A Solitary Reaper Read online

  "Yes?"

  "Private Kaikas obfuscated on the nature of why your victim kept his life private. Said it had something to do with his past ... or his past work. I'd like you to tell me what she meant."

  "Why?"

  "Because if it means what I think it means, I can help."

  Alexandros Savva stared at Stelios lounging on his patio, on the fluttering curtain at the upstairs window. Stelios was loyal–more loyal than any officer Savva'd ever served with. Rallis was always looking for some sort of reason not to trust the government (by which he meant both elected and mafía). And now here was Nikolaos: childhood compatriot. There was no reason not to trust. "It means what you think it means."

  Nikolaos let out a long breath. "Do you think it was them?"

  "There's no way to tell for sure."

  They spoke softly, solemnly, as fellow conspirators. Neither Nikolaos nor Alexandros were ignorant of the forces that had a death grip about their country's throat.

  "I may know someone who can help," Nikolaos said.

  Savva stopped digging at the dirt with his toe. "How so?"

  "An old friend who works for both sides."

  "Reliable?"

  "With your back? No. Reliable with information, yes."

  Savva's gaze twitched to the window. "Who is he?"

  "The 'who' isn't my place to divulge, but the what–you might call him an intermediary; between the factions as it were."

  "And you think he might know something about Matthias?"

  "It's worth a try, isn't it? You could at least find out whether it was a sanctioned hit. But you'd have to go to Athens to talk to him."

  "There's one more thing I want you to check on, Nikolaos," Savva said, deciding to hedge his bets. "Missing girls."

  "Missing girls?" the restaurateur said blandly. "Can you tell me anything else?"

  "I want to know if there's a sanction on exporting them."

  "On exporting people?!" Nikolaos shrieked. His voice crackled over the line.

  "Illegally," Savva corrected.

  "Why?"

  "What do you mean why?"

  Nikolaos chuckled. "Alexandros, we've known each other for longer than I care to say. You don't ask for information unless there's a specific reason."

  "I do have a reason."

  "But you aren't going to tell me?"

  "Not right now. It's precarious."

  "Whatever you say. I'll ask and keep my ears open,” Nikolaos said.

  "One more thing, Nikolaos, will your man speak to me?"

  "He wants to meet in Athens. I'll get back to you in a day or two with the particulars."

  Savva toyed with the phone in his hand. Asking Nikolaos about the girls had been a shot in the dark, and not something he would share with Shayma. She was nervous, and if he was honest–so was he. The wider the circle got, the more people who knew, the more in danger they all were. The mafía had their hands everywhere; their sickly sweet rotting smell permeated everything–even the murder of Matthias Papatonis on an island not worth mentioning, all the way to the government. It was enough to drive anyone mad. Savva walked back slowly to Stelios, who leaned back in his chair, his stilt-like feet splayed on the table, guzzling a glass of water.

  "Who was that, Sir?"

  "Nikolaos. One of the restaurant owners Kaikas interviewed last night."

  "How do you know him?"

  "Lesvos is a small community," Savva said blandly.

  "Did he call for a catch up?"

  "No," Savva growled. "He offered to help with the case. He has an acquaintance that works for the mafía and the government. An intermediary, Nikolaos called him."

  "Will he talk?"

  "Nikolaos thinks I'll have to go to Athens." Stelios shrugged his shoulders, a gesture that openly displayed his skepticism at the success of this endeavor. Savva continued. "I also asked him to check on any missing girls in Greece."

  Stelios tilted his head. "You think she escaped from them?"

  "They don't have to be involved. They might just know what's going on."

  Savva checked his watch and sighed. Stelios pulled his legs off the table and gathered up the dishes. They dithered for a few more minutes in the warmth of the sun and the calm quiet of the garden, but the deliberately ignored call from Kleitos' office gnawed on Savva's mind more than he cared to admit. They reluctantly gathered the dishes, loaded them in the dishwasher, put their shoes back on, and headed down the street towards the police department.

