“Not to mention the black-money part of the business,” added Andreas.
Beyond the end of the reservoir, the road dropped steeply down toward a wide, sandy cove edged in black- and rust-colored stone. A taverna of natural stone sat in the middle of the cove, fifty meters back from the sea. It was a postcard vision that magazines and moviemakers often used to present the paradise known as Mykonos to the world. Sans villas. Locals and longtime fans of Mykonos escaped here to remember how very beautiful their island once was.
Yianni parked by the taverna’s entrance. They’d barely made it up the steps when the owner, a grizzled Mykonian the size of a bear, recognized Andreas and tried dragging the three of them over to his table. Andreas begged off, promising to return with his family soon. He asked for a table in the back of the taverna—and that no one be seated near them.
The owner took a long, hard look at Pepe and nodded. “I understand.” He showed them to a table virtually invisible to other patrons yet still offering an uncluttered view of the sea.
No sooner had they sat down than a waiter delivered octopus, calamari, and the owner’s wife’s famous broccoli salad. Tsipouro, ice, and water arrived next.
Andreas leaned back in his chair. “So, Pepe, isn’t this a more comfortable place for our chat?”
Pepe didn’t speak.
“I respect your desire to remain silent. That’s usually the smart play. Trouble is, in this case not talking is all downside for you.”
Andreas reached for the liquor. “Tsipouro?”
Pepe nervously nodded yes.
Andreas poured a large slug into a glass. “I’ll leave it to you to add ice and water as you choose.” He tasted a bit of the octopus. “Try this, it’s delicious.”
Pepe took a gulp of his drink but declined the food.
Andreas patted the table. “Here’s your problem. We know you were lying about what you saw in that parking lot the night the Colonel was murdered. The only question is whether you were involved in the planning or just the cover-up.”
“That’s ridiculous. I had nothing to do with either.”
Andreas shook his head. “How stupid do you think we are? Shots are fired in the middle of a small town on a lovely summer evening and you think no one turns around or looks out their windows to see what’s going on? This isn’t the U.S.; gunshots are rare here.”
“No one saw a thing.”
“How do you know that? From your buddies on the local police force? Sorry, Pepe, but this case is mine now, and my people are working it.”
Pepe took another gulp of his drink.
“Besides, we don’t have to identify the killer. We have you to do that.”
“I saw nothing.”
“Yeah, I know your story. No one drove out of the parking lot from the time you heard the shots.” Andreas shook his head. “Why, then, do we have three witnesses who say someone did drive out?”
“They’re lying.”
“All three?”
Pepe stared at his drink.
“Your ass is in a sling. How do you want to play it?” said Andreas.
Pepe rubbed at his face with his free hand, holding his drink in the other. “Okay, just as I came out of the restaurant, this guy came roaring past on a motorcycle. At least I think it was a guy. The driver wore a helmet.”
“And you didn’t tell us this before because you were…?” Andreas rolled his hand for Pepe to finish the sentence.
“Afraid. I knew it was a hit. I didn’t want my name associated in any way with something as big as this. No way.” He shook his head. “If they were prepared to kill someone as important as the Colonel, I was as good as dead if they thought I saw something.”
“Who’s they?”
“Not a clue.”
“Good story, Pepe.” Andreas picked up the tsipouro bottle and poured Pepe a larger slug. “Now tell me what you’ve left out. Like the part about you being able to identify the killer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You saw the hit take place. That’s how you knew where to walk so to avoid the shell casings. You saw them hit the ground.”
“No, that’s not what happened.”
“Pepe, Pepe…Don’t you see how by admitting you saw the hit actually helps you? If you knew it was going down, you’d have put yourself as far away from that door as possible, and let someone else find the body. Only an idiot would admit to standing by the door to watch a hit that he knew was about to happen.”
Pepe seemed to ponder the thought. “Okay…I saw it. I saw it all.”
Andreas raised his hands. “Whoa, there. You’re changing your story again? You better convince me why we should believe this version.”
“Because, you’re right, I know who killed the Colonel.”
“You do?” said Andreas,
“The guy you two had a run-in with a couple of nights ago.”
Andreas raised his eyebrows.
“How convenient,” said Yianni.
Andreas reached for a glass and poured himself a shot of tsipouro. “You know, I actually believe you.” He added three ice cubes, and a small measure of water. “How did you recognize him in his helmet?”
“I’d seen him wear it many times at Karavakis’ club.”
“How did you know about our incident with him?”
“I told Karavakis I’d be on the island today. He asked why, and I said because you wanted to see me. That’s when he told me what happened.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?
“The killer was my friend’s employee. The last thing I wanted to do was involve my friend in this mess.”
“You mean the same friend who would eliminate you if he thought you’d noticed something?” said Yianni.
Pepe scowled. “He didn’t tell me not to come to see you today. And I’m still breathing. That should answer your question.”
“Did Karavakis pick the place for today’s meeting?” asked Andreas.
“It belongs to his nephew.”
