Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) by Deborah Shlian, Linda Reid Read Free Book Online

Prescott’s color improved. His vital signs now stable, the congressman slipped into a restful sleep.
    Reed deflated the balloon and removed it along with the catheter. His own heart rate had slowed to normal, and the butterflies in his stomach were gone.
    The resident shook his head in awe. “Great save.”
    A voice cracked on the intercom. “Dr. Wyndham. I’m calling for Dr. Eisenberg. Do you need him?”
    Reed looked at the wall clock. Twenty-five minutes had passed. In total, eighty minutes from door-to-balloon time. Reed allowed himself a grin. It was a great save. He’d opened the artery and saved a life.
    “No, no,” he said, pulling off his latex gloves. “We’re okay now.”
     
    Kaye almost didn’t hear the muffled ring of her cell phone over the sounds of the roaring winds rattling their balcony doors. By the time she pulled it out from under her pillow, the caller had hung up. ID read Private Caller. Again.
    Kaye tiptoed into the study as the phone rang a second time. It could only be Miller. No one else had the nerve to call her private line in the middle of the night.
    “An unfortunate accident at the party tonight,” Miller began.
    That bloated pig, Prescott, no doubt. Kaye waited to hear news about the porcine congressman.
    Instead: “One of your girls is dead.”
    Dead?
    “We may have had some leakage. I’m sending my men to sweep her apartment.”
    Now Kaye was on high alert. “For what?”
    “The girl was a snitch.”
    Kaye felt her heart jump. It had been a gamble sending Sylvie to spy on that Arab. Despite wavering loyalty, Sylvie had always been the best foxhound on her team. For years Sylvie’s pillow talk reports had kept the madam and most of her girls out of jail. Clients were much less inclined to disclose Kaye’s business once they realized she possessed secrets about their business. And every now and then, a few of those tidbits fed to a “friend” at the LAPD kept the vice squad from knocking at her door. To the cops, Kaye was more valuable gathering dirt on the street. Dirt that could bring down a white-collar target.
    “My girls are straight shooters,” she said. “Someone has an active imagination.” Her phone read 2:14. Yevgeny should’ve found the client list Sylvie had stolen by now. Annoying enough having to convince Ana to join Sylvie at the party so Yevgeny could search the girls’ flat. It would be more than inconvenient to have Miller’s people run into her undocumented Russian hatchet man there.
    “Fahim caught her spying.”
    “I don’t believe it,” Kaye feigned indignation, though her emotions were a mixture of anger and ice. Damn that Sylvie. After ten years, the girl had gotten too overconfident, too aggressive. Kaye wouldn’t be sorry to see Sylvie out of the way—once Yevgeny found the copy of that list.
    “So sad, such a young girl.” Miller’s concern was unconvincing. “Apparently too much cocaine and went off half-cocked running down the road. Poor Fahim tried to stop her, but she was too fast. She must have stumbled, knocked herself out. And then the fire. Such a tragedy.”
    Kaye wasn’t swallowing the story. She was outraged that that Arab john had murdered one of her girls. She’d catered to the tastes of sadistic clients many times, but there were limits. “Where is ‘poor’ Fahim?” she asked, the edge now clear in her voice.
    “We’ll take care of Fahim,” Miller said, “and Anastasia’s body, of course.”
    Anastasia? Kaye frowned. She’d told Sylvie to go with Fahim. Ana had hooked up with that cock-driven congressman, Prescott. Hadn’t she?
    “Anastasia Pappajohn. She is one of your escorts?” The question had the barest hint of menace.
    “One of my personal assistants, yes,” Kaye said smoothly. Who had spoken to her on the phone less than an hour ago. About Prescott, not Fahim. Wait. What had that stupid girl said? Something about losing her purse?
    “Well, then, Kaye, my deepest condolences.” Abruptly,