  CHAPTER TEN

  At headquarters, Stelios wished good luck to Savva as they parted ways on the first floor. On the stairwell, Savva’s many long days caught up with him, every step was steeper than the one before, and the heat more oppressive, but as he thrust open the door, cold air blew in his face, curling the hair at his ears. Along the long corridor window air conditioning units whirred continually, little square white boxes of heaven. Why did Kleitos get air conditioning, Savva grumbled, while the people who did actual work downstairs sweated through their uniforms with only a swamp cooler, two fans, and prayers that a breeze would ruffle in through the open windows. Savva pinched the bridge of his nose and halted in front of the closed double doors at the end of the corridor.

  "Kaló apógevma, Captain Savva."

  Savva jerked around to find a woman smiling at him. He'd never seen her before and yet she perched on a chair, which, only a week ago, had been occupied by a thirty-something male. Apart from the occupant, the office had also gone under the knife; there were three vases of flowers spaced about the small room, a gold mirror to reflect the light of the small window, and a decent reproduction of Monet's San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk. The woman who sat at the desk was nearly as beautiful as the painting. Her face was framed by strands of dark brown hair and a thick loose braid lay across one shoulder. She had wide expressive eyes, a small upturned nose, full red lips, and a three inch long spike dangled from one ear. She wore a boucle jacket over a fitted black silk dress, and stood, with her hand extended.

  Savva shook her hand. "Good afternoon."

  "Helena Galanis, I'm Colonel Kleitos' new assistant. It's a pleasure, I've heard so much about you, Captain Savva," she said. Her voice a soothing soprano.

  "From Colonel Kleitos?" Savva asked dubiously.

  Her smile widened to reveal two straight rows of gleaming teeth. "No, Sir, not at all. Iason Rallis is my uncle."

  Savva thrust his hands into his trousers and rocked forward on the balls of his feet. "I expect he's had quite a lot to say about me."

  "It was all complimentary, Sir. He respects you.”

  Savva blushed and nodded to the adjoining office. "Is he in?"

  "He is."

  "Do you have any idea what he wants?"

  "He's been on the phone with the mayor about the murder victim, also, I believe he wants to discuss a Sergeant Booras."

  Savva's face and shoulders fell, but Kupía Galanis’ face shone.

  "I don't think it's anything bad; Lieutenant Agne was transferred to Athens and the Colonel doesn't want his position left open."

  Savva nearly fell to his knees in thankfulness but restrained himself. "Good."

  How many years had he waited and prayed for Agne, an officer with a proclivity to cruelty (hitting suspects, harassing women, hurling veiled insults at refugees), to be gone? It wasn't dismissal from the force, but it was something. He'd be in Athens ... with more scope but hopefully more supervision. Agne was someone else's problem now, and Savva had too many of his own as it was.

  Kupía Galanis turned to her phone and pressed the intercom button. "Captain Savva is here to see you, Sir," she turned back to Savva. "You may go in."

  Savva turned toward the office full of confusion. Kupía Galanis wasn't one of his cronies–in fact the opposite seeing as she was Rallis' niece. Perhaps he'd hired her because, in an almost all-male police department, a gorgeous female door warden had certain benefits. Every officer would be put off his game–buoyed by that flirtatious smile. />
  Savva gaged as he entered the office. Lemon, the manufactured antiseptic kind, assaulted his eyes; as though someone had made a clumsy, rapid attempt to eradicate the lingering stench of cigarette smoke by dousing everything in sight. Kleitos was holding his iPhone to his ear, nodding solemnly. He put a finger up to stop Savva from speaking and motioned for him to sit.

  Kleitos had only just answered the intercom, there was no way he'd managed to place or receive a call in that amount of time. Good lord, was he faking a phone call? Oh the lengths we go, Savva though as he lowered himself gingerly into a straight-backed chair in front of Kleitos' desk and sat slumped to one side. Kleitos said goodbye and delicately placed his iPhone in a desk drawer.

  "Kaló apógevma, Captain," Kleitos said.

  So it was to be titles today. Let's reinforce the hierarchy, is what they indicated. Let's remind you, Alexandros Savva, of who runs this establishment. Well, let the man have his game. "You asked to see me, Colonel?"

