A Solitary Reaper Page 11

  Shayma stood framed in the doorway clutching a glass of red wine. "What on earth are you doing home?"

  "I want to talk to her."

  Shayma's lips collapsed into one thin line. The shouts of their neighbors drifted over the stone walls. The heat was oppressive. Sweat trickled down his armpit and beaded on his brow.

  "Why? Have you heard anything?"

  Savva moved passed his wife, shrugged off his blazer, and hung it on a hook by the door. "I asked Stelios and Iason for their help."

  "Is that safe?"

  "They're both good friends and loyal, besides, we don't have much of a choice. Rallis has a lot of connections and Stelios knows his way around all those databases better than I do."

  "Alexandros, should we be doing this?"

  "Doing what?"

  "Trying to find out who she is?"

  "Shayma," Savva putting a hand on his wife's arm, "she's in trouble. The best way we can help her is to have more information. Has she spoken to you?"

  Shayma whispered 'no' and hung her head. A wave of hot guilt washed over him. He was deliberately keeping his wife in the dark. If what the girl said was true, he was knowingly and willingly putting Shayma in danger without doing her the courtesy of informing her. What a piece of work he'd turned into.

  Shayma drew him to the living room and sat him down on the grey couch. "How's your case?"

  Savva dragged his hands through his thick hair. "I'm not sure. It's never like an American crime show. You don't meet the killer before the first commercial break and then follow a line of forensic clues back to them."

  "Could life ever be like a television show?" Shayma mused.

  "No, the actors are too good looking and no one has a potbelly," he said, caressing his own.

  Shayma laughed and wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. "Do you have any leads?"

  "He died from repeated blows from a brick."

  "A brick?"

  He preempted her next question, "A brick and no, it wasn't at the scene and there aren't any others up there."

  "Where'd it come from?"

  "I assume the killer brought it with him."

  "But why and from where?"

  Savva laughed. "Answer that and you'll have solved the case."

  "He came prepared."

  Savva grunted affirmation.

  "With a brick," Shayma repeated.

  He grunted again.

  "But a brick? Why not a knife? Or a gun?"

  "I have no idea."

  Shayma tapped her fingers against the side of her face and frowned. "It wasn't a mistake that the killer brought a brick. It was premeditated. So there's a reason the murder weapon was a brick."

  "It's much more innocuous than a knife or a gun. If you're seen carrying it around in a backpack."

  "Alexandros, no one carries a brick in a pack," Shayma said witheringly.

  Savva strode over to the empty fireplace and prodded the grate with his toe. "Perhaps it symbolized something."

  "Like what?"

  "Good lord, Woman, I'm not God. I have no idea."

  Shayma joined him at the grate and put her arm around his waist. "What's wrong Alexandros?"

  "I am surrounded by questions I don't know the answer to. I think I'm going crazy."

  "That's not it. What's really troubling you?"

  Savva curled the dark hair under his bottom lip. "It's the girl. Stelios with his ex-fiancé. Davonna. You. Matthias." How after only ever meeting the man's corpse, could he come to worry so much about his safety?

  "You care about us all."

  He nodded and kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of lavender and bergamot. What a choice. What a terrible choice between keeping a secret from his wife and torturing her every waking moment with the truth. But then, what was the truth? There was no way of knowing what exactly the girl had gotten herself involved in. So for now he'd keep Shayma from it, he'd make sure patrols were seen around the neighborhood, and he'd get a name.

  He pulled out of his wife's embrace. "I'm going to go talk to her."

  "She won't talk to you."

  "I didn't say she would. I said I was going to talk to her," he said and mounted the stairs.

  * * *

  Savva mounted the stairs slowly, reverently, as though he was about to be knighted. He paused at the top and listened to the quality of the silence. Dust floated on the lazy air and glinted in the beam of light from the open door. He shouldn't be here. He should've left it to Shayma to build a report with the girl. But here he was, shuffling from foot to foot on the landing like a nervous schoolboy. Damn his insufferable ego.

  He knocked on the open door. "May I come in?"

