A Solitary Reaper Read online

  Savva, annoyed with vagaries, said, "Purview?"

  "Matthias killed a businessman."

  "And he was supposed to do what?"

  "Just watch while his father persuaded them of the correct course of action."

  "Beat them up?"

  "I suppose."

  "Who was he?"

  "I'm not sure. It was carefully brushed over."

  "Where was this?" Savva asked.

  "In Athens. I sent the address to your sergeant."

  "Why'd you agree to do this?"

  "Oh, I suppose I like to think of myself as a good man. Why do you waste your life on a small island–keeping the natives from killing each other?"

  "I am a good man," Savva snarled.

  "I'm sure you are, Captain."

  "He left the job ten years ago. Do you know why that was?"

  "Why does anyone leave dangerous work?"

  "Family," Savva offered, thinking only of himself.

  "Exactly."

  "We've checked though. He doesn't have any."

  "Are you sure? Hmm. He did have a family, Captain. Perhaps not one you'd find on registers or certificates–but he had one nonetheless."

  "What do you know about them?"

  Damasos didn't answer this. He flicked a pebble with his foot. "Taras was a brute and relished his work. But Matthias was different. He told me in the strictest confidence he wanted out. He wanted to have a family. Have a normal life. I knew he wouldn't last in this work. Too kind. Too soft. Sooner or later something would happen, and he'd snap. By the time Matthias told me, I wasn't his handler. I could pull strings, but not much more. But he knew he couldn't leave while his father was still alive.

  "Six months later his father died. A sad day. But Matthias was free. I made sure he knew the terms. The day he left he told me on the phone he wanted to go home. I didn't know precisely what he meant. The way he said it, I could tell he meant something more. But Matthias and I had a deal: he kept quiet as long as no one asked questions. I was happy to see him go.

  "When he left it was almost as if he'd never been. He had talent, but he wouldn't use it. As long as his father was alive, he did what he had to do and no more. He didn't thirst for it … the blood. I'm paid to know things, Captain. I'm also curious when a former employee is murdered. I like to keep abreast–make sure no one vital gets caught in the cross-fire."

  It was disgusting to talk about the mafía in such terms–as if what they did was no different then the work of a schoolteacher or surgeon. The mafía ruined countries and countless lives with drugs and slavery and black-market guns. They tore apart the fabric of towns and cities and governments and grew fat and rich in the process. Fat on fear. The corruption, the control, the terror; they were a sickness that couldn't be eradicated … a silent, stalking killer capable of rearing its head and laying waste to empires.

  "I see," Savva said. Although he didn't.

  "For what it's worth, Captain, I think you're on the right track."

  Savva picked a blade of grass and twirled it between his fingers. "Did you kill Taras Papatonis?"

  "It was not a part of any job."

  "That's not an answer," Savva said.

  "I can't give you anymore of one."

  Savva dropped the grass. "Why'd he stay in Athens until 2013?

  "I couldn't tell you."

  "Did you ever see or speak to him?" Savva pressed.

  "No."

  "He said he was going home; which was Lesvos. Why didn't he go?"

  Damasos dug his heel into the dirt. "He said he wanted to go home. I don't know why he stayed."

  "Did you kill him? Did he say something? Had he somehow become a liability?"

  "Did I kill Matthias?"

  Savva rolled his eyes. "Not you personally. Did the mafía kill him?"

  Damasos rose and brushed dirt from his trousers. "No."

  "Why is he dead?"

  "Isn't that your job to figure out?"

  "Why'd you agree to meet me? You've given me nothing I can't go find in police archives."

  "On the contrary, Alexandros. I've told you a great deal you won't find in the police archives. It's up to you to figure out what it is," Damasos said. "And as for why I came: I wanted to meet you. I wanted to make sure you were the kind of man who wouldn't write Matthias off because he used to work for us. Matthias wasn't a thug. He was a good man. Far better than those I see every day."

  Savva blinked at the unexpected compliment. Damasos nodded at Savva and began to walk away.

