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

Miller clicked off.
    Kaye stood staring at her cell, her mind racing. Anastasia’s body. So Miller believed Ana was dead. Kaye allowed herself a small smile as the truth dawned on her. Considering Sylvie’s unforgivable betrayal, perhaps it was a stroke of luck that Sylvie was the real victim. Yevgeny would soon return the stolen information to Kaye’s safekeeping, and Sylvie would no longer be a threat.
    Kaye’s smile vanished with a new fear. Might Sylvie have bought herself a backup plan? Spilled the info on Kaye’s clients and their Achilles’ heels to Ana? If so, there would still be loose ends, running loose.
    Kaye speed dialed the next number without looking. “Dobroye ‘ootro, Yevgeny.”
     
    CHAPTER FIVE
    December 24, 1999
    L.A. is a city that thrives on scandals, so, by the two a.m. break, news of the fires had been relegated to the crawls running under the video footage of Courtney Phillips’s tumultuous journey to the ER for what was diplomatically labeled “exhaustion.” Eager to learn more about the burn victim discovered earlier, Sammy had asked Jim to follow up with the police.
    As she waited, she gazed at the TV monitor in frustration. The shaky, grainy videos of the screaming starlet playing on the screen hinted at a more substantive cause for her trip. Or, more accurately, “substance-tive.”
    Jim hung up the phone and flicked on his intercom. “They found the fire victim. Young woman. Breathing.Took her to LAU Med.” He added in a patronizing tone, “Los Angeles University Medical Center.”
    So she was alive. That was lucky. It’d be nice to give the listeners some good news. Frowning, Sammy checked her clock. Five more minutes until her third hour. She glanced again at the TV screen now displaying a chaotic scene at the LAU Med ER. Drug-addled actors, keystone cops, and frenzied paparazzi. Welcome to L.A. “Can you please call the hospital? See how she’s doing?”
    “Sorry,” Jim hit Enter on his keyboard. “Just sent you the number. I gotta go to the can.” Still clutching his coffee, the producer grunted as he rose and shuffled out of the studio.
    Shaking her head, Sammy opened the e-mail on her computer, which typically displayed callers’ names and topics. If she had any, that is. Despite the excitement in the Santa Monica Mountains and at the Westwood hospital, the phone lines were mockingly unlit. She pressed the button of an open line and dialed the digits for the medical center.
    “I can’t tell you anything,” the triage nurse responded after several transfers. “You’ll have to talk to a doctor. Please hold.” Again.
    Two minutes left. Sammy drummed her fingers on her board, impatient. Finally, after multiple rings, someone in the doctors’ lounge answered. “Hello?”
    Sammy dived in, “I’m looking for information on the young woman just brought in from the fire zone.”
    There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then, “Hello, Sammy.”
    A voice from the past. Reed. An unwelcome giggle rose in her throat. “Hey, what are you doing here? I mean, I know you’re a doctor, but I thought you were still in Boston.”
    “Just started a cardiology fellowship out here in July. Glad to hear you on the radio again,” Reed said.
    “Yeah, me, too. We, uh, gotta catch up, you know.” One minute on the clock. “Listen, you wouldn’t happen to know what happened to that fire victim?”
    “Actually, I saw her, but she’s not my patient. They’re working on her now. Kind of touch and go.”
    “Thirty seconds,” intoned Jim, back on the other side of the glass.
    “I hope she makes it. Any ID?”
    “You can’t put it on the air. They’ll need to contact family first,” Reed explained.
    “I understand,” Sammy said, her tone implying the opposite, “but you can tell me. I promise to keep it under wraps until you give the okay.”
    “Good try. But she’s not my patient—and I can’t afford trouble with the HIPAA police.”
    The clock showed ten