On each of the four consecutive Fridays following his initial proposal, Zanni sent a renewed offer to the family, each reducing the last proposed price by 25 percent. The family never responded. Two days ago he sent the fifth.
Zanni stopped pacing and stared out the window. He should have heard something by now. He'd ratcheted the pressure up about as high as you could push it. If going after the kid didn't work… what the fuck were these people made of? 'Any ideas?'
Kouros kept his eyes on the road. 'Looks like someone's sending a message.'
Andreas nodded. 'You don't go to all the trouble of hiding a body in a place where it's certain to be found, then call the police to make sure that it is, without a very clear purpose in mind.'
'What do you think it is?'
'Not sure yet, but whatever it is, they want the message delivered by us.'
Kouros turned onto Alexandras Street. They were almost back to General Police Headquarters, better known as GADA. It wasn't far from where they found the kid's body, but it sat at the heart of Athens' bustle, next door to a major hospital, down the block from Greece's Supreme Court, and across the street from the stadium of one of Greece's most popular soccer teams, Panathinaikos. GADA was a chore to get to at almost any hour.
Andreas drummed the fingers of his right hand on the top of the dashboard. 'I don't see it as a spontaneous crime of passion or tied to some drug deal gone bad. It certainly wasn't a mugging. This was planned.'
'But why kill a kid… can't imagine even our worst, hard-ass, scum-ball mafia types doing that.'
'I know. That's what has me wondering.' And worried, Andreas mumbled to himself. 'This can't be the beginning of whatever's going on.'
'Maybe it's the end?'
'Let's hope.' Andreas stopped drumming. 'But I don't think so.' Noblesse oblige was a French phrase, but for Sarantis Linardos it needed no translation. Not because he was fluent in French as well as German, English, and, of course, his native Greek, but because it described his view of the Linardos family's obligations to Greece so perfectly; most particularly his own responsibilities as family patriarch and publisher of its most sacrosanct asset. Many old-line families in Greece shared the Linardos family's social position, but none its power of the press. A loss of The Athenian meant the end to his family's influence over the thinking of its peers and its reign at the pinnacle of Athens society. He could never allow that to happen.
Then again, he wasn't feeling particularly regal at the moment and this battle with that awful Kostopoulos person was taking its toll on his family. He was not concerned with Kostopoulos' economic attacks; the fool had no idea of the reach of his family's resources. One could not have his finger on the pulse of generations of Greece's most powerful without learning their secrets. It was Sarantis' discretion in using what he learned that earned him their confidence and gave him his true influence. There was not a person of position in Greece who did not owe the Linardos family at least a bit of gratitude, measurable in euros. He knew there was far more than enough available to withstand any financial siege.
Still, many of Sarantis' long-time friends had warned him Kostopoulos was not the sort of man who could be trusted to act civilly, and he should take the threat more seriously. Some had offered to intervene to try convincing Kostopoulos to stop. Sarantis refused. He would not speak, much less negotiate, with such rabble, nor allow any of his friends to stoop to doing so on his behalf. He was convinced if he simply ignored Kostopoulos' weekly offers and the half-truths and lies he planted in the tabloids, items of little interest to the public for even their brief time on the newsstands, Kostopoulos would simply give up and go away.
He never saw it coming.
The video of his granddaughter with those two men was a brutal, merciless assassination. It left no doubt as to how far Kostopoulos was prepared to go. The humiliation would haunt her on the Web forever. Her boyfriend no longer spoke to her, no socially prominent girlfriend dared be seen with her, and the tabloid-media harpies now called a racially mixed menage a trois 'doing the Elena.' Whispers and snickers accompanied her everywhere. His favorite grandchild had no choice but to flee Greece in shame. For how long he did not know. Elena might never recover.
And Elena's mother, his daughter, moved into Sarantis' home with her other children until 'you end it with this horrible man, father;' utterly panicked over what else might happen to the children.