  Kleitos narrowed his eyes, which only served to emphasize the wrinkles that the latest round of Botox in Switzerland (or Paris or Stockholm) hadn't managed to erase. Savva's superior was almost as thin and tall as Stelios, with the same wiry appendages, but a small bulge at his midsection hung over his black belt. If he had a bit more bulk, the bushy black beard and the cold eyes could have made him a Russian tsar. And unlike Stelios who could only keep himself in off-the-rack suits, Kleitos wore Savile Row and Canali–each three-piece costume no doubt cost more than Savva made in a month. But aside from his impressive beard and clothing he behaved like every other mid-level bureaucrat, more concerned with the perks of the office–ways he might cheat the state out of taxes than police procedure or staff rosters.

  "You missed my call, Captain."

  "Oh, I do apologize, Colonel. I was unavoidably detained," Savva said silkily.

  Kleitos bristled but he didn't know enough about the department's current caseload to ask which one had detained this particular underling. "How close are you to getting this case out of the papers, Captain?"

  "It's early days, Colonel, but we are pursuing several different leads."

  "Is he mafía or not?"

  "He was involved with their activities at one time but he hadn't been arrested in over ten years. Athens informed me there hasn't been any chatter."

  "So why'd he die here?"

  "We are currently working on answering that, Sir. He was born on Lesvos in 1974. Perhaps he wanted to return home."

  Kleitos' top lip curled. It wasn't disgust that a man had been brutally murdered and left to rot on a hill. It was that along with the refugees and the shabby graffiti, there was a murder to keep all the flush tourists away. Another blot on their copy book. Kleitos licked his thin dry lips, his tongue flicked out like a snake tasting the air–sniffing out a kill.

  "We have questioned the man who found him. He lied about moving the body," Savva said brightly. "There's no telling what else he might be holding back."

  It was worth playing the fool to see the effect it had on Kleitos. His face resembled a Jackson Pollock painting by the time he recovered enough to speak. "The American?" Kleitos screeched.

  "Yes."

  "How could you be so stupid? Leave him alone! Do I make myself clear? It's the last thing we need–you sparking an international incident by arresting an American. It would go viral, don't you understand? It'd be in all the newspapers, all because some provincial policeman couldn't put two and two together and figure out it was a mafía hit." The large blotches and flecks of color that had mottled Kleitos' face now slid off to reveal a pale man on the cusp of a mental breakdown.

  "We don't know for sure, Sir. I don't believe he's being completely honest. Someone told him to go on that specific hike on that specific day and if he'd just tell me who … all he needs is some encouragement."

  Kleitos' right eyelid twitched and sweat broke out on his brow. "Leave. Him. Alone."

  "As you say, Sir. Was there anything else?" Savva said, smiling blandly.

  Kleitos drew himself back, wiped his forehead, and relaxed back into his role as governor of this particular universe. "I'm promoting Sergeant Booras to 2nd lieutenant."

  "Sergeant Booras will be honored, Sir."

  Kleitos narrowed his eyes at Savva, searching for a flicker of disingenuousness. When he did not find what he was looking for, he steepled his fingers, and spoke with a soft, disappointed resignation. "Tell him to order whatever uniforms are necessary for the promotion."

  "Of course, Sir."

  "That will be all, Captain. Remember what I said: leave him alone."

  The unspoken threat of what wrath and consequences Savva would incur hung in the air like a swinging noose. "Yes, Sir."

  Savva backed out of the room, closed the door behind him, and straightened his back. It was stiff and sore after hunching over in that miserable chair–after playing an old man. But perhaps it hadn’t been an act, Savva thought, as quiet pops ran down his spine.

  Kupía Galanis held out a thin black folder. "I have the paperwork for Sergeant Booras' promotion, Sir, if you'd like to take it to him." White ear buds lay on her desk and when she caught Savva looking at them, she blushed.

  "Thank you, Kupía Galanis. And congratulations on your new job."

  "Thank you, Captain. I hope we have the pleasure of working together for a great many years," she said.

  Savva cocked his eyebrow, staring as Kleitos had stared at him, but all that was reflected in Kupía Galanis' eyes was honest sincerity. He was about to turn away when he saw it–a flicker. A conspiratorial flicker reminiscent of Shayma.

  "I hope so as well," he said.

  * * *

  Savva smacked the folder on Stelios' desk. "Congratulations."

