Sons of Sparta: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery

by Jeffrey Siger

  Andreas stopped drumming his fingers. “Another hotel owner? Jealous neighbors who wanted the project for themselves?” He paused. “Or, perhaps, one of your cousins who didn’t like your uncle’s plans for sharing the inheritance with the other cousins?”

  Kouros squeezed the steering wheel for an instant. “I get your point.”

  “Good. But whoever we’re looking for has to be someone with real leverage on that taverna owner. Enough to get him to kill his protector and ultimately himself.”

  “An even smaller universe of suspects,” said Tassos.

  “And it gives us a place to start,” said Andreas.

  “Namely?” said Tassos.

  “Orestes.”

  “Orestes?” said Kouros.

  “He’s another political hustler. But unlike Alexander, he knows all the players behind the scenes in every transaction he’s involved with.” Andreas smiled. “And he’s too arrogant to cut his losses when he should.”

  ***

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes, keria. I’m here to see the man whose office is behind that door.” Andreas pointed at a dark, raised-panel, tall wooden door six feet behind the receptionist.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Andreas handed her his card. “Please, just give Orestes this.”

  She took the card, picked up her phone, pressed a button, waited, and said, “Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis is here to see you.”

  She paused, looked up, and smiled. “He said to tell you to go to hell.”

  “You’re too kind. I’m sure he really said to say, ‘Go fuck yourself.’”

  She smiled again. “Whatever interpretation works for you, works for me.”

  Andreas leaned in. “Just tell him his daddy might cut off his allowance when he wakes up tomorrow morning to find his pride and joy described in the press as the new butt boy for a certain Ukrainian arms smuggler, drug trader, and sex-slaver planning to set up operations in Greece. In the southern Peloponnese to be exact. And, please, my love, in your message, make sure to emphasize ‘butt boy.’”

  The woman’s smile disappeared.

  Andreas pointed at the phone. “Butt boy has two t’s, just in case you’re afraid to call his royal highness and prefer to email him instead.”

  She jumped up, shuffled quickly to Orestes’ door, knocked, went inside, and closed the door.

  Andreas heard muffled shouting from inside the office. Fifteen seconds later the door opened and the woman stepped out. She said nothing, but nodded for Andreas to go inside. He waved and smiled as he walked by her into the office. She slammed the door behind him.

  “Touchy help,” said Andreas looking around the office. The walls were plastered with photographs of what looked to be every powerful person Orestes had ever met.

  “Take your time. Take a good look. As you can see, I know everyone. Figure out for yourself how many ways I can bury you.”

  Andreas kept looking at the walls, ignoring Orestes. The space was three times the size of Andreas’ office. “As far as I can tell, a lot of your pinup pals are in or headed to prison. You ought to be more careful whom you’re photographed with. Could ruin your reputation.”

  From behind his ornate, Louis XIV desk, Orestes pointed at a lone straight-back chair in front of and facing him.

  Andreas walked to the chair and without breaking stride lifted it with one hand above his head and continued around Orestes’ desk.

  Orestes’ arms shot up in front of his face, “What are doing?”

  Andreas dropped the chair inches from Orestes’ feet. “Rearranging the furniture.” He sat down. “Now, isn’t this cozier?”

  “Get out of my office, now.”

  “First, a few questions.”

  Orestes played with his tie. “After screwing me in Crete, you expect me to help you?”

  Andreas pointed at his own chest. “Me? I did precisely what you asked.” He pointed at Orestes and back at himself. “You and I, working together at protecting Greece from foreign predators. What more could you ask for? But don’t worry, I didn’t steal your credit. The prosecutor knows the list of suspects came from you.”

  Orestes glared.

  “I told him to do his best not to reveal you as the source. After all, we wouldn’t want potential clients on that list learning of your indiscretion. Might hurt business.” Andreas reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a print of a photograph captured from the DVD obtained by Petro. “Speaking of your business, what can you tell me about this?” He handed the photo to Orestes.

  Orestes shrugged. “What’s there to tell?”

  Andreas locked eyes with Orestes. “Short version or long?”

  “Whatever version you think is going to mean more than a rat’s ass to me.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll go short and let your imagination fill in the details. You and Alexander,” Andreas pointed at a face in the photograph, “saw the chance of making a lot of money by helping this dude,” he pointed at another face, “set up operations in Greece. The fact he’s high up on NATO’s shit list didn’t matter in the least to you or,” he pointed at an oversized portrait of Orestes’ father on the wall behind his desk, “Daddy.”

  Orestes smiled. “You’re right.”

  “Nor do you care what the Americans might think.”

  Orestes smiled again. “You’re very well informed.”

  “Too bad you weren’t, before you jumped into bed with Alexander and his Ukrainian mate.” He paused. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

  Anger flashed across Orestes’ face but he said nothing.

  “You see, if certain folks in the Mani learn you’ve been working with those two, you’d better be sure your life insurance premiums are paid up. And his.” Andreas pointed at the painting again.

