by Nick Vellis
Pantheras around so why’d the old man give him a tip?” Reinhart said.
“How ‘bout the civil suit? Those people from the depos?” Captain Coffey asked.
“All solid citizens with good alibis,” Reinhardt responded.
“What was he doing at the bookstore?” Coffey asked, still hopeful.
Sheepishly Reinhardt looked down, “Haven’t found that out yet. An old man who works there remembers a guy fittin’ the vic’s description coming in. He was there to see the owner, but the owner ain’t been there for a while. The employees say it’s not unusual for him to go off without telling anyone. We ain’t found him, yet,” Reinhardt said.
Coffey rolled his eyes at the two detectives. “What the hell did I tell you two? I gotta’ make a weekly report on this to the Chief of Ds. You two ain’t got shit. No progress on your part means the brass chews my butt. You know what rolls downhill ‘round here?”
Coffey rubbed his chin with his beefy fingers and after a few moments’ contemplation said, “OK, go back to the chauffeur an’ squeeze him hard, find the bookstore guy and try spendin’ less time sittin’ on your asses drinkin’ coffee and more time burnin’ shoe leather. Get on over to Homeland Security. See if they have anything on the MO in that big-ass data base they’ve got. I want some answers and want 'em fast. I’ll get you some press coverage an’ maybe we can get some tips.” Coffey sighed, exasperated. At least he would have the press coverage to report to his boss.
The Globe ran a story about Andreas Pantheras’ death the next morning. By 3 p.m., Sara Stokes was in an interview room with the detective’s first real lead. She described seeing a nicely dressed older man with white hair outside the Union Oyster House on the evening of July 5, the evening she got the engaged. In fact, she’d bumped right into the man and spoke to him. She saw him again a few minutes later walking quickly toward the harbor. She also saw two men about a block down the street. They got in a dark car and then drove off in the same direction as the man with the white hair. The plate number, sure she remembered it. She had a good head for numbers. The plate number led them back to the chauffeur, Kevin O’Malley.
Detectives Lamb and Reinhardt arrived at O’Malley’s Southside apartment building, search warrant in hand, just before six p.m. They crept up to No. 9 on the second floor at the end of a dim, musty hall. They knocked but got no response.
“Try the door,” Lamb urged softly.
Reinhardt drew his Glock with his right hand and with his left, slowly turned the knob. To his surprise, the door opened. The detectives traded a quizzical glance. Both men listened intently. Then, exchanging a nod, they quietly entered. They were greeted by overturned furniture. Each detective instinctively scanned his sector of the room and, finding no threat, cautiously moved deeper into the apartment. Lamb went left into the kitchen while Reinhardt moved quickly toward the bedroom. Reinhardt eased the door open with his free hand, weapon pointed into the room. He slipped silently inside. “Found him,” Reinhardt called out.
Lamb quickly joined his partner in the bedroom. Together they stared down at Kevin O’Malley. He was stripped to his jockey shorts and duct-taped to an overturned chair. His face was a mass of purple bruises and deep cuts. His cheeks bulged from a towel stuffed in his mouth. Blood was spattered on his chest, matted his hair, and stained the threadbare carpet.
“Well, he ain’t gunna tell us anything this time,” said Reinhardt, reaching to check for a pulse more out of habit than necessity. “His face looks like raw hamburger.”
“Yea, he took one helluva a beating. Pretty thorough too. Where’s the wife?” Lamb asked looking around the room. His Glock 17 still in his right hand and held slightly behind his back, Lamb peered carefully into the partially open bathroom door and got his answer.
“She’s in here,” he observed. “We better call the captain and get some techs out here,” Lamb said over his shoulder.
Carol O’Malley, hands taped behind her back, was face down in the bathtub. She wore long bloody marks on her broken, naked, and lifeless body.
“Whoa. That’s no way to treat a lady,” Reinhardt said peering into the bathroom. “Any weapon?”