  Savva switched tactics. "Do you know a man named Anthony Goldstein?"

  Damasos frowned. "The name's familiar."

  "He was assaulted a few weeks ago here in Athens. Broken arm, broken ribs, face a pretty picture. Were you involved?"

  Damasos cocked his head. He looked like nothing more than a confused grandpa. "Goldstein … he operates out of Lesvos am I right?"

  "That's where he lives."

  "Was this assault reported to the police?"

  Savva shook his head.

  "No? Well then I'd say Mr. Goldstein has good reason to keep it quiet. Perhaps he's involved with dubious business partners."

  Savva sighed. Trying to get a straight answer out of this man was like trying to beat blood out of a stone. "He says not."

  "What I can tell you, Alexandros, is that he has come across my radar … but not in a good way."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Perhaps Mr. Goldstein is operating out of his purview. Perhaps the assault was a warning. Perhaps he's drawing too much attention to himself. I'm sure you are aware many burglaries go unreported in this country. It's not only because the police have little time with which to investigate, but also because many have things to hide. Perhaps Mr. Goldstein's assault was of the latter group.

  "Wait!" Savva jumped off the stair and hurtled over to Damasos. "What about trafficked women?"

  It was Damasos' turn to blink. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Are we still talking about Goldstein?"

  "Young women are being kidnapped from the islands. Girls from volatile homes. I have good reason to think he's involved."

  Damasos walked in the direction of the Propylaia. "I told you we don't work with Anthony Goldstein."

  "Are you trafficking girls then?"

  Damasos skirted a group of Chinese tourists all with their thick black cameras pointed at the Parthenon. "We aren't working in the North Aegean."

  "So that's a no?"

  "It is, Captain."

  Savva reached out and put his hand on Damasos' shoulder, surprised at the feel of hard thick muscles underneath, he'd pegged the man as flabby. "This is important. Would Matthias have gotten involved?"

  "In trafficking?" Damasos asked as he took off his glasses. “Yes, he would've. But he'd be more than capable of handling Anthony Goldstein. Whoever killed him was someone he was not looking over his shoulder at. He was surprised."

  "Surprised?"

  "Yes," Damasos said. “Now, Captain, if you'll wait for fifteen minutes before leaving The Acropolis. I shall be grateful. Enjoy the ruins."

  Damasos smiled, but the corners of his eyes did not wrinkle and his eyes remained flat. Savva recognized the warning. He remained with one hand on the steel pipe, which kept visitors from wandering off the path and into the complex and the other thrust into the pocket of his trousers, fingering the edge of his phone. A woman in a black headscarf, a thick blue notebook in her arms, bumped into him. She muttered sorry before hurrying off down the flagstone path.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Then fifteen more. No one else bumped into Savva. He had become as one of the columned trashcans. A fixture. It was a full forty-five minutes before the weight of all those hundreds of victims, now morphed into suspects, fell upon his mind, and he set his feet on the path. He took his hand from his pocket and shoved it into the interior of his suit coat; where Petros' house key lay.

  * * *

  "You survived then?" Stelios' clipped voice echoed over th
e line and Savva's shoulders relaxed.

  Savva paused on the cobblestone path opposite the car park. "It was a close call."

  "How'd it go?"

  Savva pushed his hand through his hair. "It could've been worse. He mentioned the murder in 1987. Do you have the address?"

  "I do. I'll text it to you; it's in Ilion, north of the city. What are you thinking?"

  "I'd like to have a look around."

  "Sir, I've called. No one who was there in ’87 is there now, not after the earthquake in 1999."

  "I have half a day to kill before I can show up at Callas' house. I might as well go," Savva grumbled.

  "I'm sorry, Sir. I was out of line."

  "No, you weren’t. I'm complaining. It's the heat and the crowds. The Acropolis looks like a bloody shopping center."

  "Kaikas and I are still working. You're coming back tomorrow?"

  "I asked about Goldstein. I think it's likely they were the ones who beat him up. I'm not sure why though; because Damasos was adamant they aren't working with him. But he did mention burglaries and how some go unreported because they have things they'd like to hide from the police."