  “I assume you’re talking about your colleague Kouros’ cousins.”

  Andreas nodded. “You, too, are very well informed.”

  “I had absolutely nothing to do with their father’s murder.”

  Andreas shook his head from side to side. “You’re missing the point, my dear friend. Whether or not you were involved in the murder isn’t the issue. It’s how hard you’re working at the cover-up that’s going to get you killed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You and I know that either the Ukrainian killed their father or knows who did. And if I know that,” he smiled, “and Detective Kouros knows that, how long until the sons know? And when they find out…” Andreas shook his head, “I don’t have to tell you how seriously those Maniots take their vendettas.” He nodded toward the portrait, “It’s practically biblical, as in ‘An eye for an eye.’”

  “You’re bluffing. All you have linking me to your bullshit story is a photograph taken at a club where every sort on Earth says hello to each other.”

  “If you’re betting on Alexander riding in on his white horse to cover your ass when they start twisting his nuts, good luck.” Andreas shook his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s down there right now putting as much distance as he can between you, the Ukrainian, the deal, and him.” Andreas smiled, “And oh yes, let’s not forget the Ukrainian’s plans for the airstrip.”

  Orestes bit at his lip.

  “Personally, I’d rather have NATO and the U.S. gunning for me than that dead man’s sons.”

  “Where are you headed with this?”

  “Perhaps it’s time to consider taking out insurance. The kind which promises that when the sons start looking into your role in their father’s murder, a certain detective cousin of theirs tells them how you fully cooperated from the moment you realized you might know something about their father’s murder.”

  Orestes bit harder at his lip. “Why should I trust you?”

  Sold, thought Andreas. He patted Orestes’ knee.
“Because I’m not like you.” He leaned back and yawned. “Besides, what choice do you have?”

  Orestes got up out of his chair and walked around the side of his desk away from Andreas. “I really don’t like you.”

  “Old news.”

  “Or the nephew.”

  “I’m sure Detective Kouros would be hurt by that.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Names of anyone you think might have been involved in the murder.”

  “I don’t have names.”

  “Too bad, because I have yours.”

  “You’re pretty stupid if you had to ask me that question.”

  “I’ll live with that. Just tell me.”

  “The competitors of the Ukrainian.”

  “Competitors?”

  “Local gunrunners operating on the Peloponnese. The kind that wouldn’t take kindly to a big player moving in on their territory.”

  “But the locals use boats, the Ukrainian is into planes.”

  “For now. But competition is competition, and if the Ukrainian gained a foothold in the Mani through a strong business alliance with the father, his expansion into their highly profitable sea routes would be inevitable. He presented an unacceptable risk they’d prefer to nip in the bud.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because that’s what the Ukrainian told me. In private, when that old queen wasn’t around.”

  “What did he say?”

  “His best guess was that the local boys somehow found out about his interest in the Mani and thought if they took out Mangas’ father, the project would die with him.”

  “But how did they get the taverna owner to kill him?”

  “The Ukrainian had no idea. But he doubted it was a coincidence.”

  Funny how cops and crooks so often think alike, thought Andreas. “Okay, which locals?”

  “He didn’t say, and I don’t know.”

  “For your sake, you’d better not be holding out on me.”

  “No reason to. I’m too busy to take on this project anyway. The Ukrainian will just have to find someone else to assist him or drop it.”

  “Hope he’s not disappointed.”

  “Not as disappointed as when he finds out that the reason his deal is dead is because the girlfriend who spent the night sitting on his lap spent the morning talking to cops.” His lip had curled into a snarl.

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The Ukrainian will.”

  “Big mistake.”

  “Why? Are you protecting hookers now, too?”

  “No, except it wasn’t his girlfriend who talked.” Andreas winked, stood, and walked toward the door. “It was yours.”

  ***

  Andreas didn’t bother to say good-bye to the receptionist. Nor did he wait for the elevator. He double-timed it down four flights of stairs out to the street, and jumped into the front passenger seat of a marked blue-and-white police car parked with all but its driver side wheels on the sidewalk.

  “How’d it go?” said Kouros.

  Andreas reached for his mobile, and hit a speed dial number. “Like charming a snake. Just drive. I’ll tell you after I speak to—Maggie, get Petro to call me ASAP in the car. It’s urgent.”

  Andreas put down the phone and waited until Kouros had edged into the Formula One-style traffic on Vassilis Sofias, one of Athens’ busiest roads. “That bastard threatened to tell the Ukrainian that the girl on his lap was working with us.”

  “How’d he figure that out?”

  “He’s smart. But he’d do something like that even if he knew it wasn’t true, just to make us squirm.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That it wasn’t she; it was Alexander.”

  “Jesus, I promised him we wouldn’t name him.”

  “Yeah, I know, but Alexander can protect himself, the girl can’t. Besides, I didn’t exactly name Alexander, and that might make Orestes think twice about blaming him.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That it was Orestes’ ‘girlfriend’ who talked.”