  Stelios peered at the black rectangle as though he suspected it of carrying anthrax. Savva collapsed at Kaikas' empty desk. The squad room hummed: the printed spat out sheet after sheet of pristine paper with a rheumatic cough, four black radios squawked and rumbled in harmony, and Beyoncé crooned from a radio in the corner.

  "What is it?"

  "You've been promoted to 2nd lieutenant."

  "When?"

  "Just now in Kleitos' office."

  Stelios eyes were fixed on the black folder as though it might shape shift into an adder. "Are you sure? This has to be a joke."

  "I am. As sure as I am that I still outrank you."

  "Yes, Sir," Stelios said quickly.

  "Good, make sure you turn it in," Savva said waving an imperious hand at the folder. "Whatever it is."

  "Yes, Sir."

  Savva patted the desk, crossed the squad room, and slid into his office. Stelios followed, the black folder nowhere to be seen.

  "I got off the phone with Nikolaos. His source will only meet you in Athens."

  "Why?" Savva asked impatiently.

  "He refuses to relay information over the phone. He has agreed to meet you in broad daylight at the Acropolis in Athens, alone."

  Savva's hand went for his beard. "It's a bit cloak-and-dagger for my taste. When is this very public meeting supposed to take place?"

  "As soon as you're able," Stelios grimaced.

  "I'm not sure whether I should thank or curse God for still having this job," Savva muttered.

  Message delivered Stelios plopped down into a free chair. "What else did Kleitos want?"

  "He ordered me to leave Adam Harris and his wife alone."

  "But he's obviously lying; and what about the hotel employee who told them about the hike?"

  "Because they're Americans and it would cause an international incident–less tourists would visit Lesvos and it would cut into the mayor's profits and probably Kleitos' shopping trips."

  "This isn't Santorini. It's not like we're popular to begin with."

  "No." Savva tapped the arm of his chair with his ring. Across from him Stelios shifted, hooking one leg over the other and then switching. Beads of sweat glittered on his forehead. "What is it?"

 
; "Private Kaikas found out about your house guest," Stelios blurted.

  Savva glowered. "You told her?"

  Stelios kept his eyes on the floor. "She saw the notes on my desk."

  "I assume that in the future you will not leave sensitive documents lying around on your desk where anyone could read them? To think you were promoted today." Savva glared at Stelios who'd finally had the grace to look up. "This goes no farther. You tell no one else. Do I make myself clear to both of you?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "She told me she'd read an article somewhere that girls had gone missing on Mykonos. It was a small little article–like the newspaper had to put it in but they didn't want to draw to much attention to it."

  "Your parents live on Mykonos."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Is your father still in city planning?" Savva asked, mind whirring for the right department name.

  "The tourism office now, Sir."

  "Call him. Ask him if he's heard anything–your mother too, she listens to the island gossip."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "And tell Kaikas to find that article."

  "Yes, Sir. Do you want her to call the newspaper?"

  "No. I don't want anyone knowing what we are up to, Google it. This is reconnaissance, until we get an idea of what we are up against. If they are who we think they are, then they are highly dangerous when cornered. Badges don't protect us if we're clumsy."

  "Yes, Sir."

  * * *

  The next morning, after Shayma drove off for Davonna's home, Savva brought a latte; golden foam drizzled with caramel, to the girl. He told a quick story about the different names Minerva used to call animals at the zoo. “I never wanted her to stop” he'd said. They were the names she'd chosen; it was a bit like being present when Adam named creation.

  He left home with the memory still fresh. But as he walked by graffiti-lined streets and passed quiet, bleary-eyed men on their way to work, an altogether different feeling surfaced. He was using Minerva, dredging up memories, spinning out a story, to manipulate a girl into talking to him. He felt like Scheherazade–except his stories were true.

  He stepped into a bright dream world where Minerva walked next to him, shouting ahead for her son not to run out into the street, as he held a little girl with thick black curls on his hip. The tiny hands clasped about his neck, the head on his shoulder, the feel of Minerva's hand on his back, the sound of his grandson's shoes slapping the pavement, he could taste–feel the moment. Minerva turned around, grinned at the sight of her daughter in her father's arms and leaned forward to say something–her eyes alight with joy.