Jeffrey Siger was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He practiced law at a major Wall Street law firm and, while there, served as Special Counsel to the citizens group responsible for reporting on New York City’s prison conditions. He left Wall Street to establish his own New York City law firm and continued as one of its name partners until giving it all up to write full-time among the people, life, and politics of his beloved Mykonos, his adopted home of twenty-five years, and spear fish in its Aegean waters. When he’s not in Greece, he enjoys his other home, a farm outside New York City. Murder in Mykonos, the first in his Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis series, was the number one best-selling English-language novel in Greece.
For more information log on to www.jeffreysiger.com
Praise for Jeffrey Siger:
‘Masterfully written . . . even if you are not a murder-mystery fanatic, you will adore this book . . . genius’
Mykonos Magazine
‘With ten million Greeks, half of who think they are writers, how come we had to wait for a foreigner to come along to write such a book!’
Esquire Magazine (Greece)
‘The must-read book of the week!’
OK! (Greece)
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-748-11788-8
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 Jeffrey Siger
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
ASSASSINS OF ATHENS
In Memory of Tassos Stamoulis,
the most beloved man on Mykonos,
and Ken, my brother.
Acknowledgments
For all of you who helped me along the way, thank you.
Mihalis, Roz and Spiros Apostolou; Ersilia Bachauer; Olga Balafa; Tracy Beltran; Tonino Cacace; Cece Cord; Donald and Leena Crothers; Jody Duncan and Nikos Christodoulakis; Lori Estes-Markari; Donka Koleva; Andreas and Aleka Fiorentinos; Rebecca Friedman; Jane Gelfman; Susy Hammerson; Lillian Heiser; Nikos Ipiotis; Elizabeth Kabler; Nicholas Karahalios; Panos Kelaidis; Alexandros Kontogouris; Sharon Lock-Sikinioti; George Makrigiannis; Linda Marshall; Thomas and Renate McKnight; Leah Miller; Nikos Nazos; Wendy Popowich; Edward Prendergast and Roberto Mendes Coelho; Ellen Roth; Alan and Pat Siger; Jonathan (especially for his cover inspiration), Jennifer and Azriel Siger; Karen Siger; Peter and Joan Silbermann; George and Efi Sirinakis; Ed Stackler; Christine Smith; George and Theodore Stamoulis; Nolan and Chris Stripling; Hronis Taboulhanas; Margaret Wimberger.
And, of course, Aikaterini Lalaouni.
Prologue
Just past midnight the massive Rodanthi ferry silently made its grand entrance into Mykonos’ narrow, crescent-shaped harbor. Though it was still a bit early in the season for the partying crowds that swelled this Greek island’s population from ten thousand to fifty thousand in July and August, the harbor was wildly alive with lights and people.
It was exactly as the young woman had imagined – a blaze of white buildings under a diamond-studded sky.
She’d been standing inside with other backpackers on the third-level passenger deck watching the island’s lights slowly envelop the horizon. Now she stepped outside and walked to the bow railing. Feeling the Aegean breeze in her face, she re-doubled the elastic band holding her blond ponytail in place. It was all so beautiful. She regretted only one thing: being here alone.
She felt as much as heard the thrusting power of the reversing engines as the ship began its graceful one-quarter pirouette toward the dock. Drawing in a deep breath from the wind coming off the sea, she picked up her backpack, headed for the stairs nearest the bow, and made her way down to the exit deck. The ferry had docked at its stern, and when she reached the bottom level she had to squeeze her way past a collection of beat-up island-hopping cars, trucks, and motorcycles waiting to disembark. She knew that at six feet tall her well-toned figure was attracting a lot of attention, especially in hiking shorts and a tank top. Several drivers along the way yelled out to her in various languages, offering her a ride anywhere she wanted to go. She acted as if she didn’t understand but smiled to herself.
Most of the passengers were off the boat by the time she was at the gangway. Now she had to find a place to stay. That was not a problem. There were dozens of people offering accommodations, literally tugging at her for attention. She was inundated with photographs, brochures, letters of recommendation, all designed to funnel weary tourists into empty rooms.
The young woman spoke with the hawkers in English and picked what looked like a charming small hotel just above the town. The man, who claimed to be the owner, promised her a room with a private bath and a view of the town – at a ‘special price.’ He seemed very nice and with his gray hair was at least wise enough to mask any other interest he might have in her. Already, two couples from the ferry waited in his little van, so she wouldn’t be going off alone with a stranger.
At the hotel she showed the owner her passport. He welcomed her in Dutch and told her he’d had many guests from the Netherlands, things that assured her she’d made the right choice. The room was as promised. She showered, put on her one sexy dress, and went out to wander the maze of winding, narrow paths lined by whitewashed buildings, adorned with brightly colored doors, shutters, and railings.