  "So he's up to something but they won't tell us?"

  "That's the long and short of it."

  Stelios sighed. "Lovely."

  Savva rang off. He brought up Stelios' text and peered down the street for a taxi. The cost of the fare to the old murder scene and back to Callas' house would be astronomical, and he debated boarding a bus when he realized, with a skip of glee, he could charge it to the state. There were perks to an official investigation after all. A taxi came around the corner; Savva popped in, gave the woman the address, and settled against the seat.

  "We're here, Sir. "How long had it been? Fifteen, twenty minutes?

  Savva popped up, looking ludicrously around. The taxi had pulled to a stop on Manaki Street. To his left, a man perched on the sidewalk cutting a continuous line of 2x4s. The street was beige and dull aside from the well-manicured olive trees. It was a quiet part of Attica, far enough outside of the city to make you wonder whether you still lived in one. An ambulance went screaming by two streets over. Yep, still in a city.

  "Shall I wait for you, Sir?"

  "What are the odds I'll get another taxi out here?"

  He leaned forward in his seat and stared at the woman behind the wheel. She was young, perhaps too young to have chosen taxi driving as a profession, with blue eyes and the thinnest pair of lips he'd ever seen.

  "Pretty low I'd say. It's residential. The address you're looking for is up the street. I've got some work I can catch up on. How long do you think you'll be?"

  Savva peered over the seat and saw a grey satchel with books on astrophysics and biochemistry. "About a half hour I suspect," he said. "Hefty reading, that."

  "It keeps me out of trouble," she shot back.

  "It's doing its job then," Savva said with a wink as he plopped on his hat.

  "I'll be waiting," she said as Savva closed the door.

  On the street, leaves fluttered in the gutter, and the incessant sound of an electric saw grated across the neighborhood with its whaaa whaaa whaaa. How did the neighbors not go crazy? He stopped in front of number 49; now an expensive apartment building. A late model Audi TT was parked in one of the ground-level parking spaces. At number 58, greenery erupted from every pint-sized balcony. Savva crossed the road, sat on number 58's concrete wall, and stared at number 49.

  He tried to imagine what it was like that night, a business instead of an apartment, and a stack of plywood instead of an Audi, a dark night instead of a bright summer afternoon.

  "No loitering."

  A gruff barking kind of voice echoed from above Savva. An old man stood on the balcony directly above him pointing a gnarled finger at the sign on the complex's main door.

  Savva pulled off his fedora. "I'm not loitering."

  “Yeah, what is it you're doing then? Or do I have to call the police?"

  Savva pulled out his warrant card. "I'm afraid we're rather at cross purposes, sir," he said and showed it to the zealous citizen.

  "Hmm. I'll have to come down to look at that properly."

  The man disappeared from the balcony and Savva distinctly heard the slam of an interior door. It was less than a minute before the complex's main door opened and a well-built man in his 80s exited wearing of all things–English tweeds.

  "Captain Alexandros Savva."

  "So it says," the older man grunted. "Well, I won't be telling you mine. What are the police doing loitering then?"

  "I've come in search of information about a crime committed in 1987."

  The man leaned against a black Smart car. Was it his? "What sort of crime?"

  "A murder."

  "Most of the street went down with the earthquake. These buildings are all new. Most of the people as well," he added.

  "Were you here in '87?"

  “No, I was not. I was working on Thasos."

  "Were you apart of the Aegean crisis?" Savva asked.

  "Superficially. I reported back to the government about Turkey's movements. Nothing major. But I was stationed out there the entire year."

  "Army?"

  "Yep. You?"

  "Yes."

  "You from one of the islands?"

  "Lesvos."

  "Bugger," the man said with a shake of his head. "What's this murder then?"

  "The mafía's involved," Savva began.

  "Aren't they always," his erstwhile companion quipped.

  "Do you know anything about it?"

