Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller)

by Deborah Shlian

  They sat in silence until most of the passengers had deplaned. Finally, Pappajohn unbuckled his seatbelt. Reaching up, he pulled his rumpled overcoat from the overhead bin, his substantial paunch tugging at the belt of his trousers. Sammy noted that sweat had plastered his once white shirt against his back like a giant Rorschach pattern. She stood, waiting for him to clear the way, then followed him past the smiling flight attendants down the movable metal stairs. It was nearly ten p.m. The evening rains had cleared, leaving a crisp chill Sammy found surprisingly invigorating.

  They walked briskly to the terminal, their footsteps in cadence. Sammy looked around the waiting area for a friendly face, but the sergeant, knowing better, plopped down on a row of scratched plastic chairs and motioned for her to sit next to him. Both seemed uncomfortable with conversation. Sammy looked off at the entrance, Pappajohn down at his hands.

  Finally, Sammy cleared her throat. “Thanks.”

  The sergeant nodded. “You hungry?”

  Sammy realized for the first time that she was. “Uh-huh,” she said with more energy.

  “Good.” Pappajohn leaned back in the chair and yawned. “My sister’s a damn good cook.”

  “Oh. Good. Thanks.”

  They both returned to their uncomfortable silence. Fifteen minutes passed before a woman with Pappajohn’s build, but a softer, rounder face came rushing forward to greet them. Eleni Pascalides gave her brother a warm hug and put a comforting arm around Sammy, blessing her with the traditional Greek double-cheek kiss. “Yasou. Come on, let’s go home. I’ve got a big bowl of avgolemono waiting for you.”

  “That’s chicken soup,” Pappajohn translated.

  “Greek penicillin,” his sister said, laughing. “Now come, some soup, then a hot bath and a good night’s sleep. Everything will look better in the morning.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  SATURDAY

  NOON

  The room was dark when Sammy opened her eyes. Thick linen curtains blocked all but a single ray of sunlight that dissected the brown wool blankets. Jolted awake, she sat up in the unfamiliar double bed, trying to get her bearings. Where am I? Of course, the memory returned. Pappajohn’s sister’s house.

  Sammy quickly looked around the room. She began to make out the objects there, one by one: the bedside lamp with its pink plastic shade, the alarm clock at five past twelve, the four-poster bed that cocooned her in its warmth, and beyond, the sewing machine draped with unfinished dresses. A bureau piled untidily with magazines held a photograph of a slim Gus Pappajohn in his Boston police uniform, his hair pitch black, standing next to a pretty brunette and a small child. Must have been many years ago, Sammy surmised. The sergeant’s hair was now more salt than pepper.

  She lay back in bed and stared at the canopy, thinking about yesterday. The trip to her old home had helped rid her of past guilts. She was glad she’d finally gone. But after — the assault. She shuddered, remembering her fear.

  You’re gonna pay now.

  She could still hear the man’s words, still feel his hands groping her.

  You’re gonna pay now.

  Pay? Whom? For what?

  The sound startled her. She sat up, heart racing, and looked to the door. Someone knocked again, and a gruff voice followed with, “It’s almost noon. You gonna sleep all day?”

  Pappajohn.

  Sammy pulled the blankets up to her chin. “It’s open.”

  Pappajohn stood at the door, a brightly colored floral-pattern dress draped over his arm, looking slightly uncomfortable. His eyes wandered around the room, taking in the details, and at last fell on the photo on the bureau.

  Sammy thought she detected tears in the corners of his eyes, but the gravel in his voice belied any underlying softness. “Eleni said this would fit you. We’ll leave in half an hour.” He took two small steps into the room and reached to drape the dress over an armchair.

  To her surprise, Sammy realized she was disappointed that she wouldn’t be getting another delicious meal from the police chief’s sister. Last night’s chicken soup and lamb stew had been just what the doctor ordered. Her stomach growled in protest as she, not wishing to seem ungrateful, answered, “Okay, thanks.”

  She’d barely gotten the words out when Pappajohn left the room. Strange man . She slipped on a cotton bathrobe his sister had laid out for her. Just like her father. Very, very strange .

  “Hope you’re hungry,” Pappajohn greeted Sammy as she came down the stairs. Pacing impatiently by the front door, dressed in his down overcoat, he gave the impression of a large grizzly bear.