  “You really do like pouring gasoline on the flames, don’t you?”

  “He deserves it. Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if Orestes and Alexander had balled each other.”

  “Some hard-on you have for that guy.”

  Andreas turned his head and studied a smiling Kouros. “I’ll let that one pass. Orestes said the Ukrainian’s best guess was that local arms smugglers had your uncle killed. They’d figure murdering your uncle would kill the deal, too, and keep the competition from moving in.”

  “Ever think that maybe Orestes told you that story in hopes it would get back to my cousins and they’d wipe out the Ukrainian’s competition?”

  Andreas looked out the windshield. “That’s possible, but a very risky play by Orestes. And the Ukrainian. Pointing a finger means three others on the same hand point back at you.”

  “So, which locals are involved?”

  “No idea. Tassos might have one, but it’s way outside his stomping grounds, or maybe he can get his arms-dealing buddy to give us some names once he hears he’s not being asked to cross the Ukrainian.”

  “Any idea on how they got Babis to kill my uncle?”

  “Nope. We’ll just have to keep following the string. Sooner or later it will end somewhere.”

  “Hopefully not back at the Minotaur.”

  Andreas looked again at Kouros. “My literate friend, you’ve just given me an idea.”

  “What kind of idea?”

  “Theseus had his Ariadne to save him when all seemed bleakest. And you have your Stella.”

  “The taverna owner’s girlfriend?”

  “Yep. If anyone is likely to know what drove him to kill your uncle and then himself, it’s the girlfriend. Before we go anywhere else with this I want you to find out everything she knows, even things she doesn’t know that she knows. We have to make sure Orestes isn’t running us instead of the other way around.”

  “You’re just pissed about what I said about your having—how shall I say it this time?—an uncommon interest in giving Orestes agita.”

  “I like that better, but my thinking’s the same. I want you down in the Mani first thing tomorrow morning. And don’t come back until you’re sure who was running her boyfriend.”

  The car’s speaker squawked their car number.

  Andreas reached for the handset. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to dispatch another brave knight to save a fair damsel.”

  “Yeah, but all he has to do is spend five minutes warning her to be careful and lay low for a while. I could end up spending a month with Stella and still not know any more than we already do.”

  “Care for a suggestion?” Andreas smiled. “Bring flowers.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kouros remembered once hearing a Navy psychiatrist say that for most of us getting through life each day was pretty much like flying a plane: takeoffs and landings presented the greatest challenges, the rest generally involved hours of routine separated by moments of sheer panic; though for some, panic might be no more than “Where’s my phone?”

  If that shrink was right, Stella probably felt her plane had just been hijacked by Martian terrorists. Her man was dead, and despite the price she paid for his company, he’d provided her with food, shelter, and work. Gone, too, was the other man in her life, the one who protected her from deportation. She was back to being a stranger in a strange land.

  Kouros pulled up in front of the taverna just before noon. The only other vehicle in sight was a beat-up motorbike by the door to the kitchen. She must be scared shitless, he thought. What do I say to her? I’m never good at talking to girls I like. Like? What am I thinking? She could be involve
d in two murders.

  A handwritten sign on the front door to the taverna said CLOSED. Hardly a surprise. He tried the doorknob but it didn’t budge. He walked over to the kitchen door and knocked. No answer. He turned the doorknob and as he did the door pulled away from him.

  “Hi,” said Stella with a brilliant smile. “I heard someone at the front door, but by the time I got there you were gone. Then I heard a knock at this door. You’re the impatient sort, aren’t you?”

  “Uh, sorry, I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”

  “Then I’m happy I am.” Another smile.

  Kouros fought off the urge to blush.

  She wore cutoff jeans and one of those t-shirts that looked as if it had been ripped from the jaws of a Rottweiler. No shoes, no makeup.

  Kouros didn’t know where to look. He decided to aim for her eyes. Those deep, dark, brown ones.

  She cocked her head slightly to the side and fixed her gaze on him. “Nothing to say?” She paused. “I wouldn’t have taken you for the shy sort. Come, I’ll make us some coffee.” She stepped back and waved him inside.

  “I thought the place was closed.”

  “It is. But I remember how to make coffee. And your uncle’s friends still show up every morning like clockwork. They bring their own pastries. I make the coffee.”

  He followed her through the kitchen out to the small dining room.

  “Sit wherever you want. I’ll be right back.”

  He wanted to go with her, but did as she said. Everything was neat and clean. Nothing out of place. He saw a bucket and mop over by the door leading to the larger dining room. A pair of sandals at the entrance.

  He yelled, “You were mopping the big room when I tried the front door?”

  Stella came out of the kitchen with two cups and a pot of coffee. “Yes, I felt I should clean the place before I left.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes, for Athens. Tomorrow. I have a cousin I can stay with there.”

  That was the smart move for illegal immigrants. Athens still offered the best opportunities for those willing to work hard, and a place to lose yourself among the hundreds of thousands of other illegals hiding in plain sight from immigration authorities.