A Solitary Reaper Read online

  Savva shrugged and took off his fedora. He laid it on the chair next to him. "Where is Kupía Callas?"

  A silence rippled out like the wake left by a freighter. Savva bit his lip. In hindsight he should have realized Petros' wife would have left some sort of note for her guest, directing him to food in the fridge, made sure there was an unscented soap bar in the bathroom.

  "She said she needed time."

  Petros set down a silver tray onto a small marble-topped table and began pouring coffee. Savva was silent. He did what he used to do when his father was in a rage and the only way to escape the flailing fists was to pretend you didn't exist. Silent breathing. Eyes on the floor. Hunched shoulders. It worked for recalcitrant subjects as well; every fiber of their being registered the lack of threat.

  "I think it's the children. Our house is empty. They're married and who wants their mother hanging around, especially the boys when they've got a place and a woman to themselves? You and I certainly didn't. But I could be wrong. It might not be the empty house. It might be me. I was never one of those sensitive men. I couldn't tell what she was feeling. Or maybe I didn't pay enough attention to her. Maybe I thought she'd always be here. Always be there when I rolled over in the morning and wanted to have sex before work. Always there with meals when I got home." Petros motioned to the table in front of him and its pitiful accoutrements. "Look at me, Alexandros. I'm reduced to offering a guest in my home only coffee and wine."

  Savva lifted his glass. "It's all we need."

  "Something's wrong."

  "Perhaps she does need time?"

  Petros straightened. Raked his fingers through his greying hair. "Forget me. I brought the file. I'll get it. And something to eat," he grunted.

  Savva peered over the edge of the patio, in the alley below, dumpsters were grouped together in clusters, and a black and white cat prowled. It wasn't quiet. The city hummed and throbbed beneath as cars and scooters and tourist busses navigated the winding streets. Everything here moved with the speed of a bullet. Even Petros clanked around in the kitchen like an escaped Spanish bull.

  Savva moved away from the edge and scooted back into his chair. He pulled out his tiléfono and typed a quick text to Shayma. It wasn't anything heart-wrenching, it didn't say he was worried about Petros, it didn't say he was sure he'd be murdered on the Acropolis. But it did say 'I love you' in its own way.

  Petros laid down another tray. "Reminds me of our army days."

  The tray was filled with a strange mishmash of whatever Petros must have had in his refrigerator; a half a bottle of olives, two slices of pastisio, a couple of dry pitas, a handful of strawberries, and a pristine unopened box of rosemary crackers. Petros pushed the wine bottle closer to Savva and then plopped a manila folder onto the table.

  There looked to be three dozen or so papers in the file. Savva cocked his head. "I was expecting more."

  Petros shrugged. "We can't connect him to every crime he's ever committed. But, believe me, there's enough to keep you busy for weeks."

  There were murders all right: businessmen, small-time politicians, a reporter. Then came the fires, assaults, robbery–but nothing could be connected to either Matthias or his father. As he read Savva had the distinct impression no one had pursued these investigations, like the man in Ilion had said. Savva massaged his temple to ease the pain that had sprung up behind his eyes. Savva tossed the file back onto the table, where it landed with nary a sound. Papers fluttered out and onto the floor. "No one investigated. There's nothing here I can work with."

  "It's Athens, Alexandros, what do you expect? Take the file with you. I made a copy before I left."

  "Had you ever heard about him–Matthias?"

  Petros popped a strawberry into his mouth. "No. But I asked around. He's been on our radar for quite a while. While that's not as big as some of our other dossiers, it's got a lot more than most. Some of their higher ups-all we have is a single sheet of paper. There's no way to track these people, no way to destroy them."

  "The man I met with today was his handler. He said Matthias' heart wasn't in it."

  Petros snorted. "Yeah but he still did the 'work' didn't he?"

  "You know it's not that simple. His father beat him. He was forced to do the work."

  "So everyone's a victim in some way? Next you'll be telling me the father was also beat as a kid and therefore wasn't responsible for what he did to his kid."