  Sammy tried not to smile, instead brushing at her borrowed dress. “There’s got to be a McDonald’s around here. Do we have time to say good-bye to your sister?” She looked off in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Here’s something warm. That raincoat of yours is made of paper.” Pappajohn tossed her a heavy leather jacket. “We’ll meet Eleni there.”

  Sammy raised an eyebrow. “There? St. Charlesbury?”

  Pappajohn jingled his keys as he stepped out the door. “St. Sophia.”

  Nestled in suburban Somerville, St. Sophia had been built to resemble its namesake, the famed Byzantine church in Constantinople with its tall towers at each corner and a central dome. Sammy’s impression, as they drove onto the church parking lot, was of a large mosque somehow transported to the midst of bucolic Levittown.

  Next to the parking lot, a giant circus tent covered most of the grassy grounds. As she stepped from the car, Sammy heard strains of Greek music — bouzouki and bagpipes — amidst the voices of hundreds of people. A banner fluttered from a card table ahead announcing: ST. SOPHIA GREEK FESTIVAL, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 1995 in bright red letters.

  “Costaki, yasou .” A buxom gray-haired woman jumped up from the entrance table, shouldering through the crowd to greet them. She gave Pappajohn a warm bear hug, pressing a kiss on each cheek. Sammy found his obvious discomfort amusing as she watched him pull back like a schoolboy hoping to avoid the cheek pinch of an effusive great aunt. Seeing his injured arm, the woman demanded an explanation, “Ti epathes, vre!”

  After some rapid chatter in Greek, Pappajohn extricated himself, paid the entrance fee for two, and slipped his wallet back into his pocket.

  “Thanks,” said Sammy. “Six dollars?”

  “Includes food,” he told her. “Let’s get some.”

  She followed him inside the large tent, which housed several rows of brightly decorated booths. Pappajohn made a beeline for one advertising a roast lamb dinner, leaving Sammy standing near the entrance. She took a moment to catch her breath and surveyed the crowd pressing up to the booths. Young and old, families with children, all happily celebrating an autumn afternoon surrounded by Greek music, dancing, and food.

  Sammy wandered by a table that displayed native scarves and blouses, neatly embroidered with blue, red, and white designs. A poster overhead featured a pristine Greek island, bleached white cottages reflected in crystal clear azure seas. She closed her eyes, visualizing the warmth of the summer sun as she lay on a sandy beach.

  “Well, come on.”

  “Huh?”

  Pappajohn stood behind her, plate in hand. “Do you want spanakopita or tiropites with your lamb?”

  Sammy gazed over at the next booth where Eleni was holding up another plate. “Home cookin’.”

  “From the best,” Pappajohn said between bites of a second serving.

  His sister blushed, pleased. “Don’t you listen to him. Did you sleep well, dear?”

  “Great, thanks.” Sammy pointed to a casserole. “I’ll try that.”

  “Pastitsio,” said Pappajohn. “I’ll take some too.”

  Eleni sliced off a tiny piece for her brother, much to his displeasure. “Come on, I’m a growing boy.”

  Eleni looked directly at Pappajohn’s substantial gut. “You certainly are.”

  “Costa!” A middle-aged woman approached their booth. “Eleni, you didn’t tell me Costa was here!” Sh
e eyed Pappajohn with sympathy. “You poor dear. You must miss Effie so much.”

  Pappajohn forced a wan smile before drowning his sorrows in a huge bite of moussaka. “You get used to it,” he mumbled through a mouthful of food.

  The woman peered at Sammy. “And Ana, how big you’ve grown. You must meet my son George. I know you two would hit it off.”

  Sammy was about to explain who she was when Eleni stepped in. “So how is George?” she asked, winking at Sammy.

  “He’s pre-med! Only twenty years old!” the woman bragged. “We’re spending all month filling out applications. I want him to go to Harvard, of course.”

  “Of course.” Pappajohn repeated.

  Sammy couldn’t resist a smile. On his home turf, Pappajohn was just like a rebellious schoolboy.

  “Let’s go see the dancers,” Pappajohn whispered to Sammy while Eleni and her friend continued their animated conversation.