Sarantis had lived long enough to understand that people did what they must to survive; but never, not even in war fighting to rid his beloved Greece of Germans and later communists, had he faced an enemy so single-mindedly obsessed with destroying his family as Zanni Kostopoulos.
That's when he knew it was time to turn to his friends. Let them attempt to reason with this butcher. He wanted no further harm to befall his family; certainly no more to the children. He only hoped it wasn't too late. Andreas' office was on the fourth floor of the building and faced east, away from the heart of Athens. It had two long windows but not much of a view. That was fine with Andreas; he had more than enough to look at on his desk and on the chart of active cases fastened to the wall behind it. He was in his chair, staring at the chart, and wondering where to squeeze in the dumpster case when his secretary came through the door at the far end of his office.
'Here are the photos the lab downloaded from your camera.'
'Thanks, Maggie.' She preferred that to the Greek Margarita.
Andreas placed the half-dozen eight-by-tens on his desk. The crime scene unit had a lot more photographs to study, but he wanted to check for anything that might be helpful in the few he took. He picked up one of the boy's face. Nice-looking kid, he thought. Damn shame.
Maggie was standing on the other side of the desk, staring down at the photos. She'd worked as a police secretary for longer than Andreas had been alive and ages ago forgot her official lowly status in the bureaucratic food chain. 'May I take a look at the one you're holding, Chief?' She reached out and took it without waiting for him to answer.
Andreas couldn't help but smile. He really liked her, and not just because she knew his father from his days as a cop. A lot of people knew his dad, though most wouldn't admit to serving with him during his last years on the force as part of the Junta's secret police. They preferred acting as if they played no part in those seven years of dictatorship. But Maggie was unique. Sure, she had her quirks and told you exactly what was on her mind if you dared to ask, often even if you didn't, but she knew all there was to know about the department and everyone in it. The department was her 24/7 life. She never seemed to leave the building. Pure luck, though some may have described it differently, landed her in his unit. Her long-time boss had announced his retirement a few weeks before Andreas arrived and, when human resources suggested she retire with him, her answer could be heard as far away as Turkey. So, the legendary Maggie Sikestis now reported to Chief Kaldis. Or was it the other way around? Andreas never was quite sure.
'Good-looking boy, Chief.'
'That's what I thought.'
Maggie waved the photograph in her right hand and pursed her lips. 'I've seen this boy before.'
She never ceased to amaze him, but this was too much to believe. 'Maggie, how could you know this kid?' Then he paused. 'He's not a relative or a friend's child, is he?'
'No, nothing like that. I just swear I saw him in one of those tabloids.'
It seemed all of Greece was addicted to National Enquirer-like publications. All except Andreas. He was too busy battling with facts to spend time amidst gossip and rumors.
'I think it was in Espresso, maybe Loipon. Possibly even Hello.' Obviously, Maggie saw her job description differently. 'Wait!' She almost shouted the word, then turned and hurried her sturdy, compact five-foot-three-inch frame out the door.
Andreas picked up the phone and pressed an intercom button. 'Yianni, get in here. Maggie thinks she knows our kid from the dumpster.'
Both arrived at the door together. It looked like a mother and son
team. Except Maggie had a bit more hair and dyed it close to red. 'Here it is, Chief.'
He took the paper. The headline read, FAMILIES WHACK AWAY AT WAR, WHO'S NEXT? Andreas hated that sort of headline; it reminded him of what cost him his father.
'It's inside.' Maggie pulled the paper out of his hands, turned to the appropriate page and gave it back to him. 'The boy's picture is here.'
Andreas and Kouros looked to where she pointed. There he was, among photographs of members of the two families. One picture of a pretty girl had an 'x' through it. The caption below the photo said 'Whacked' and gave the link to a website.
'What's this?' he asked Maggie.
Kouros answered. 'She's the granddaughter of the publisher of The Athenian. She was caught on a cell phone camera doing two guys at the same time in a public toilet at a club in Gazi. That's a link to the video.'
