Murder on Olympus

by Robert B Warren

  Who in his right mind would have sex with something like that? You couldn’t even look at her without turning to stone. And not in a good way.

  “Why did she bring the gorgon over?” I asked.

  “Some of the guests thought it’d be fun to get turned to stone.”

  “Who’s this friend of yours?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because that gorgon is stolen property.”

  “Are you serious?” he asked.

  “As a heart attack.”

  Prometheus frowned.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Sorry man, but I’m no snitch.”

  “Gorgon theft is a federal offense, you know. If someone was to, I don’t know, tip off the OBI, you could get into serious trouble . . . with Zeus.”

  Prometheus’s attitude instantly shifted gears. He raised his hands, grinning nervously. “Whoa, no need for that, friend. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  “Smart move.”

  “She goes by Mia. But her real name is Lamia.”

  “Lamia?” I stared at Prometheus in confusion. “I thought she was dead.”

  Prometheus smirked, his lip ring flashing in the dim light. “That’s what the official records say.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Prometheus gestured for me to sit back down. “I assume you already know about Lamia’s affair with Zeus.”

  I nodded. “Hera punished her by killing her children.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not all she did. Hera painted Lamia as a psychopathic child-killer, made it impossible for her to lead a normal life.”

  “Wait, so the whole story about Lamia killing children is a lie?”

  Prometheus nodded. “Lamia, poor thing, tried to clear her name. But no one would believe her. Who’s going to take the word of a cold-blooded child-killer over the Queen of the Gods?”

  “You believed her,” I said.

  Prometheus chuckled, without humor. “I know how Hera can be sometimes.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Anyway, she faked her death to get Hera off her back.”

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “She was here earlier, but I think she bailed.”

  “What does she look like?” I asked.

  Prometheus shrugged. “Depends on how she’s feeling.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Lamia’s a shape-shifter. She inherited that power from her father.”

  I assumed he was talking about Poseidon, the God of the Sea. As far I knew, he was Lamia’s biological father. Her mother—I’d thought—was Lybie, an ancient queen of Libya. But according to Prometheus, Medusa was the real mother, which meant that she and Poseidon . . . Yuck.

  “A shape-shifter who can hypnotize gorgons and is immune to their stares,” I said. “Your friend’s pretty well-rounded.”

  “No doubt.”

  “What did she look like tonight?”

  “Like a human female. Pale skin. Light-brown hair. Nice ass. That’s the form I’m most familiar with. I think it’s her real one.”

  “Does she have any distinguishing features?”

  “Yeah. She’s got these freaky eyes. I mean real freaky. Like space age, flying saucer shit.”

  I leaned forward. “Her eyes, are they green?”

  “Yeah.”

  The woman near the buffet. The one who ran away from me. Could that have been Lamia?

  “And you say she left?” I asked urgently.

  Prometheus nodded.

  “Is there a way I can get in contact with her?” I asked.

  “Not that I know of. She kinda comes and goes, you know.”

  I got up. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Anytime.”

  I went back downstairs and started asking random people if they knew where Lamia—a.k.a. Mia—had gone. No one knew. Or if they did, they weren’t telling. After an hour of searching, I gave up. As I walked toward the door on my way out, a voice called out to me.

  “Did you have fun?”

  It was the satyr with the necktie around his head.

  “Did you know there was a gorgon upstairs?” I asked.

  He smiled, looking pleased with himself. “Uh-huh.”

  “And you sent me up there?”

  “Yeah, pretty funny joke, huh?”

  I punched him in the jaw. He fell unconscious onto the floor.

  “Hilarious.” I turned and left the mansion.

  66

  By the time I reached my car, Aphrodite and Dionysus were gone. I didn’t bother looking for them. I was too pissed off to deal with them right now.

  The Gods had been lying to me this entire time. They told me there was nothing they knew of that could kill a God. And now I found out there was, the Gods knew about it, and the killer had possession of it. I always knew the Gods were assholes. They just kept coming up with more and more ways to prove it.

  As angry as I was, I could still see the intelligence behind the lies. If I were the omnipotent ruler of mankind, I probably wouldn’t want my subjects to know my one fatal weakness. Still, that didn’t justify what they’d done. Cowardice is cowardice, no matter how you slice it.

  When I arrived home, I called the records department on Olympus for information on the Claw of Erebus. They said exactly what I knew they’d say: “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones, but no such weapon exists.” Surprise, surprise.

  I ended the call and considered my next move. If the Gods had the claw, they’d likely keep it in the secret vault on Olympus, under twenty-four-hour guard. Chrysus was the director of the Treasury. In the morning, I would try to finagle some answers out of her. She’d probably play dumb, but it was worth a shot.

  Having done all I could do for one day, I dragged myself to my room and crashed onto the bed. I finally had a break in the case. I just hoped Ares wouldn’t screw everything up.

