Disorganized Crime Page 13

  I gulped. "That sounds …" Tent-sized. "… big."

  "European sizing. What size are you in America?"

  "Hard to say. It changes from store to store. We have vanity sizing."

  "We don't do that," she said. "If you're fat in Europe the numbers won't lie to you." She disappeared between the racks, and when she returned she'd transformed into my fairy godmother.

  Waves had no power in the Pagasetic Gulf. The beaches were pebbles and the tide rose and fell, but the water licked the shore with an untrusting tongue, not sure if it liked the flavor or not. Swimmers hauled themselves aboard moored vessels they didn't own. Seaweed stuck itself to limbs, shooting unsuspecting swimmers out of the water, screaming about sea monsters.

  I peeled off one of my new sundresses, then flopped down on the beach mat I'd just unrolled. Xander shunned the offer of a towel or the edge of my mat, choosing to park his butt on the pebbles. I figured it was his funeral; a more adventurous eater than me could fry an egg on those things. His phone was in his hand, but his attention was everywhere else. Slipping away wasn't going to be easy, but I'd give it my Yankee best. It was no coincidence that I'd deposited us in amidst a smallish sea of similar red bikinis. Safety—and invisibility—in numbers.

  As the sun sneered overhead, I kicked part one of my plan into action.

  "Wow," I said, looking longingly at an ice cream walking past. "I can't remember the last time I had ice cream. It sure looks good."

  Xander's sunglass lenses were pitch black, not a flicker behind them. All I could see was a miniature me reflected in their shine. Red bikini. White skin. Basically, I was Canada's flag.

  Ice creams and drinks were marching double-time from a pavilion set into the sidewalk. Besides the obvious refreshments, it sold magazines, newspapers, cigarettes, and gum. The line was thirty bodies long.

  "Want one? Because I want one—maybe even two."

  No change. I moved to stand but he pulled me back down.

  "One of us has to go," I said. "And there are only two of us here. We're surrounded by people, how dangerous can it be? Nobody is going to abduct, kill, or maim me on a crowded beach. It never happens. Or almost never." I wasn't sure. But I was pretty convinced it wouldn't be happening to me, because I was leaving the second his back was turned and his front was busy buying ice cream.

  He gave me a pained look and stood.

  "Something with a cone," I said. "Preferably chocolate with the hard chocolatey shell. Please."

  He began working his way across the beach, glancing back occasionally, until he realized looking back led to trampling on other sunbathers. I waited until he was in line and hidden behind the racks of magazines and papers. In a flash, I pulled a different dress out of my new beach bag and shimmied into it, tags and all.

  Then I hoofed it across the pebbles, away from where Xander was waiting on ice cream.

  Bad idea? Probably. But I've had worse.

  There was always yesterday.

  Christos Koulouris—also known as Cookie, on account of how his last name was derived from koulouri, a snack somewhere between a cookie and a pretzel—lived in a grand house set back about a quarter mile from the road. Zoning didn't seem to be a thing in this village, so his neighbors were a church and a dump of a house that was losing a war with the elements. Who could blame it? The sun was bad tempered around here. That had to get old after fifty or so years. My body was already thinking shedding its skin and melting into a greasy puddle on the uneven sidewalk was a decent coping strategy, in this weather. Cookie might have been one of the Family's biggest adversaries, but unlike Grandma he wasn't tucked inside a fortress. No gate, no guards, no guard dogs, no security cameras that I could see. He did have a fountain, though. Very nice. Its centerpiece was a marble dude springing a leak in the water. The driveway was wide and paved with bricks. The house itself was three stories of pale cream paint on stucco, topped with a red slate roof.

  A woman answered the door. She was in her early sixties, but had trudged a long, hard road getting there. She wore a black blouse tucked into a black skirt, both straining at the seams. Her sandals were black, flat, and framed yellowing, toenails. Behind her, the house was bright and clean. The air smelled of lemons formulated in a factory and pine that had sprouted in a test tube.

  I wished her a good morning, gave her my first name, and asked for the man who was second on my family's list of enemies.

  Her passive face hardened. "I suppose you are one of his putanas. What do you want—money?"

  Confusion set in. "No. I have a job. Or at least I did." Until Grandma blew my workplace sky high.

  She rolled her eyes. "That is new, a whore with a job. Congratulations."

  "Wait—I'm not a whore! I never even met your—"

  "Brother," she said. "Christos was my brother, and now he is dead."

  "That's been happening a lot lately," I said, thinking about Kefalas.

  "This happened yesterday."

  Just like Kefalas.

  I gave her my heartfelt apologies, but she shrugged them off.

  "It was his own fault," she said. "When you lie down with shit, you will be covered with shit when you stand up again—guaranteed."

  Oookay … "What kind of shit?"