“Well,” said Andreas leaning back in his chair, “now that you’ve gotten that off your chest, do you care to tell us who killed our motorcyclist friend in his hospital room?”
“What? He’s dead?”
“You didn’t know?”
“How would I know?”
“Karavakis, perhaps? Or maybe one of your friends on the police force in charge of protecting him?”
“Look, I’ve told you everything. What more can I say?”
“Not sure, but I’m looking forward to the day when you do.” Andreas picked up his glass and toasted. “To truth. May we hear it all soon.”
Pepe did not lift his glass. “Do you mind if we leave now? I have to catch a boat.”
“No problem.”
Andreas called for the bill, but the owner said there was none, as long as Andreas followed through on his promise to come back with his family.
Pepe said not a word on the ride back to his car, and once they’d dropped him off, Andreas moved to the front seat for the ride home.
The first words out of Yianni’s mouth were, “What three witnesses?”
“I bluffed. But we knew he was lying.”
“Do you think he knew the motorcyclist was dead?”
“For sure. Karavakis would know by now, whether or not he was behind the murder. He’d have told Pepe before sending him off to his nephew’s place. By the way, thanks for the heads-up on Pepe looking lost as he headed into the Ano Mera square. It’s what made me think the table was wired.”
“As you always say, it’s the little things that make the difference in police work.”
“And in romance,” smiled Andreas.
“So, now we’re back on that subject, are we?”
“Well, I thought I should at least give you
a warning.”
“Of what?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, that motorbike down by the house is likely Toni’s.”
Chapter Seventeen
Syros lay forty-five minutes due west of Mykonos by fast boat. Capital of the Cycladic Islands, and home to the Cyclades’ central police headquarters, its architecture differed substantially from traditional Cycladic forms. Stunning neo-Classical buildings, streets paved in marble, and an opera house said to be the first in Greece, all stood in faded testament to Syros’ last great aristocratic run as Greece’s nineteenth-century shipbuilding and refitting center. Today, it served primarily as the political center of the Cyclades.
Just off the harbor in Syros’ capital port town of Ermoupoli, and tucked in behind a line of potted oleanders and tamarind, Tassos sat at the same rear table, in the same snug taverna, as he did most days. He’d stuck to that routine since becoming Chief Homicide Investigator for the Cyclades, more decades ago than he cared to remember.
He sat with another man of about his age. The man held a Greek coffee in his right hand and looked puzzled. “I don’t understand why you want to visit Mykonos in high season. You’re way too old and poor for that island’s craziness.”
“Speak for yourself, Vassili. As long as I’m not dead, I’m never too old for Mykonos.”
“And as long as you’re a cop, never too poor.”
Tassos waved him off.
Vassili ignored him. “So, why the big rush to see me today?”
“Because no one knows Mykonos better than you.”
“I haven’t lived there in years. You know that. I prefer life here. I’ve no idea what’s hot and what’s not back over there.” He waved in the general direction of Mykonos.
“I’m not looking for restaurant recommendations.” Tassos leaned in. “Nor do I mean to intrude upon your newfound serenity, but with your vast portfolio of Mykonos rental properties tossing off all the income they do for you, I can’t think of anyone who’s kept his claws closer to the jugulars of every Mykonos mayor in the past fifty years than you.”
“Claws to the jugulars. You’ve always had a flair for colorful phrasing. Just like back on Gyaros. You always made me laugh.”
“What choice did you have but to laugh at my jokes?” said Tassos. “You were a political prisoner on an isolated prison island, and I was your keeper.”
Vassili laughed. “There you go again. But you were always one of the good guys.” He jiggled a finger at Tassos. “Even then you knew there’d be a change in political fortunes, that someday the Junta would be gone and your inmates would be back in power.” He stared off into no place in particular. “And that we’d remember how we were treated, and by whom.” He looked at Tassos and smiled.
Tassos shrugged. “Who would have guessed that my simple Golden Rule approach to treating enemies of the state would yield such an unexpected benefit as your friendship?”
“Stop blowing smoke up my ass. We’ve known each other far too long for that.”
“But it’s true. Our friendship is worth a lot more to me than even my pension.”
“Is that meant to be a compliment or another joke?” Vassili grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Let’s see, after fifty years of service you should be entitled to a monthly pension of just about what it’ll cost you to rent a pair of beach chairs for the day, plus lunch for two, at one of those chic Mykonos beach clubs.”
Tassos spread his arms. “What’s with this sudden hard-on you have for Mykonos?”
“It’s my way of mourning.”
“For what?”
“For all that the island has lost forever.”
“Are you running for office?”
“Me? Again? Never. The place has lost its way. I give it no more than five years until maximum burnout. At best, it becomes Europe’s Las Vegas. At worst…” He let his words drift off. “I’ve thrown in the towel. “
“I hear that a lot,” said Tassos. “But people always complain about change, no matter where they live in this world. Besides, if you don’t like the new ways of Mykonos, there are a lot of islands still offering the old ways.”