The town was awash in jewelry shops and bars. Vacationing families and pilgrims seeking early-morning connections to the nearby ancient and holy island of Delos were in their beds by now. Summer nights in Mykonos belonged to all-night partiers seeking their own sorts of connections. Bedtime could wait until a much later hour. No pretty woman ever needed to pay for a drink or dinner here.
At one of the bars she met a local Greek about her age. He introduced her to the owner who said the young man was his son. Then he introduced her to an ‘old family friend’ – an American painter who told her he’d been coming to Mykonos every summer for more than thirty years. They all spoke in English although the young man seemed to know enough Dutch words to use at the right time to be charming. By the time she left the bar it was nearly light and the young man convinced her to ride on the back of his motorcycle to a place where they could watch the sun come up.
She mounted his bike and put her arms around him; the engine vibrated between her legs. For twenty minutes she pressed her body against his as he raced toward the rising sun. At the beach – deserted, he said, except for a single small house owned by a priest from England – they touched and kissed through the sunrise; then
took off their clothes and swam naked. He tried to make love to her, but he had no condom and she refused. He pressed her; she resisted. He pushed her down, yanked away his clothes, and stormed off shouting at her in Greek.
She heard the sound of his motorcycle as he drove away, leaving her alone to find her way back. She was thankful she hadn’t been raped. Tipsy, tired, and angry at herself, she dressed and started up the steep dirt road toward what she hoped would be town. She had to take off her heels to walk, and the stones hurt her feet. She wasn’t used to this. She wanted to cry but kept on walking. It was a dry and rocky road, like the island itself. After fifteen minutes or so she heard a motor on the other side of a hill. For an instant she thought it might be him returning. It wasn’t. It was a car, a taxi bearing down toward her in a cloud of dust. She was surprised to see one out here so early in the morning but frantically waved for him to stop.
She spoke to the driver in English and he responded in English. She started to cry. He told her to get in and asked what happened. She told him the story as if replaying a video of her ordeal. He listened quietly, not saying a word. When they reached her hotel he said he knew the young man and she really hadn’t been in any danger; but on an island filled with so many strangers she must be very careful who she trusts – especially when it comes to young men with motorcycles. That made her feel a little better, though she still was mad at herself for thinking she was the first one he’d taken on a romantic sunrise motorcycle ride.
She slept until about two that afternoon, then took a bus to Paradise Beach. She refused to talk to anyone there, but the young Greek men persisted. Eventually, she moved to the nude, gay part of the beach where macho Greek Romeos were afraid to be seen. She stripped naked and read a book, undisturbed. That night she went back into town and spent her time talking with jewelers and souvenir sellers. Enough bar boys. One of the jewelers invited her to dinner at a fashionable restaurant. She had a great time and he was a perfect gentleman.
He walked her to a taxi and invited her to attend a Greek festival to be held in three days to honor a saint. She thanked him but said she was leaving the island in two days and promised to stop by his shop before she left.
Then, like so many other backpackers, she simply disappeared. No one paid the balance of her hotel bill – also not unusual in Mykonos. The hotel owner simply threw out whatever she’d left behind, reported nothing to the police, and rented the room to a new pretty woman from another midnight ferry.
1
Andreas Kaldis knew why his six-foot-two-inch body was crammed into a midget-sized window seat on a plane to Mykonos, and he didn’t like it one bit. He’d been ‘promoted’ from the Greek police force’s number one ass-kicker in central Athens to its chief dog-and-cat protector for Athenian weekenders. At least that’s how he saw it. Thirty-four-year-old hotshot homicide detectives like one thing: catching killers. For them, the worst punishment imaginable was being taken away from the action. His promotion to chief of police for one of the smallest of the Cyclades islands meant just that: being as far away from what he was born to do as Andreas could imagine.
Ninety miles and less than thirty minutes from Athens by plane, or three hours by high-speed ferry, Mykonos was approximately one and a half times the size of the island of Manhattan and had become to Athens what Andreas understood ‘the Hamptons’ were to New Yorkers. Rich and superrich Athenians – together with thousands of wannabe celebrities from all over Europe – flocked to Mykonos on holiday. Many built mega-million-euro summer homes on the island or paid London hotel prices for far less than English five-star service.
What the locals wanted didn’t matter anymore – even though most didn’t know it yet. The moneyed visitors now had a say in how Mykonos would be run, and they had their complaints. For one thing, they were tired of putting up with the old ways. They also groused about too many break-ins, too many crazy, drunken drivers, and too much local political influence over police enforcement practices. The wealthy were demanding better policing, and they had the political influence to get it.
Enter Andreas Kaldis. His move to Mykonos – or rather, his departure from Athens – was exceptionally good news to certain powerful people. His aggressive investigation into a series of murders over control of the Athenian drug trade had worried them. Promoting him out of Athens – and out of the investigation – was a political masterstroke that even Andreas could appreciate. It hurt no one and made everyone happy. Everyone but Andreas.