“There’s a piece of rebar on the floor here behind the door,” Lamb replied. “Odds are that’s it.”
The forensic technicians were taking over twenty-five minutes later, as Reinhardt stepped into the hall. He instantly lit a cigarette in a vain attempt to banish the taste of death. Taking deep drags, he leaned his back against the stained wallpaper as he waited for his partner. Lamb joined him after a few minutes.
“You know those things are gunna kill you,” Lamb said, emerging from the crime scene.
“Better this,” Reinhardt replied, holding up the half-burned Lucky Strike, “than what those two got. Stan, they’ve only been dead a few hours. Pantheras was killed, what, six weeks ago? A story about our victim runs in the paper, and these two get killed the same day? It’s no coincidence. Damn, the captain’s gunna be pissed.”
“Oh, ya think? O’Malley was our only connection to Pantheras. We have two more bodies courtesy of the Globe.
Now, if we just knew why,” Lamb replied.
CHAPTER 3
AJ watched the joggers in Bicentennial Park then looked out at the midmorning traffic on the MacArthur Causeway from his twentieth-story perch. Yachts ploughing through the chop on Biscayne Bay caught his eye, but he was lost in empty thoughts. In the ten days since his return from Boston, he’d frequently found himself at this window. The Boston cops had called him after finding the limo driver dead but still had no idea who killed his father. AJ wondered how things could get worse. His early morning caller had insisted on an immediate meeting, saying he had important information about his father. How could AJ refuse? His secretary’s gentle knock brought him back to matters at hand.
“Yes. What is it?” AJ said.
“Your 10 o’clock appointment is here, Mr. Pantheras,” Carol Bailey replied.
AJ cast a suspicious eye at the man ushered into his office. He met him with an outstretched right hand and a hopeful expression. The visitor took AJ’s hand in a surprisingly firm grip and said, “Hello. I am Savas, Ceres Savas. I was sorry to learn of the death of your father.”
“Thank you. I’m AJ Pantheras. You said on the telephone you had information about my father. Did you know him?” AJ said.
“May we sit? I am afraid I do not travel well any longer,” his visitor responded.
“Please. Have a seat, Mr. Savas,” AJ said, indicating the conference table in the center of the office.
AJ’s visitor sat with a sigh, his body visibly unwinding in the comfortable chair. AJ couldn’t tell his age, perhaps he was sixty, or sixty-five, but he could have been much older. He stood about five feet four, a sturdy, muscular man who was surprisingly fit for his age. He had broad shoulders and a thick neck. His long, weathered face began with a strong chin and ended halfway up his head at a deeply receding hairline.
He wore a white guayabera with three open buttons from which long tufts of grey hair spilled. His plain dark slacks ended at white socks and scuffed black shoes. He carried a worn black leather folio that he put on the floor beside him. The visitor looked as though he would be comfortable at any of Little Havana’s sidewalk cafés or playing chess in the park, but something wasn’t quite right.
“Thank you, young man, that’s better,” he said as he leaned back in the chair, “perhaps some coffee? I think better with a cup in my hand,” said Ceres.
Annoyed, AJ went to the credenza and quickly poured two steaming cups of coffee. He returned to his visitor, handing him a coffee before setting down his own cup. He was in no mood for stalling.
“Now, what is it I can do for you, sir? I am very busy,” AJ said.
“I believe it may be what I can do for you,” he said, handing AJ an envelope he had retrieved from his leather folio.
AJ took the envelope bearing his name and immediately recognized father’s distinctive scrip
t.
“Open it my boy, open it, Ceres said.
AJ tore the envelope, and removed a single sheet of paper. When he unfolded it, a small key fell to the floor. AJ picked up the key then quickly read the last letter his father had written.
“Do you know what this is, mister…?
“Savas, Ceres Savas. Yes, Ajax, I know, he told me as he wrote it,” Ceres replied.
“If you don’t mind, please call me AJ. Only my parents called me Ajax.” AJ said.