He wanted to ask how Yianni knew so much about it but decided not to ask. He probably was the only one in the room, perhaps all of Athens, who hadn't seen it. Andreas sat quietly for a moment staring at the paper, then let out a deep breath. 'All hell's going to break loose when this gets out. Surprised it hasn't already. Better get media affairs ready.'
'I'll take care of it,' said Maggie.
'Yianni, get a home address on the kid's family. We have to get over there before someone in the coroner's office recognizes the kid and tips off the press.' He didn't bother to mention the number of cops who'd like to pick up the money for such a tip.
Kouros left. Andreas turned in his chair and stared at the chart. He wished he could break the news to the family by phone; that way you didn't have to see their grief, feel it, let it get to you. But this wasn't the sort of thing you could do like that. At least he couldn't. He remembered the day he learned his father had killed himself… Andreas tore away from the thought. He waved at the chart. 'Maggie, find a new place for some of this stuff. We have to make room.' A lot of room. If you lived in Athens' northern suburb of Old Psychiko, people were impressed. At least that's what many of its residents hoped. Just north of Athens and west of Kifissias Avenue, it was a refuge of peace, greenery, and high walls for foreign embassies, exclusive private schools, and the upper echelon of Athenian society. A few nearby neighborhoods and one or two to the south might claim to be as tony, but none would dare argue to be greater.
Psychiko's confusing array of one-way streets, winding every which way about its tree-lined slopes and hills, was designed that way for a reason: to keep out the casual passersby. But it hadn't worked as well on the new money crowd. They flocked to the neighborhood, sending prices through the roof for houses they often tore down to build grander homes than their neighbors'. Among long-time residents, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone happy with the changes to their neighborhood. Until it came time to sell, of course.
Kouros knew how to get to Psychiko; his trouble was finding a way to get to the house. They passed the same kiosk twice trying to find the correct connecting road to the one-way street they were looking for.
'Screw it,' said Andreas. 'Turn up here,' pointing at a DO NOT ENTER sign marking the end of the street they wanted.
About a quarter-mile up the road, an eight-foot-high, white concrete-stucco wall ran for about one hundred feet along the right side of the street. A ten-foot-high, black wrought iron gate stood midway along the wall. The gate's leaf-and-tendril design was so tightly spaced not even a cat could squeeze through.
They parked outside the gate, and Kouros walked to the intercom on the wall by the left side of the gate. He identified himself and held his police ID up to the camera. They were buzzed in and made their way along a stone path winding around closely planted eucalyptus, lemon, bougainvillea, and oleander shielding the house from the gate. Andreas thought a lot of care must go into this place. A man waited for them outside the front door. He asked to see their identification again. When he asked the purpose for their visit, Andreas told him, 'It's a personal, family matter.'
The man took out his cell phone and called someone. Andreas' eyes scanned the front of the three-story building. Hard to imagine it was only a house. 'I could live here,' he said to Kouros.
'I'd never find my way home at night.'
'Who said I'd ever leave?'
'Gentlemen, please, come with me.' The man gestured toward the open front door. He showed them into a room most would call a living room but, between the front door and where they stood, they'd passed through so many others Andreas would call a living room that he couldn't guess what this one might be called.
'Please, wait here. Would you like something to drink?'
'No, thank you,' said Andreas. He felt out of place in these surroundings, or maybe it was the purpose of his visit, but whatever the reason he sensed his hand might shake slightly if he held a glass. Adrenaline could do that. He preferred his hands free.
The man left, leaving Andreas and Kouros standing in the middle of the lavishly decorated room, facing a doorway, and looking conspicuously ill at ease. Andreas was still struggling to think of the right words to say. All he could think of was, 'Yianni, you tell them.' Andreas smiled at the thought of the deer-in-the-headlights look that order would get from his taciturn partner.
