Free Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) by Deborah Shlian, Linda Reid Page B

suppress the tension filling her chest as she slowly drew it open.
    A naked body lay inside a translucent bag, like a developing butterfly in a protective cocoon. Reluctantly, Sammy pulled down the zipper. No stranger to death; the memory of her mother lying in her cold coffin still haunted her more than two decades later.
    Gazing at this corpse, she couldn’t contain the wave of revulsion that passed through her. Afraid she might scream, Sammy covered her mouth with her hands. It was too horrible. She could only guess that the victim was female by the few long strands of blonde hair surrounding a blackened face, its features melted like a candle.
    About to turn away, Sammy noticed a charred handbag at the bottom of the drawer. On impulse, she reached down for it. Inside she found a pair of diamond earrings, a single key, a singed driver’s license, some condoms, a warped cell phone, and a few twenty dollar bills.
    Sammy flipped the license over to check the photo and the name. The young woman pictured there was—had been—beautiful, with brown eyes and soft blonde hair, framed by the faintest row of dark roots. That Costanza guy was right. They were close to the same age. Only twenty-six. Sammy’s eyes welled up. Poor Gus. The name on the license was the only part of his daughter that had survived the fire: Anastasia Pappajohn.
     
    The vibration grew stronger and stronger, the shaking more and more violent. Alarm bells rang insistently, intrusively, louder and louder.
    Fahim shot up in his bed, bathed in sweat. Earthquake?
    Disoriented and half-awake, he turned on the night table lamp and looked around. The room itself was still. Only his mobile phone jangling on the pillow. Relieved, he reached for it and flipped it open.
    “Yes?”
    “You’re one lucky bastard.”
    Fahim recognized Miller’s voice and his anxiety returned.
    “Your little inconvenience. She died at the hospital before regaining consciousness.”
    “I told you—”
    “You told me she was already dead. Lucky for you she never woke up. But there is a problem.”
    “Oh?” Fahim fought to keep his voice steady.
    “You were right. About her spying.”
    “And that is a problem? Why? You just said she was dead.”
    “She wasn’t dead when she text messaged information from your PDA to her roommate’s phone. Let’s see, the rommate’s a Sylvie . . . uh, Pauzé.”
    Fahim swallowed a string of curse words. He hadn’t been quick enough. “But I do not even know this Sylvie!”
    “Fortunately, we plugged the dam before it leaked out of black ops. I don’t expect Ms. Sylvie to give us much trouble once we track her down. But, thanks to you, I’ve had to allocate precious resources to that task. That doesn’t make me happy.”
    Miller’s menacing tone raised the caution flag higher.
    “So my friend, you’re going to help me implement a Christmas Day surprise. Sort of a trial run for your ultimate target.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “I’ll explain everything when we meet at the Montagne Olympus. If you leave in half an hour, you’ll be there by seven.”
    Fahim checked the square red digits on the bedside clock. 5:30 a.m. He’d slept just a few hours. The new über-luxury hotel in Newport Beach was over an hour to the north. “Do I have a choice?”
    “Not if you want customs to wave you through on your next trip home.”
    Fahim knew the threat was real. One word from Mr. CIA Special Ops and his cover as a wealthy Saudi businessman and friend of America would be blown. Fuck you, Fahim thought in English, but said through gritted teeth, “All right. At seven.”
    “Drive safely,” Miller said. “All these winds and fires. You don’t know who’ll get burned. And who’ll survive.”
    Not bothering to say goodbye, Fahim clicked off and threw his phone onto the bed. This time he cursed out loud.
     
    “Don’t touch that! It’s evidence.”
    Startled, Sammy dropped the license on the floor of the morgue. “Jeez, Reed,