“Ajax is your name, is it not?” Ceres replied.
“Yes, but …”
“Then that is how I will address you … as Ajax.”
“All right, whatever. I don’t understand,” AJ lowered the letter to look more closely at his guest. “He says I should trust you but doesn’t explain. What was he looking for? Why does he have a secret safe deposit box? What’s going on?”
“I will try to make it clear,” Ceres began. “I have a small books shop in Boston, many old and out of print editions. I met your father more than a year ago. He was researching events in Greece during the Second World War. My store had several volumes he wanted,” Ceres replied.
The man’s accent was thick, but AJ, used to the heavily accented English spoken in Miami, wasn’t fazed, even though he couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t a Cuban or other Hispanic accent. No, this man was no Cubano. He was something different.
“What are you talking about? He had no interest in Greece.
“What was he looking for?” AJ said.
“He did not share with me at once what he was doing. We spent many hours, first on the telephone, then together over coffee, much like this,” Ceres said, motioning to the dark liquid in white china. “He asked many questions about my occupation experience.”
“What occupation? He was a lawyer.”
“No, my friend, he asked about the German occupation of Greece.”
“What? No. You were in WWII? You must be…?”
“Don’t trouble yourself with my age. I don’t really know how old I am. Records in my country were not very good. You see, I was born to a poor family in the Greek hills. Let us just say I was a boy who helped the Americans, helped your grandfather. That is, what is the word, the irony? I knew your grandfather, and your father found me by accident … trying to learn what happened,” Ceres said.
“What do you mean what happened? My grandfather?”
“Your father and I spoke many times. He traveled many places, but I was fortunate he visited me often the last few months.”
As Mr. Savas spoke, AJ recalled his father had been away a lot. He had been relieved he wasn’t there to argue with him as often, though now he regretted the thought.
“When I felt I could trust him, when I believed he was my friend’s son, I told him I had something for him,” Ceres said. “He thought it was a history text or some government papers. I would only tell him of it if he came to see it. I did this so he would believe. You see, I had not told your father I knew his father. I had provided him with information, clues if you will and given him, some … objects as well. That last time he visited, I told him the whole story and about this.”
Reaching into the leather folio at his side, Ceres retrieved a small, worn black notebook. He held the notebook gently in his strong, heavily veined hands, turning it over, looking at it with a reverence that startled AJ.
“Look, Mr. Savas. You seem like a nice man. I don’t want to offend you, but I don’t know what your game is or what you want.
As you know, my father was killed recently. I am trying to find out why and who killed him. I don’t have time for Greek myths,” AJ said.
Ceres looked straight at AJ. The intensity in those steel eyes sent a shudder through him.
“What do I want? My friend, I want to remove the ghosts from your past. You see, your father came to see me the day he died.”
“What? Why haven’t you come forward before now? The Boston police are looking for anyone who spoke to my father that day.”
“He was to call me the next day. He said he had to think about what I had told him … about his father. I was worried when he did not call, so I went away. Then days later I read in the newspaper he had been killed, I realized I too could be in danger. I made my way here, carefully, to see you. I have kept quiet so long.”
“What’s it all about? Who killed him? Why?” AJ asked, almost desperately.
“Your father was trying to learn what happened to his father in the war, to learn the truth. This book and this” he tapped his grey temple, “hold that truth.”
The electronic sign at the Bank of Coral Gables flashed 3:10 p.m. as AJ pulled into the parking lot. He noticed it had changed to 94 degrees as he strolled into the lobby. A burst of cold air inside startled him. No wonder everyone’s always sick in the summertime.
“Thank you for calling ahead, Mr. Pantheras,” the bank manager said as AJ settled into a chair. “It makes this unfortunate process much easier,” he said. “It normally takes several days to arrange…”
“We went through all that on the phone. You have what you need. Let’s get on with it,” AJ said, tired of protocol and delay.