  Sammy looked off at the male and female dancers dressed in bright native costume all in a row, kicking up their legs like an amateur Rockette line. Sammy noted with surprise that the men were wearing skirts too.

  “I thought only the Scots —”

  “They’re evzones, male soldiers,” Pappajohn explained. “And yes, they do,” he added in response to Sammy’s obvious unasked question.

  She laughed. “The way they kick like that, for sure. How come some of the dancers aren’t in costume?”

  “Because they’re people. Like us.” He reached for her arm and led her toward the floor. “That’s the great thing — everybody dances.”

  “But I don’t know how,” protested Sammy.

  “It’s easy.” He slipped off his sling and with his good hand, broke apart two dancers in the outermost chain. Motioning Sammy in on his other side, he rested his casted arm over her shoulder. The circle reclosed, everyone’s arm on his neighbor’s shoulders as the tempo increased. Sammy made a valiant attempt to pick up the not-too-difficult steps, but her greatest surprise was in watching Pappajohn move like a true Zorba.

  She also observed that several of the other attendees would wave or shout greetings at him. Pappajohn seemed to be spurred on by the attention, and soon made his way to the front of the line, leading the group while waving a soiled napkin with his free arm extended. After an exhausting round of dances, he finally moved back toward her, wiping his sweaty brow with the napkin shreds.

  “Boy, am I thirsty.” He shouted to a teenager manning a drink booth, “A bottle of ouzo, and hurry.”

  “Uh, no thanks.” Sammy had once tasted the licorice beverage — to her dismay. “I’ll just have a coke.”

  “That’s okay, more for me.” He handed her the soft drink, as he savored a long swig of the alcohol. “Opa!”

  Sammy indicated the crowd. “You seem to be pretty popular around here.”

  “It’s a small community.”

  “Effie was your wife?”

  “Yes.” Pappajohn gulped more ouzo.

  “She —?”

  “Died six years ago. Cancer.”

  “That must have been very difficult.”

  “We were married thirty-one years,” he spoke with a touch of pride.

  “Special lady, huh?”

  “Very special.” Pappajohn turned his head to watch the dancers who began the syrtaki.

  “Why did you become a cop?” Sammy asked, unable to resist probing. Police work seemed such a risky profession for a family man.

  Pappajohn shrugged. “Couldn’t open a restaurant.”

  “No, really.”

  Pappajohn considered her question for a long time, as if delving deep into his psychological motives, but if he had, he chose not to share his insights. Instead, he tossed off a glib response, “I guess somebody’s got to do it.

  “Well, I’m glad you were doing it on Wednesday,” Sammy said, hoping she’d conveyed her gratitude for his saving her life.

  True to form, Pappajohn simply nodded.

  “How’s your arm holding up?”

  “Still stiff after I sleep, but otherwise —” He shrugged again. “It’ll be fine.”

  “I’m glad.” Sammy turned to him. “Any idea who did the bombing?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “You mean you’re still investigating.”

  “I mean, I can’t say.”

  “Surely you have a gut feeling.”

  “Honey, I’ve stopped trusting my gut years ago.”

  “Don’t call me honey.”

  “Oh sorry, I forgot, it’s not politically correct.” Pappajohn studied her face. “I could be your father, you know.”

  “You called your daughter ‘honey’?” challenged Sammy.

  Pappajohn’s tone took a transient contemplative quality. “Not enough.” He poured the last of the ouzo bottle into his paper cup and repeated, “Not enough.”

  Sammy didn’t miss the gesture. “What’s she like?”

  “My daughter?” He looked directly at Sammy for a moment, then removed two dog-eared snapshots from his wallet. “She doesn’t look like me,” he said, handing her the pictures. “She’s a beauty — like her mother.”

  Sammy considered the two dark-haired women in the photo. The older one radiated warmth with her broad smile, her features glowing, her eyes twinkling with laughter. The other, still in her teens, stood slouched facing the camera, sporting a sullen look. Sammy had one of those photos too. She was surprised to see how much Pappajohn’s daughter reminded her of herself at that age.

  “But she isn’t happy,” Pappajohn was saying. “It worries me — her bottomless appetite for misery.”

  “She’s not here, is she?” Sammy asked, looking around.