'Chief Kaldis?' The question came from behind them. He and Yianni turned to face the voice. A couple was standing in another doorway. The man looked much older than the woman.
'Yes, sir, and this is officer Kouros.'
Kouros nodded hello.
'We understand you have a personal matter to discuss with us.'
Andreas drew in a breath. 'Yes, sir, I do.'
'I hope it's not something we should have our lawyer here for.' He was smiling as he said it, but it showed Andreas this man knew his way around police. For if he did need a lawyer, Andreas must tell him now.
'No, sir, absolutely not.'
The man's smile was gone.
'What's wrong? What's happened? Are the children all right?' It was the woman. She was squeezing the man's arm.
Andreas hoped it wouldn't come up this way, so abruptly and directly to the point. But that's how most mothers reacted to police appearing at their homes unexpectedly: had something happened to her children or her husband? And usually in that order.
He must now give these people probably the worst news they'd ever hear. He hoped his voice wouldn't crack. 'Yes, I'm afraid it's about Sotiris.'
'What's happened? Is he all right, did he wreck the car, did he hurt someone, did-' Before she could finish the man cut her off.
'Please, dear, let me handle this.' He looked at Andreas. 'Whatever trouble he's in I'm sure we can work it out. I have a lot of friends.'
Andreas knew how to handle this sort of approach, but not today. No matter how obnoxious or pretentious this guy might be, he would get a free pass on this.
'I'm sure you do, sir, but it's not that sort of situation.'
The man started to say something else, but Andreas put up his hand and said, 'Please.'
Perhaps it was the look of anguish on Andreas' face or a paralyzing, simultaneous chill felt in each one's spine, but each stood perfectly still, quietly waiting for Andreas to speak.
Andreas only paused long enough for them to look directly into his eyes. 'A terrible thing has happened, Sotiris has been killed.' Unconsciously, he crossed himself.
No one moved, not a word was said. It was an eternity. It was three seconds.
'Noooooooooo…' The word went on forever. The mother kept pitching it higher and higher, twisting her hands about the man's arm, then grabbed her face in her hands. Still struggling to scream, but without the breath for it, she started pounding on the man's chest. He did not move. He did not blink.
Andreas did not know what more to say, and so he said the obvious. 'I'm so very sorry, Mr and Mrs Kostopoulos.'
3
Andreas never got used to delivering such dreadful, unexpected news. He didn't want to; his skin was thick enough. He watched Mrs Kostopoulos go from pounding on her husba
nd's chest to sobbing against it, but he wasn't judging how they chose to mourn. There should be no rules for grieving. Especially for a child.
Ginny Kostopoulos was twenty-four when she met fifty-year-old Zanni. Like so many other Eastern-European beauties migrating to Greece in search of work, she put her natural charms to good use on celebrity-filled island beaches catering to the desires of thirsty sun worshipers. Zanni's were obvious from the start, and Ginny, an unwed mother of a four-year-old son, did not object. They married as quickly as he could divorce wife number two. Zanni adopted the boy, giving him the name Sotiris after Zanni's late father. He had two grown daughters from his previous marriages and, together with Ginny, twin ten-year-old girls. Sotiris was the only son.
Andreas waited patiently; he knew the question would come soon. It always did.
'What happened to our son?' It came from Zanni.
'He was…' Andreas swallowed hard. 'He was murdered.' A priest or a social worker might have put it differently, but Andreas was a cop. And cops want reactions. They're more telling than words.
'Murdered? Murdered!' It was Ginny. She dropped her arms from around her husband and turned away from all three men. Her right hand was over her mouth and her eyes fixed on the floor.
'Who did it… how did it happen?' Zanni did the asking. Ginny didn't move from her spot.
'We don't know yet, sir. It occurred a few hours after midnight. Your son's body was discovered at dawn and the coroner hasn't completed his examination.' Neither parent responded. Andreas' instinct was to say more. 'But we think it was directed at your family.'
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