“I have all the necessary forms ready for your signature,” The manager stuttered. “Your office faxed over the statement of representation for our records.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“No problem sir, I just have to…”
“Please can we get this done? I’m in a hurry,” AJ said.
Annoyed, the man rose and said, “Certainly sir.” Lawyers, bastards all, the mousy bank manager thought. “This will just take a few minutes. Your father placed your name on the signature card and you have the key, however, as we discussed on the telephone, you never signed the card, hence the formality,” the manager said, as he quietly left the office.
Waiting impatiently, AJ tried to grasp what was happening to him, his disappointment, and his father’s murder. Now there was a total stranger on his doorstep, a stranger who asked to be trusted. He had a story but he was rationing the facts. Why? The man wasn’t a stranger to his father. Andreas apparently trusted him a great deal. Why?
The manager came back into the office with what passed for a smile on his face. “We’re all set. Thank you for your patience,” he said. “Will you follow me, please?”
AJ rose without a word and followed the officious man to the vault. Once inside, AJ saw row upon row of numbered brushed metal boxes, each with two key slots. He followed the manager to box 1905. He used the key Ceres had given him; the manager used his key as well, and the box opened.
It was one of the larger safe deposit boxes, about fifteen by fifteen inches. The bank manager pulled the metal rectangle out of its slot. It slid smoothly until its entire twenty-four inches came free. He looked at AJ for help and the two of them lifted the box onto a cart. The manager wheeled the cart into a secure cubical, while AJ trailed behind. This was Andreas’ secret safe deposit box.
The large box held a strange array of treasures. There were documents in carefully labeled envelopes, Internet, DOD research, military records, National Archives, and Greek government. The file folders contained piles of government documents, newspaper articles and Internet print outs with sections circled and Post It notes attached. A thick black and white composition book held research notes in what AJ recognized as his father’s unmistakable hand. Looking at the Internet printouts, AJ picked up an article from 2001 and read it.
Hunt for Sunken Jewish Treasure
Divers continued their search off the coast of Thessaloniki for gold, silver, coins, and jewels worth billions taken from the Jewish Community of Thessaloniki by German wartime Governor Colonel Max Dorn. Dorn, who promised to spare the lives of the owners, broke his promise, and nearly every Jew in Thessaloniki region, an estimated 80,000, were killed in Nazi death camps. Dorn is rumored to have been helped by U.S. Army forces.
AJ thumbed through the sheaf of papers. Each was neatly clipped or stapled T
here were dozens of printouts, articles, and bound stacks of photocopies. He picked up another Article, this one from 2005, and read it too, still not believing what he saw.
Divers Seek Nazi Loot
Treasure hunters resumed their search of the freighter Agamemnon this week for an estimated $6 billion worth of treasures stolen from the city's Jews, reports Sophia Helenas in Athens. After obtaining renewed permits from the Greek Ministry of Interior, an international team of divers will plunge into the deep blue waters off southern Greece in search of diamonds, jewels, and gold, looted from an estimated 50,000 Greek Jews sent to concentration camps.
Divers are searching for more than treasure, however. They are also searching for answers to one of the Second World War's darkest secrets. Thessaloniki’s Jewish population successfully negotiated a deal to avoid deportation and reportedly paid a ransom for each man, woman and child. The ransom was reportedly stolen, resulting in the deportation of the city’s entire Jewish population. Several small groups escaped by ship to Italy and by train to Switzerland, but Thessaloniki’s Jewish community was decimated. The value of the treasure today is estimated at more than $6 billion.
“Geeze,” AJ said aloud, “not millions - billions of dollars?” What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on that. As he imagined the immense wealth, his eyes gleamed. Putting the articles and printouts aside, he looked at the handful of fat envelopes and decided to go over them at home, where he could ask Ceres about them. There was piece of cardboard separating the documents from something hidden below. AJ pulled it out and a sharp intake of breath punctuated his surprise. In front of him was a Colt .45 Model 1911 probably of WWII vintage.