  Savva shook his head. "Matthias got out right after his father died. What does that say to you? The handler said Matthias had been talking for years about getting out–he wanted a home and a family and a quiet life."

  "He didn't get it though, did he?" Petros said.

  "No, it was stollen. Whatever his crimes, at least he made different decisions as soon as he was able."

  Petros chugged his coffee. "Let's leave the psychology behind, shall we?"

  "Sure," Savva nodded.

  Petros nodded at the file. "So who killed him? One of this lot?"

  "His handler made an interesting comment. He was in the mafía for twenty years. If that doesn't make you vigilant, I don't know what would. His killer was someone he didn't see coming."

  "So he was caught off guard?" Petros offered.

  "It looks that way. He was murdered by someone he wasn't worried about turning his back on."

  "There are a lot of angry relatives in here, Alexandros. There's no way he could have known who they all were."

  "He had the entire hike to study the person next to him. He let his guard down, there had to be a reason why."

  Petros nodded and crossed his right leg over his left. "I assume when you answer that you'll have your killer."

  "I expect I will."

  Savva leaned forward to pour himself a glass of wine. He took it in both hands and turned to face the sunset.

  "Still an islander at heart, aren't you?" Petros said as his chair scraped on the floor of the patio and he too faced the setting sun.

  "I used to watch the sunset with my mother every night. They were good times."

  "Your father beat you, why didn't you turn out like him?" Petros said as though he were commenting on the shifting tones of orange and pink parading before them.

  "The beatings just happened to me. They didn't change who I was. I took them when they came and I waited until I could be Alexandros again. When he was gone the beatings stopped and I was still me. He couldn't take what I wanted most: a happy family."

  Petros raised his glass with a shake of his head. "To happy families then."

  "To happy families."

  Brokenness seemed to lay about them like a blanket of snow. Minerva long gone. Matthias cut down in the prime of his life. The gulf that had erupted between Petros and his wife. And the girl in Minerva's room–shaking from fear.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Savva sat in the airport terminal, stomach full of lunch on the go, while holiday-makers milled in every direction like flies on a corpse. One couldn't even escape them in the cavernous institutional bathrooms where two men disregarded social mores and washed themselves in the sinks.

  He wound his way through the crowd back to his gate and pulled Matthias' file from his bag. He flipped through pages witness statements and grainy sepia photographs of dead bodies with growing dread. Was he looking at a relative with a grudge? But why wait? Unless, of course, they didn't know where Matthias was until recently. But still, that would put the killer on Lesvos and Matthias had only worked out of Athens. He fished his tilefono out of his pocket.

  "Morning, Sir," Stelios said on the first ring.

  "Any progress?"

  "I just walked into the office!" Stelios paused. Savva let it drag out. "No progress, Sir."

  "I have Matthias' file in front of me. It's not the best reading."

  "Anything concrete?"

  "No, Petros said there's a lot they suspect him of, but can't prove. If half of this stuff in the file is true we've got a hundred more suspects."

  "Is
it that bad?" Stelios groaned.

  "It's worse. Livelihoods destroyed. People who were reported missing in 1995 that have never been found. Children left orphans. It almost makes me …”

  "Makes you what?"

  "Think whoever killed him did the world a favor."

  Stelios rallied. "He didn't choose to do this stuff. He didn't actively seek it out. His father was a monster. Besides, Sir, he left. He left it all. Callas said they didn't have anything on him for the last ten years."

  "I was assured, once more, that the mafía didn't order the hit."

  "What about their past? Did the handler tell you anything?" Stelios pressed.

  "They had a nickname: Taras and Matthias. Father and Son. Father and Son creating Ghosts," Savva repeated glumly.

  "That's sick."

  "Find out everything you can. There's bound to be something: an article about the crime; a witness we can speak to."

  "In 1987, why'd he kill the man?"

  "Matthias was providing backup for his father and Taras went 'beyond his purview.'"