  "The man who sold me the apartment; he was here in '87. This building somehow managed to stay intact in '99. He said he heard a gunshot from across the street; some new business was going in. A car came not ten minutes later, except it wasn't a blue and white one like the kind yours drive, just a black sedan. The black car picks up a bloke and a boy and then drives off. An hour later the flashing lights arrive. The building was empty for a week. No one waited around for the cops to investigate. Well a week later a restaurant moves in. You know the kind, just a front for selling drugs. Ruined the neighborhood. Thank God the earthquake happened, it drove all the trash out of here."

  "Did he tell you anything about the people who left the building after the gunshot?"

  "No," the man snorted. "It was the sort of thing, if you've got any sort of sense, you ignore. You don't want to get involved."

  "Do you know where this man is? Could I get in touch with him?"

  "You're kidding right? The bugger was ninety if he was a day when I bought the place. And that was fifteen years ago. He's long gone."

  Savva sighed, pushed himself from the low-slung wall, and peered up the street to make sure his cab was still waiting.

  The man stood, his age-spotted hands crossed over his chest, his head titled like a nervous cat. "Why do you want to know anyways? What's it to the police?"

  "The boy who came out of the building: he's been murdered."

  "Hah," the man snorted. "You care about slime like that? He got carted off somewhere safe and the poor man who died inside ... what sort of justice did he get? Nothing at all from the police. Just a 'look the other way' and pretend we can't go to court. You should be helping the real victims?"

  Savva nodded his thanks and decided against entering into a scream inducing argument about what exactly constituted a 'real victim.' They were all victims as far as Savva was concerned. He was willing to agree extenuating circumstances existed, but at the end of the day there are consequences for murder. He just made sure the murderer was present so those consequences could be carried out.

  Savva walked back to the car, smiled at his studious driver, gave Callas' address, and stared at the ceiling.

  * * *

  The taxi's brakes let out a pitiful screech as it stopped in front of 1923 Gkoura Street. Another pink house. Savva paid his driver, wished her luck with her studies, and hopped out of the car. A blue Peugeot wailed as it flew by. Savva leapt to th
e side and landed with a muffled thump against a pair of richly stained oak doors. The silver pad on the right side named the building's three occupants. One for each of its floors. Callas was at the top.

  Imagining a bath, Savva put the key in the lock and put his shoulder against the door. He passed through the marble foyer, and wound his way up a metal staircase, paying no attention to the fine woodwork, but relishing the breeze that cooled the sweat on his arms and forehead.

  At the top of the staircase the door was unlocked. Savva let himself into a spacious apartment with soaring ceilings and wide windows. It was tastefully decorated as only a woman would be capable of. Because what police officer, coming home from a twelve-hour day would take the time to color coordinate the towels on the edge of the oven with the backsplash?

  But upon entering the apartment, and deeming it visually appealing, Savva was filled with the familiar and overwhelming urge to explore. He took off his shoes, padded across the hardwood floor, poked his head into the master bedroom, found Petros' office which was crammed with bookshelves, and finally the spare bedroom. His weekender rested on the bed. Savva threw open the bag, grabbed his toiletries, and fell into the waiting arms of the clawfoot bathtub in the adjoining room.

  After a long soak, followed by a restful snooze (in the waiting white bathrobe), Savva dressed and took his sunglasses out to a spacious patio off of the dining room. It was there Petros found him. Fedora angled to shade his eyes, hands clasped over his stomach.

  "You smell like my wife's soap."

  Savva propped up the rim of the fedora. "If you can't stand the smell of me; blame her. It's all that was in the bathroom."

  Petros grimaced and lowered himself onto a chair opposite. "What a day. How'd you manage?"

  "Well I didn't get shot in the back. A fact my sergeant found disappointing. At least it would have given us a clear direction on our murderer."

  Petros shook his head. "Wine or coffee?"

  "Do you have to ask?"

  "Both it is."

  Savva nodded gravely. "We could pretend to be Irish and put alcohol in our coffee. Fewer cups to clean."

  "I'm afraid I don't have the appropriate liquor and I doubt you'd want wine in your coffee," Petros said, his voice drifting through the open doors.