  There was no reply from the other side, so with great care and minimal noise, he slipped in. The room was warm and thick with stale summer air, as though it had been gathered here. The windows were closed. In his peripheral vision he could make out the bed and the outline of its occupant, but he padded to the wardrobe and opened its doors.

  He grabbed a pillow, put it on the floor, and lowered himself onto it. "I hope you don't mind if I sit."

  The girl said nothing and still Savva didn't look at her. His eyes roamed over the paintings on the wall above the bed: a ship at sea, a ruinous castle, and the coastline of Lesvos with little boats bobbing in the water, small delicate portraits, and the pastoral English countryside. A small embroidery of the Castle of Mitilini. The gold and white and brown fames covered the wall so that only thin strips of wall were visible.

  "This used to be my daughter's bedroom," he said, in a cheery voice. "It was her favorite place in the whole world. We never thought we'd have children, Shayma and I. There were complications ... so many of them. But after years of trying and finally giving up, Shayma became pregnant. Her face shone like the sun when the doctor told us. She walked on a cloud the entire pregnancy. I walked on a cloud. When I told everyone at work, I smiled like a lunatic.

  "A few of them knew how rough it had been, and they all knew how many long years we'd been married. Every day Shayma sang as she cleaned the house and kneaded bread and weeded the garden. We fell asleep at night with my hand on her stomach. We never got used to the ecstasy."

  He paused and listened to the thick expectant silence. There was no movement from the bed. The heavy air lay still, as though waiting on tender hooks. Savva turned his head and stared out the tall windows that overlooked the garden.

  "Her birth was easy. Minerva was born downstairs, on our bed. We have a different mattress now," Savva clarified. "When the midwife put her in my arms, my heart doubled in size. We named her Minerva–her eyes were so sharp, as if they saw and knew all from the moment they opened. She was perfect. She had so much black hair; Shayma braided it the very first day. When she wailed from the cold of the room, I was so proud.

  "For four years she slept downstairs in the room next to ours. We needed to be able to hear her during the night and Shayma was terrified of unsteady toddler legs on the stairs. So upstairs was forbidden. Minerva was desperate to see what all the fuss was about. She pestered us both to no end about it. One day, Shayma went out to the vegetable garden while Minerva napped. I was at work. Shayma came inside a half hour later and Minerva was gone. Just POOF! Disappeared.

  "She called me in a panic and I tore over. I sent her down the road to see if Minerva had gone to a friend's. I scoured the house. I was in the pantry when I heard a creak. I don't know why I went upstairs. But I did. One step at a time. The door to this room was barely open–light streamed on the landing. There in the middle of the floor, her dark hair pooled around her face–was Minerva: curled up fast asleep in a nest of blankets, stuffed animals, and pillows. Pictures were spread out all around her, photographs of Shayma and I as children, photos from our honeymoon, and my first day as a police officer. I woke her up, talked to her, and explained why she couldn't scare her mother like this ever again. She was horrified at the mess she'd created. I don't know why I said it. Why I offered. But I asked
if she'd like this to be her room."

  Savva paused. Upstairs in this stifling room, sounds were muffled. He couldn't make out what the neighbors were playing on their radio. It was as though he'd created in an in-between world where for the minutes he told Minerva's story she sat on the floor between them, surrounded by her toys and grainy photos of her parents, and had her bright shining face raised to his and his heart was not shattered.

  "And ..." a gravelly voice said from the dark corner.

  Savva smiled at his knees. "Oh she was ecstatic. She smiled through the spanking Shayma gave her for disobeying and for scaring us half to death. But we moved her up here the same day. Shayma made her swear she'd never run on the stairs, and that she would hold the handrail every time she went up or down, and if she couldn't agree she'd come right back down into the nursery.