  "That's a bit tame for what actually happened."

  "They aren't my words. What if Matthias worked on the sly?"

  "Who for?"

  Savva shrugged. "I don't know, but a contract hit would make more sense than someone from his past all of the sudden deciding to kill him."

  "The evidence from the scene doesn't support your theory."

  Savva hit the armrest and earned the irked sideways glance of a young mother, whose baby was asleep in it's carrier. "What if we're being led astray? What if it was meant to look like a moment of passion when it was just another job?"

  "Everything we've learned so far points to the fact that Matthias Papatonis left the mafía behind and turned his life around. Even his handler said that's what Matthias wanted."

  Savva slouched in the plastic seat and gazed blearily at the ceiling. "We know the case is going downhill when you become the voice of encouragement and reason, Stelios."

  "You're tired, Sir," Stelios said, with a faint hitch in his voice. "Kupía Savva called; you're expected at Moria at 4 p.m. The camp director said she'd have a room where you can talk to everyone on your list."

  "How did Kupía Savva sound when you spoke to her?"

  "Fine, Sir. She and the girl are replanting a corner of the garden."

  "Good," Savva murmured. "Email Kleitos, see if he'll give us a couple extra officers to work the case. They're boarding my flight."

  "Will do, Sir. Kaikas will pick you up."

  * * *

  Savva stepped out of the airport and headed in the direction of Kaikas' waving arm.

  "Afternoon, Sir." Fellow travelers gawked as Savva plopped himself into the seat. "The station or your home?"

  "Anything new?"

  "No, Sir."

  "Alright, home then."

  "Lieutenant Booras did get an email from Kleitos regarding your request for extra personnel."

  "And?"

  "He denied it. He said you have enough to solve the case."

  "I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not."

  Kaikas pulled out onto Airport Road. "Do you want one of us to come with you to Moria, Sir?"

  Savva rubbed his dry eyes and stretched his legs. “No; it's informal. These poor people have been through enough; we don't need to make it look like an interrogation."

  Kaikas swerved around a cab. "Is Booras right? We have hundreds of new suspects?"

  "It looks that way. Hence the extra personnel request."

  She grunted, “damn” when a lorry pulled out in front of her and slammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into its bumper. Savva fell back against the seat and mentally counted the minutes it would take to get home. He might have been better off walking.

  At the house, Savva vaulted from the car. Lighthearted singing echoed around the street. He stood at the front gate and basked in the sound, in the rising and falling of each sung word, a massage of the heart. The song became louder and Shayma appeared around the corner, her arms full of twigs and dead roses. "You're home!" She dropped her load in the rubbish bin and walked to him, arms swinging, a healthy flush on her cheeks, her dark hair pulled back into an unraveling bun, and kissed him. "How was Athens? You survived I see."

  Savva glowered. "Only just." He paused and then led with his most important information. "I think Petros and his wife have separated."

  "No," Shayma said. "Why?"

  "She wasn't there. Petros didn't have any food in the house. He said their relationship has been difficult for a while."

  Shayma twisted her hands and shook her head. "I should call."

  "Don't tell her I told you," Savva said emphatically.

  Shayma rolled her eyes. "Alexandros, I'm capable of small talk."

  Savva nodded at the garden, "How is she?"

  "Stelios stopped by, and I think it caught her off guard."

  "Are you sure you want to come today?"

  "To the camp? Of course! Who will translate for you if they don't speak English? Because I can tell you none of them speak Greek. I know them, Alexandros. I am them." Water swelled around her eyes. She wiped it hastily away with a bandana she pulled from her back pocket.

  At 3:30 Savva ducked into the grey Saab and drove his wife to the Moria camp. The road shimmered with mirages. The sporadically placed olive trees fell silent in the heat of the day. At a metal gate, flanked by a crumbling concrete wall with coils of barbed wire looped along the top, Savva honked and flashed his ID. A bespectacled guard waved and opened the gate to let them through. Three men, sporting tattered sneakers and pristine haircuts, strolled in behind the Saab.