  In the wee hours of the morning, I was awakened by the sound of my cell phone ringing. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I grabbed it from the nightstand.

  “Hello?” I grumbled.

  “Plato?” a woman’s voice said.

  I sat up and pressed my back against the cool wood of the headboard. “Aphrodite?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” she said. “I apologize for calling so early, but I was concerned.”

  “Concerned about what?”

  “About you, of course. You disappeared last night.”

  “Oh yeah.” I held back a yawn. “Sorry about that. Something urgent came up.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Did you have trouble getting home last night?”

  “No,” Aphrodite said. “Dionysus gave me a ride.”

  I’ll bet he did.

  “Prometheus told me you were almost mauled to death by a gorgon. Is that true?”

  “Yeah, I was attacked.”

  “You poor thing,” she cooed. “Are you feeling alright?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? I can bring over some hot soup. Or a nice pie.”

  I could’ve gone for some pie. But not Aphrodite’s. Hers tended to drive people crazy.

  “I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but I’m okay, really.”

  “All right.” She sounded disappointed. “So did Prometheus give you any useful information?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Nothing you’re willing to discuss?”

  “Afraid not,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “I understand.”

  “Thanks for helping me out last night.”

  “Anytime.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  I
ended the call and put my cell phone back on the nightstand. The numbers on my digital clock glowed neon red in the dimness. It was five until four. I tried to go back to sleep, but the conversation with Aphrodite had left me wide awake, and sexually frustrated. I rolled out of bed, went to the living room, and watched TV until the sun came up.

  At eight in the morning, I called the Department of the Treasury and asked for Chrysus. The receptionist told me Chrysus was filing some reports for Zeus, and that I should call back later. I was in no mood to play phone tag, but I left her a message anyway.

  At half past one, I was about to give the Treasury another ring, when my cell rang. It was Chrysus. Finally.

  “Hey, beautiful,” I said.

  “Hello, Plato.”

  “Did you get my message?”

  “I did. Is there something you wanted?”

  “Yeah. I need to ask you a question. Are you alone right now?”

  “Hold on one moment.” Chrysus was quiet for a time, but I could hear her heels clack against the floor. When she spoke again, there was an echo. I assumed she was in the restroom.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I’d like some information on an item in the vault.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Claw of Erebus.”

  Chrysus went silent. After a few seconds she said, “What’s the Claw of Erebus?”

  “You know, weapon of unimaginable power. The only thing that can kill a God.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “You sure about that?” I asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay,” I said. There was no point in pressing the matter. She wasn’t going to talk.

  “This Claw of Erebus,” Chrysus said, “who told you about it?”

  “About what? It doesn’t exist. Right?”

  There was another stretch of silence on the other end.

  “You still there?” I asked.

  “One second.”

  I heard the sound of a toilet being flushed. Moments later, Chrysus said, “I apologize. Someone came into the bathroom. They’re gone now.”

  “Chrysus, are you sure there’s not something you want to tell me?”

  “I wish I could tell you what you want to hear, but I’m afraid that’s just not possible. Listen, I have to get back to work. We’ll talk later.”

  “Okay, bye,” I said.

  My search for the Claw of Erebus had only just begun, and already I had hit a brick wall. I didn’t stress about it too much. The Claw was only one piece of a much larger puzzle. If I found the killer, I’d inevitably find the murder weapon. Whether or not the smoking gun turned out to be the Claw, I’d just have to wait and see.

  67

  With the Claw of Erebus temporarily out of the picture, I shifted my attention to Lamia. Her history with Zeus and Hera made her a huge suspect. As did the fact that she had faked her own death. Prometheus believed she did it to escape Hera’s wrath, but I suspected there was more to it than that.

  Every year, dozens of criminals staged their own deaths. Dropping off the grid gave them more freedom to move around. They could commit crimes without having to worry about the cops coming after them. Maybe that was what Lamia was doing.

  I called Prometheus and asked if he’d seen her. I had a feeling he was going to say no, and I was right. The only other thing I could think to do was speak with Poseidon. Being Lamia’s father, he might have some useful information.

  I called the offices on Olympus and set up a meeting with him. The next morning, I drove to the harbor. Two men in white suits waited for me in the parking lot. One of them held a sign with my name on it. I flashed them my ID, and they motioned for me to follow them.

  They led me to a luxury speedboat moored to the dock. It was blue with white leather seats. The wood-grain dash panel and silver instruments gleamed in the sunlight. A bottle of champagne sat in a bucket of ice next to one of the passenger seats. I knew where I was going to sit.

  We sailed east, slicing through the waters of the Aegean. Poseidon’s yacht bobbed in the distance. It was massive, more along the lines of a cruise ship. The hull was pearl white, and the prow was shaped like a horse’s head. Dozens of windows spotted the exterior. I didn’t even want to think about how much a vessel like that might cost.