  "She never ran on the stairs. Not even as a teenager. She'd found out what was at the top of the stairs and that was enough. I held Shayma that night as she sobbed. Her tears soaked my sweater. It was the first of so many goodbyes. She wasn't a baby anymore. She wanted independence. She was her own person. Of course I told Shayma not to worry. Daughters are always close with their mothers. There would be a college graduation, a wedding to plan, grandchildren to coddle, and a frustrating husband to rant over. Minerva would need us for all of it. She'd need Shayma especially. Always. We'd always be needed." Savva choked out the last word and bit back tears. "I'd better go downstairs, help with dinner. He put back the pillows and walked heavily to the door.

  "Where is she?"

  He stopped in the doorway. The dust mites froze in their mid-air dance. The sun went behind a thick bank of cloud. The neighbor's radio burst back into life. The spell broke. The toys and the photos disappeared.

  Alexandros' shoulders slumped forward and his hand shot out to grab the lintel. Where indeed? "She's dead."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Eleni watched Stelios hustle from the squad room muttering something she couldn't quite catch. She dropped her head against the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling tiles. Hours upon hours spent searching ferry and plane manifests were wasted; there was no record of Matthias Papatonis arriving on Lesvos. Even the Greek Reporter wasn't optimistic about finding any articles in their archives regarding a forty-year-old suicide. So where next? Eleni covered her eyes. Ten calls from the local gossips and troublemakers was all their public request for information had yielded. Either no one had seen him or no one cared to report it.

  Eleni peeled one eye open and stared at her computer screen. What they needed was for someone to go to Athens and run down leads there. How to make that happen though? They had no other human connection but Matthias' father and an opaque link to the mafía. What else? Eleni leaned forward and bit the fleshy pad of her thumb. Restaurants. Tavernas. She typed in a Google search, plucked the pages from the printer, stuffed a photo of Matthias into her purse, and left the building.

  As she neared the port, Dimitri Mitropoulos' Suite No. 2 from Romeo and Juliet played on the classical station. It's music drifted through her rusting Mini Cooper and she tapped out the melody on the steering wheel. On Kountourioti Place she parked the car in front of a three storied white stucco building, with a black awning emblazoned with the words 'To Ble Kástro' in white letters. The Blue Castle was frequented by both tourists and locals and was busy enough for a secretive man to go unnoticed.

  The street burst with the sounds of the port, ships horns heaved, families chattered goodbyes, and buses clattered past. The sounds of tourists yelling 'move in closer together' were carried disembodied on the tangy salt breeze. Eleni locked the Mini and strode to The Blue Castle's heavy double doors. She heaved open the door and winced when it bounced off the wall with a thump.

  The restaurant consisted of a single spacious room with marble topped tables grouped around a bar in the middle. Warm golden light filled the spacious room and glittered through the empty water goblets on the table. The two back walls were made entirely of glass and offered a sweeping view of the port and the Castle of Mitilini. A set of double doors led out to the terrace on which were grouped more tables.

  "Kalispera. We aren't open yet, love."

  Eleni turned. Behind the bar a man with massive plate-like hands polished a wine glass. He weighed at least 100 kilograms. It was like coming face to face with a giant. Every appendage was at least twice the size of a normal man. The hands, which polished the glass, were large and covered with white burn scars. But behind the thick beard and the airplane propeller eyebrows, his eyes were kind and open.

  Eleni walked forward and held out her warrant card. "Oh that's ok I'm not here to eat. Private Kaikas; Hellenic Police. May I ask you a few questions, Sir?"

  Was he smiling? The beard seemed to stretch out at the sides, but she could see so little of his mouth. But then his lips parted to reveal the whitest, straightest teeth she'd seen outside of a fashion magazine.

  "Have you eaten?" His voice was deep and sonorous like the sounds of the waves crashing on the beach. She could sit and listen to him speak all day.

  "No, thank you, I'm fine. I only have a few questions."

  "I'll bring you some lamb. Sit wherever you'd like. You eat and then we can talk."