  Shayma directed him through the maze of prefabricated housing and tents to a small group of buildings labeled 'administration.' She motioned to a space in between a red Toyota pick-up with a dented driver's side door and a brand new white Fiat, which had somehow managed to repel every particle of dirt, strung along the road to the camp.

  Shayma bent to pluck a folder from the back of the car. "Remember what I told you."

  "I remember."

  She plowed on as though he hadn't spoken, "Be nice. Let me lead."

  "Shayma, I've done this before."

  "I'm serious."

  Savva threw up his hands and accepted her terms. "Your faithful servant, madam."

  Shayma rolled back her shoulders and adjusted the purse higher up on her shoulder. "Good. Let's go then."

  She walked ahead of him, past puddles and rocks and fluttering paper sacks. Savva clasped his hands behind his back, trailing behind. They entered what appeared to be a construction site's temporary office; filled with maps and overflowing in-boxes of paperwork. A mountain of a woman with blonde hair flew out from behind her desk and wrapped her arms around Shayma.

  "It's been too long! How do you like the big house?" she asked in English. The woman was much taller than either Shayma or himself and seemed to be a Nordic transplant to the island.

  Shayma returned the embrace with gusto before she introduced Savva. "Alexandros, this is Anni, she's from Kiruna, Sweden. Anni, this is my husband, Alexandros."

  Anni extended her hand, “A pleasure to meet you."

  "And you."

  "I'm sorry we have to resort to English, but Shayma says you don't speak Arabic."

  Savva grimaced. "I'm hopeless at languages, but I know enough Arabic to understand when my wife's angry."

  The trio laughed.

  "Well, I've managed to convince most of them to talk to you, and I have a room where you'll be comfortable." Anni turned to Savva. "Please understand you need to tread carefully, Captain. They're all traumatized. I don't want to add to it unnecessarily."

  Savva bowed his head. "Understood."

  "This way then."

  Anni led them down a short hallway and into a room not unlike the interview rooms at the police station. The only exceptions to the drab lighting and the rickety table were the presence of an old floral couch and a tray o
f coffee and water.

  Savva turned to the small window and stared out through the metal bars to the pitiful place so many called home. The influx of refugees had long ago overwhelmed the island; resources were stretched to the limit. But not just monetary resources–like funds to run these camps, but the cemeteries were full–and tempers were at their breaking points between islanders and refugees alike. Not a week went by without a clash between the two. To think places like Venice and Mykonos complained about the masses of tourists who swarmed their shores. Perhaps they'd rather also feed and house them out of the public purse.

  * * *

  Shayma brought a glass of water and placed it in front of Savva and pointed to his shirt. "Unbutton another one."

  Savva did as he was told. The door opened and a slight man in his thirties, with greying hair, walked in. The door closed behind him with a strange thwit. Shayma greeted the young man in Arabic, introduced Savva, and led him to the table. The man's name was Rami and he was from Aleppo. His face was drawn and his lips were white from layers of dead skin. He spoke English, he said, with an anxious glance at Savva. He was training as a medical examiner when the war started. Now he had no idea what he'd do. Savva studied the man. His clothes were clean but worn thin around the elbows, knees, and shoulders. Come winter he'd need more substantial clothing than jeans and a button-up. Shayma and Rami descended into quiet conversation and when it lulled, Shayma nodded at Savva. But it was Rami who spoke first. He straightened his back and fixed his bottomless black eyes on Savva.

  "You want to know about the kidnapping."

  "I do."

  "Why?"

  Savva blinked. "I don't understand."

  Rami rose from the couch and took the chair across from Savva. "Why do you want to know about us? We're just refugees."

  "There are multiple of women and girls missing from Greece and there's a chance the abductions at sea are connected. I'm here to find the people responsible, not to punish anyone for coming forward."

  Rami leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers against the wood. "If I decide to tell you what I saw, what do you expect from me?"