  “Hardly.” Pappajohn snorted. “You’d never catch her at one of these things. Los Angeles.”

  “That’s where they all go to find themselves, I guess. My dad moved there after my mom died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pappajohn said. “Has it been a while?”

  “About thirteen, fourteen years. I grew up with my grandmother in New York.”

  “I didn’t think that was an L.A. accent.” Then he turned serious. “Was it cancer?”

  “My mom?” Sammy looked down for a moment. “No. Suicide.”

  Pappajohn seemed genuinely saddened. “I didn’t know.”

  She looked up again. “It’s okay. Either way, it’s still the pits.” She raised her soda and took a large gulp as a pseudo-toast. “To survival.”

  Pappajohn’s paper cup was emptying fast.

  “Is your daughter all right?”

  “You’re asking me? I’m just her father.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “She’s clean. That’s all I care about.” His response was unconvincing.

  “Oh.” Sammy knew so many friends who’d fallen into that trap. “What’s she doing now?” she asked, before regretting the choice of words.

  Pappajohn didn’t seem to catch the double meaning, answering honestly. “She told me she’d decided to return to school. Maybe one of these days it will happen.” His tone didn’t sound convinced. “I e-mail her every so often, but that’s about it.”

  “You think she’ll ever come back East?”

  Pappajohn shook his head. “No. No illusions. I guess if I ever have grandchildren, I’ll have to visit by computer.” He downed the last few swallows from the cup, crumpled it into a small ball, and pitched it perfectly into an almost-full trash bin. He was off to the beverage booth for a refill to fuel another round on the dance floor.

  Larry Dupree sat in his apartment’s living room, examining the shoe-box-sized metal container the fire chief had given him yesterday, uncertain how to open it. The heat had twisted the metal and virtually melted the lock. He turned it over and over, about to give up when he finally noticed a buckled seam that had created a tiny space — probably less than half a centimeter — but room enough to insert a small screwdriver.

  He rose from his chair and hurried into the kitchen where he stored his t
ools. Among the eclectic assortment of screwdrivers, he found just what he needed. Returning to the living room, he wedged the six-inch flathead under the metal, pushing down with all his strength until, at last, he pried the box open.

  “Papers,” Larry muttered, disappointed. He was hoping for some salvaged program tapes — the classics, anything — to help restart the studio library they’d just lost.

  Defeated, he rummaged through the pile of burned crisps of paper mixed with black flakes of the scorched interior. Brian’s engineering license, FCC certification. A copy of his campus housing rental agreement. His car insurance. Brian was a real pack rat.

  Then, a picture.

  Larry blew the ash dust off the photo. It had been taken two years ago, right after they’d broken the facilities contracts story. Brian was sitting in his rickety chair, bookended by his two best friends, Larry himself and a grinning, almost childlike Sammy. His eyes welled up with tears.

  He was about to close the container when he saw it — at the very bottom of the box, tucked underneath. Larry pulled it out and turned it over in his hand.

  Well, ah’ll be! Though the label was torn, he could make out most of the letters written in Brian’s chicken-scratch penmanship: Sammy’s tape.

  Sammy was relieved when she finally left Interstate 91 and drove onto quiet Route 15. The radio talked about a five-car pile up near Bellows Falls with traffic backed up all the way to Brattleboro. They’d stayed at St. Sophia’s well into the evening — only leaving after most of the revelers had called it a night. Pappajohn had had too much ouzo, so Sammy promised his sister she would drive them home.

  Now snow fell like confetti and the roads were becoming more treacherous. Sammy was grateful Pappajohn owned a Land Cruiser. Though clumsy to steer, the behemoth four-wheel-drive vehicle rode solidly on the accumulating snow.

  Sammy turned her head for a moment to look at her companion. Pappajohn was leaning against the opposite door, his head partially covered by a hunter’s cap, snoring loudly in an irregular pattern. Sammy felt obligated to play chauffeur on the trip home — not only because the chief had had too much to drink, but because Sammy felt that her conversational questions might have gotten him in that condition. The poor guy. He was a real teddy bear at heart. But with his wife’s death and his daughter’s leaving, he had to fight his way alone. Sammy looked over at him again. It seemed she and Pappajohn actually had a lot in common.