  Eleni returned Nikolaos warm smile, stuffed her warrant card back into the front pocket of her uniform. She chose a table nearest the glass wall and sank into its red cushions and, for the first time today, allowed herself an easy breath. She reached out to touch the glass and found it was pleasantly cool. A white ferry, cars poking out of it sides like excited children, had just left port. Where were they going? Visiting family? Off for a holiday somewhere cool? Eleni crossed her legs, checked her tilefono, and listened to hiss of boiling fat echo from the open kitchen door. Plates clinked and clacked against each other and melodious male Greek voices rose in harmonious banter. The combined scent of rosemary and onion wafted across the room and Eleni's stomach rumbled in reply. This was infinitely better than driving home for leftovers.

  Nikolaos returned after five excruciating minutes, with a silver platter balanced on one hand, and a wine bottle and two glasses in the other. He set these on the table with a flourish and out of his apron pocket he produced utensils and a white linen napkin.

  "Eat first."

  Eleni smiled and murmured her thanks. Nikolaos sank gracefully, for a man of his stature, into the chair opposite. Eating in front of a man she didn't know wasn't top on her list of favorite activities but her stomach rumbled again and Nikolaos laughed. He averted his gaze to the sea and Eleni fell to. The silver platter was piled with steaming roast lamb, a boulder of sourdough, a mountain of kalamata olives, a pyramid of roasted vegetables (eggplant galore!), and a hearty square of vegetable casserole.

  "This looks delicious," she whispered.

  "It tastes better," he said proudly. "So you're here asking questions about an investigation, huh?"

  Eleni, nodded, as she shoved a piece of lamb in her mouth. Nikolaos beamed, leaned over to the side, yelled something indeterminate across the room, and moments later the soft sounds of George Dalaras floated across the restaurant.

  "I know your boss–Alexandros Savva."

  Eleni raised her brows in surprise, juice from the rosemary infused lamb dribbled out of her mouth. She blushed furiously wiped her chin. But Nikolaos gazed over her shoulder with faraway eyes.

  "I went to school with him. His father was a piece of work, I tell you. We were all terrified of him. He had a right temper, especially when he was on the bottle. I never knew a man who could fly into a rage so quick. Can't imagine what it was like for Alexandros and his brother–but they're damn good men. Of course Alexandros has to work for that no good Kleitos who wouldn't recognize a well organized police department if it danced naked for him on his desk."

  Eleni snorted. "We hope he'll get transferred to Athens," she said with a wink.

  "Ah, but then who would come out here? No one in their right mind would promote Alexandros. Kle
itos is a bumbling fool but he doesn't interfere too much, and he's not corrupt enough to cause major harm. Better the devil you know," Nikolaos said.

  Eleni blinked. In her judgment she had labeled him as another gossiping man with only his fantastic cooking to recommend him. But out of his mouth came truth as she had not seen it and there was a keen look in his eyes she'd not noticed. Was there always this sort of depth around her? Was the world filled with such pleasant surprises? While she pondered the nature of man Nikolaos poured the wine.

  "It's a Sangiovese: Casanova di Neri Tenuta Nuova 2012. I opened the bottle a couple of hours ago."

  Eleni took a sip, her eyes fluttered closed. "It's heaven ..."

  Nikolaos grinned and rested his enormous bulk against the back of the chair. He tipped his glass back now and then, his tongue flicked out over his lips, rescuing a drop of wine. The restaurant fell silent apart from the occasional shift of the glass wall against its metal supports. The music changed to a folk tune with hearty violins. Eleni speared the last bite of eggplant but hesitated.

  "Are you slowing down?" Nikolaos said.

  Eleni peered up from her plate where four carrots and a small corner of sourdough were left uneaten. "I'll finish after we talk."

  "Ask your questions then."

  Eleni reached into her purse and pulled out the picture of Matthias, the innocuous photo from his identity card. His eyes were open and he stared at the camera with an openness and honesty that was compelling. He would've been a friend of mine, Eleni decided. She pushed the picture across the table.

  "Have you seen this man before?"

  "This is the man who was killed on the mountain," Nikolaos said without inflection.

  "Yes. Matthias Papatonis."

  "Was he from here?"

  "He was born here, but he moved to Athens with his father in 1977."