“Yes, but Mykonos was special. At least to me. Sure, we did drugs. And sex. A joint on the beach, maybe some LSD. But these days, drugs and sex are the island’s image. Some tourists arrive actually expecting drugs and hookers as part of their holiday package. Worse still, today’s dealers don’t care if they kill you with what they’re selling.”
“You make it sound like the place is run by mobsters.”
“Your words, not mine. Have you heard about the poor money-launderers who opened businesses on Mykonos looking to clean black money generated from drugs, prostitution, and human trafficking, only to find themselves making so much in their new legitimate businesses that they can’t justify running their black money in on top of it?”
“Like I said, no one knows Mykonos better than you. Which brings me to what’s on my mind.”
“I thought we’d never get there.” Vassili took a sip of coffee.
“It’s about Aktipis.”
“The Colonel?”
“Yes. I want to know what you’ve heard about his death.”
“A lot more than I’d be willing to talk about if he were still alive.” He put down his coffee cup. “The guy was dirtier than the rumors about him, which is a pretty hard thing to achieve in Greece. He was also ruthless. He’d do just about anything to get what he wanted or to keep someone else from getting what he couldn’t have.”
“That sounds like a perfect combination of personality traits for making friends and influencing people.”
“I think he was about as friendless as anyone I’ve ever known.”
“I take that to mean a lot of people didn’t mind what happened to him.”
“No doubt about it.”
“Can you give me some names?”
Vassili picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, and put it down. “It would be much easier giving you a list of those who conceivably might miss him.”
“And those names would be?”
He paused. “People who looked to him to keep things running smoothly on Mykonos. His job was to maintain order among the different mobs looking to cut in on the island’s action.”
“What mobs?”
“Greek, Albanian, Roma, Italian, Bulgarian, Russian,” Vassili shrugged. “Plus, who knows how many other gangsters from the former Soviet satellites who’ve found Mykonos was a new Nirvana for their style of doing business. With all the free-flowing tourist money, vice, and inadequate police, the island’s irresistible for their sort.”
“Sounds like you’re saying the Colonel was Mykonos’ boss of bosses.”
“I guess you could put it that way, if you’re into American mob movies.”
Tassos waved to a waiter. “Two more coffees, please.” He looked at Vassili. “What other way is there to put it?”
“The Colonel didn’t control criminal activity on Mykonos. He just kept those who wanted in on the action from killing the golden goose of those running it.”
“Do you think that’s what got him whacked?”
“Hard to say. I always thought he had a gift for knowing how to spread enough money-making opportunities around to the mob chiefs without upsetting his government patrons—and that he did it in a way that had all sides seeing a benefit in keeping him alive. I guess I thought wrong.”
“So, who do you think didn’t want him eliminated?”
Vassili shut his eyes and opened them again. “At the top of that list I’d put Marcos Despotiko and Angelos Karavakis.”
Andreas’ top two suspects. “Why them?”
“Each in his own way is much like the Colonel. Despotiko portrays himself as above the hunt, charming his prey rather than stalking it. He keeps local and national officials happy and onboard
through whatever means necessary. Karavakis is more of an operations guy, legendary for screwing his friends, even family, and embracing his enemies. For both men, it’s all about what you can do for them at the moment. Power is all that matters.”
“Anyone else?”
“You want more? Nosing around those two is where you’re most likely to find your answers. But, take care, because you could lose your pension.”
Tassos gave a puzzled look.
“By loss of pension, I meant surviving to collect it.”
Tassos forced a smile. “You said Karavakis screws his friends.”
“Actually, I think he’s a sicko who takes great joy in sabotaging those closest to him. He wants no one but himself to succeed.” Vassili took a sip of coffee. “There’s a phrase I’ve heard him use that says it all: ‘If you see someone drowning, push and hold the head under.’”
Tassos lifted his eyebrows. “But I understood he’s been helping an old friend of his set up a competing hotel-casino resort on Mykonos.”
“News to me. And I thought I was supposed to be your source of info on Mykonos.”
Tassos paused. “I trust you not to repeat this, so I won’t even ask for your word on what I’m about to tell you, but I heard the guy Karavakis is helping is an old friend of his named Pepe.”
Vassili stared at him. “You mean the Pepe who owned the restaurant where the Colonel was killed?”
“Yep.”
“Son of a bitch.” Vassili shook his head. “That sure makes it look like Karavakis was involved in the hit.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Pepe has an abused-spouse-like compulsion to do Karavakis’ bidding, no matter how much crap Karavakis heaps on him. For years, Pepe tried getting permits to open a place on Mykonos, relying on his friend’s promises to help him, yet at every juncture Karavakis worked behind the scenes to block him.”
“Did Pepe know that?”
Vassili shrugged. “I sure as hell didn’t tell him, but you’d think he’d have figured it out after all those years of trying and failing. I mean, let’s be real, his buddy had mega-juice on the island, yet Pepe never got the licenses or permits he needed, even though he always made sure to offer the necessary officials their customary gratuities.”
The Mykonos Mob Page 23