  We boarded the yacht. The suits escorted me to the bow, where Poseidon was oil-painting. With his short black hair and light blue eyes, he looked almost identical to Zeus. Only he was taller and brawnier and had a fuller beard. He sported a navy polo, white slacks, and no shoes.

  I had first met Poseidon while working for the OBI. I felt about as safe around him as I did with Ares. He had a notoriously bad temper, and almost anything could set him off. Bad news for people living near the coast.

  I knew nothing of his relationship with Lamia. It seemed like he and Zeus were battling for the title of biggest deadbeat dad on Olympus.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Hold on, old boy.” Poseidon continued to paint.

  He was doing a self-portrait in which he stood naked atop Mt. Olympus, holding his trademark golden trident overhead. It looked photorealistic, even up close. Several strokes later, he put down his brush and pallet and turned toward me. He smiled. That was a good thing . . . I hoped.

  “What do you think of my latest work?” He gestured at the painting. His voice was deep and even. Sophistication clung to his every word.

  “It’s great.”

  His smile waned.

  I laughed anxiously. “Did I say great? I meant perfect.”

  Poseidon nodded. “I love painting. I can’t think of many things more fulfilling. Do you paint, Mr. Jones?”

  “I took a few classes in high school. I was good. But not as good as you.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Don’t mention it, old boy. Now then, you wanted to talk about the murders, yes?”

  “I just have a few questions.”

  Poseidon motioned for me to follow him. He led me up to the observation deck. The space doubled as a formal dining area, with warm lighting, upholstered furniture, and three fully stocked bars. The hardwood paneling and floor appeared freshly polished. Heavy red curtains covered the windows.

  We sat down at one of the many dinner tables lined up in two rows on the deck.

  “Tell me, old boy,” Poseidon began, “do you like the ship?”

  “Yeah, it’s really something else.”

  He smiled approvingly. “I designed it myself, you know.”

  I pursed my lips and nodded, acting more impressed than I really was. “Wow, that’s really amazing.”

  A female servant came over to the table. She was tall with straight brown hair and large, come-hither eyes. Her tight white polo, white pants, and black apron showed off a slender figure. To Poseidon she said, “What can I get for you, Captain?”

  “Vodka martini.”

  The servant nodded, then shifted her attention to me. “And you, sir?”

  I raised my hand. “Nothing for me.”

  “Oh, come on, old boy,” Poseidon urged. “Don’t be a stick in the mud. Have a drink.”

  “I’m still buzzed from the boat ride over. Thanks for the champagne, by the way.”

  Poseidon smiled. He glanced at the servant. “Just the martini, my dear. And be quick about it.”

  “Yes, Captain,” she said. As she turned to leave, Poseidon gave her a playful smack on the rear. She let out a squeal and hurried along.

  Poseidon took a metal cigarette case and a lighter out of his back pocket. “Smoke?”

  “No thanks.”

  “You’re a bit of a mossback, aren’t you, old boy?”

  I had no idea
what that even meant. But I wasn’t about to disagree with him. “I guess I am.”

  Poseidon slipped a cigarette out of the case. He lit it, took a drag, and blew out the smoke. “So what would you like to ask me?”

  Before I could respond, the servant came back with Poseidon’s martini. Her timing couldn’t have been better. It gave me a chance to think about the best way to bring up Lamia. I couldn’t just come out and say, “Hey, let’s talk about your formerly deceased daughter.”

  Well I could, but I’d probably end up being the ship’s new figurehead.

  Once the servant left, I said, “Thanks again for being so gracious. This case has been pretty tough. But I think I’m finally on the verge of a breakthrough. Right now, I’m trying to fill in some missing pieces.”

  “I’ll help however I can,” Poseidon said.

  “First, let me ask you. Is there anything that can kill a God? A weapon of unimaginable power maybe? Created at the dawn of time? Any of that ring a bell?”

  The mood in the room shifted. But Poseidon’s calm expression remained unchanged.

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t,” he said.

  I didn’t bother asking him if he was sure. I had learned my lesson about asking Gods to repeat themselves. I certainly wasn’t going to make that mistake on Poseidon’s boat, in the middle of the sea.

  “Okay, next question,” I said “Do you know of anyone who has it out for Zeus and Hera?”

  Poseidon took a pull from his cigarette and seemed to consider the question. “There are the Titans. That bunch has always hated us. But they’re too cowardly to come after us directly.”

  “Does anyone else come to mind?” I asked.

  “Not really.”

  I nodded. “When was the last time you spoke to Lamia?”

  Poseidon froze, his cigarette less than an inch from his lips. His face was unreadable. Carved marble. He took another drag and tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. Red-orange cinders fell into the crystal bowl. “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard a rumor about her.”