the receiver, “I know you have my son. Let’s make a deal.”
“Now what?” Sammy asked, maneuvering away from the Beverly Hills traffic. She glanced over at Pappajohn, sitting stone-faced in the passenger seat. Still clutching the cross in his right fist, his steely expression belied the pain in his tired eyes. How could Courtney have been so heartless? What could she possibly gain by such a cruel hoax?
“Reed might have the preliminary DNA. Shall I swing by the hospital to check?”
Pappajohn shook his head. “Can you take me to the West L.A. PD? Ortego promised he’d have the lab rush the results.”
Nodding, Sammy executed a U-turn on Wilshire, then swung a left onto Santa Monica Boulevard.
They arrived at the police station twenty minutes later only to learn that Ortego had already gone off shift. “Where I’d like to be,” De’andray said, still working at his desk. He lay down h
is pen. “Winds’ve picked up and I’m seeing another wave of double duty coming. How long you two gonna stay on my case?”
“As long as you’re not working on our case,” Pappajohn replied. “We need the DNA results from the taxi. Emilio said they’d be ready today. Courtney Phillips insists Ana’s alive.”
De’andray rolled his eyes. “Look, can’t you see you’ve been conned? Assuming the girl you met is Courtney Phillips, she’s hardly a reliable witness. Who knows what game she’s playing.”
“Do you have the results?” Sammy interrupted.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” De’andray pulled a single sheet from under his stack of files. “According to CODIS,” he read, using the acronym for the Combined DNA Index System, “one sample belonged to Costas “Gus” Pappajohn.” He looked up and added, “still alive to harass me.”
“And the other?” Pappajohn demanded, not smiling.
“Sylvie Pauzé.”
Pappajohn’s exhalation sounded like a deflating balloon.
“Look, Pops,” De’andray said, “I’m sorry for your loss, but, Emilio had no business wasting county resources on this nonsense. The sooner you accept your daughter’s death, the better off—”
Shaking his head, Pappajohn spun on his heels and marched out of the station.
Sammy watched him go, then looked back at De’andray, furious. “Are you trying to destroy the man?”
“I’m doing my job,” De’andray said, his tone defensive.
“With the incompetence I’ve seen around here, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone screwed up those results,” Sammy said. “Right or wrong, a young woman died on Christmas Eve. Ana Pappajohn or Sylvie Pauzé. Burned to death. Murdered, according to the evidence. Yet you’ve decided neither deserve your attention because of the lives they lived. You think Gus Pappajohn’s a bad father, so you give him short shrift. Even though he’s a fellow cop, a man who took two bullets once doing his job.” Barely stopping to draw a breath, Sammy threw up her hands. “When we finally got close to finding Sylvie, Ana, whoever, you had to go and mess that up by calling in the INS. Lucky for you, your partner’s willing to take up the slack, but—”