Officially, he arrived under a mandate involving the European Union’s insistence that Mykonos show more even handed law enforcement toward non-Greeks. Andreas took that as a political cover story for Greece’s Public Order Ministry, which oversaw the police, to guard against the inevitable griping by Mykonian locals that Athens was trying to control their affairs – a perennial complaint among islanders.
Also mentioned in the official announcement of his appointent was the fact that Andreas lacked family ties to any Greek island. That made him a particularly desirable choice for police chief because no one could accuse him of favoritism toward islanders – a perennial complaint on the part of mainland Greeks. The fact that Andreas had served his obligatory service in the military at an air force installation on Mykonos was not mentioned.
Off the record, Andreas had orders to tread lightly with the locals. As a young, single man wielding considerable power on a small island, he knew that word of his every move would get around fast. As far as he was concerned, Athens wasn’t a much bigger place when it came to gossip – and he liked it that way. That was how he got some of his best leads. If the warning meant to avoid fooling around with the local women, he already knew better. Any self-respecting cop would. Besides, Andreas had no intention of incurring some local family’s vendetta – or of tying his future to a Mykonos clan for the rest of his days.
His morning flight was packed with early-June tourists. He fit right in, except he already had his tan – it came, along with his dark hair and gray eyes, from his parents. So did his square jaw and decent good looks. The counterbalancing bump and slightly crooked tilt to his nose – the collective work of several folks who’d ended up looking a lot worse – let you know Andreas wasn’t someone to mess with.
‘Looks like it’s going to be a busy season,’ said the guy in the aisle seat next to him. He was about Andreas’ size but looked twenty years older.
Andreas hated talking to people on airplanes. Something about planes made people want to tell you things they’d never dream of talking about with strangers on the ground. Maybe it was something about being up in the air, above the earth and closer to God. Or maybe it was just nerves.
‘You’re Greek, aren’t you?’ The man was speaking Greek with what sounded like a South African accent.
Andreas had to respond in order to avoid seeming rude. He nodded.
‘Sure hope it’s busy. Business was slow last year.’
This guy isn’t going to stop, thought Andreas, nodding again. He turned his head and stared out the window.
‘I’m a jeweler.’
Andreas knew the man was just trying to be friendly and he didn’t have anything against jewelers – someday he might even need one if he found the right girl. But this cheery nosiness was just the sort of thing he dreaded about being posted to Mykonos. Everyone wanted to know everyone else’s business. Andreas turned back to the fellow and, with his most practiced, tired-cop look, said, ‘That’s nice,’ and returned to the window.
The man took the hint and remained silent for the rest of the flight. After they landed and were walking from the plane to the terminal, he offered Andreas his hand, which Andreas shook graciously. ‘Enjoy your time here among the gods,’ the man said with a smile. ‘After all, they were our first tourists.’
And, no doubt, those same gods knew that they wouldn’t be the last.
As Andreas waited for his bags he looked around and saw a room full of excited, good-time-ready responsibilities. How would he possibly protect
and police fifty thousand locals and visitors with only sixty cops – including the additional twenty-five assigned to him for the tourist season? He shook his head and chuckled aloud. Maybe he could summon a few of those gods from Delos in a pinch.
Outside the terminal he waited for whomever had been assigned to pick him up. The breeze felt good, but after five minutes of pushing his slightly too-long hair out of his eyes and over his forehead, he picked up his briefcase and walked the hundred yards to the police station abutting the airport. It had been relocated there from the center of town a few years before – perhaps to shorten the walk for stranded chiefs. Andreas didn’t mind the walk – he ran regularly to keep fit – but he did mind the lack of respect.
The two-story, thick-walled building had the traditional whitewash with blue trim found in Mykonian architecture. Police and civilian cars, SUVs, and motorcycles as well as an assortment of vehicles mangled in road accidents were parked haphazardly along the front and left side of the building. Andreas wasn’t in uniform, and the first things he noticed as he walked in were the ages and abrupt attitudes of the cops who got right in his face and asked what he wanted. All but a handful of the officers under his command were fresh out of the police academy, or still in it and assigned to Mykonos for the summer as part of their training. As green as green could be.
And their community-relations skills would need serious work. What would be even trickier was that, according to their personnel files, not one of these kids was from Mykonos. Mykonians were fiercely independent; they had no desire to be cops and little respect for those who were. Tourism had made Mykonians, on a per capita basis, the richest people in Greece. The financial benefits of police work – both lawful and otherwise – held no attraction for them. Besides, many boasted ancestors who had been unrepentant pirates.
One cop asked Andreas a second time – and more aggressively – what he wanted. Andreas couldn’t help himself. ‘Would you be kind enough to pick up my bags at the airport? I left them with the Olympic ticket agent.’
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