  She shrugged, fixating on a point somewhere beyond my left ear. "Drugs, whores, guns, gambling. My brother never made one honest euro or drachma in his life. Even as a boy he was a criminal. He was a pimp when he was in high school. Who does that? Shit, that is who."

  "I'm sorry your brother was shit."

  She reached out, slapped my head. "Show some respect. He was my baby brother. I don't know how I will go on without him." She dabbed at Sahara-dry eyes.

  "How did he die?"

  "He drowned."

  My knees went wobbly, my face cold. That was too the Baptist-like for me. "Drowned where?"

  "In the toilet, can you believe it? Who does that? He was a successful businessman—a criminal, yes, but crime is still a business—and now he will be known as the man who drowned in a toilet. Oh well, at least he did it at his apartment in Volos and not here."

  "So it was a murder?"

  "What else would it be? My brother would not kill himself. Suicide is for other people."

  "Do the police have any suspects?" Listen to me, all private eye and stuff. If I wasn't sweat-soaked and dehydrating, I'd be pretty cool right now.

  She snorted. "It will be like hunting for a single grain of rice in Asia." She squinted at me, as though it suddenly dawned on her that my being there was weird. "Who are you? And why are you asking all these questions?"

  I shook my head. "No reason. I don't suppose your brother kidnapped anyone recently, like, say, from America?" I pulled my phone out of my pocket, scrolled to a selfie Dad and I snapped the last time we ate out. "Does he look familiar?"

  "Kidnapped! What are you talking about? Why would my brother kidnap anyone?" She squinted at the picture. "Him I never saw in my life. Who is he?"

  "My father."

  She gasped. "You are one of those Makris?"

  Hang on a minute … "Wait. How—" She'd obviously recognized Dad, the rotten liar.

  She slammed the door. "Go away."

  "Please, I need your help."

  Nothing.

  I stood there for a moment on the front porch, hand shading my eyes, and thought about taking a quick swim in the fountain.

  Behind me, there was a small click. The door had opened enough for Cookie's sister to fling a handful of sprinkles at me. I touched my finger to one of the white grains on my arm and tasted. Salt. She'd hit me with a Greek superstition. Want a guest to leave? Why ask them to go when you can hurl salt? Crazy.

  I tossed a few grains over my shoulder, in case the devil was hanging around, with nothing better to do with his time. Then I trotted back down the long driveway, trying to figure out my next move. The sister had mentioned an apartment in Volos. How the heck was I going to find that? Getting directions was as easy as pie in
the smaller villages where everybody was used to minding their neighbors' business. But in the city?

  I'd need a miracle.

  Or—incoming thunderbolt!— an internet connection. Good thing I had one on my phone.

  A quick glance at my phone showed it was closing in on lunchtime. Before long, Greece would be shutting down for the afternoon. People would take to the shade, either in their beds or coffee shops, where the seating was all outdoors but every table had a broad umbrella.

  I tramped back to the promenade. Buses allegedly slouched past every fifteen minutes, all of them Volos-bound. My plan was to be on the next one that rolled to a stop outside this produce store.

  Was Xander going crazy looking for me?

  And did I really care?

  Let's take those two questions one at a time.

  Most certainly. And nope.

  Okay, maybe a bit.

  That I was on a psychopath's hit list aside, I wasn't a kid in need of a sitter. A bodyguard was fine, and I would have welcomed that, but Xander—at the behest of my grandmother—was trying to dictate my every move. Not cool. Having to do this the underhanded way stunk; I hated to be all emo teenager and bratty about it, but the two of them had left me no choice.

  I bought a Sokofreta bar at a periptero—one of the postage stamp-sized square pavilions (a smaller cousin of the beachside pavilion where I'd ditched Xander) that dotted Greece and sold cigarettes, candy, magazines, newspapers, fizzy drinks, and ice cream—snarfing down the sweet cardboard wafer while I watched Greece slowly grind to a four-hour halt. Women hurried home with their groceries stuffed into nylon mesh bags. Greeks fled the beach, leaving the red and white bodies to crisp under the boiler. Mine would be one of them if I wasn't careful. I had the usual Greek dosage of melanin in my skin, but Portland was more Easy Bake Oven than blast furnace, so I was only a shade or two darker than milk.

  The bus came. Several old ladies elbowed me in the gut, because boarding a Greek bus was pretty much Thunderdome. If I'd tried to assert myself they'd have shivved me, so I let it go. When it was my turn to board the back of the bus—as was customary—I dropped my coins in the conductor's hand, then hurried to the nearest vacant seat before his glare could turn me to stone.

  I don't know what I expected. Something fancy, I guess. Organized crime seemed like it paid big if you were any good at it. But Cookie's apartment was in a building this close to being condemned—if that was even a thing here. Five stories. Safety glass windows. The kind with wire running through them; usually reserved for shower stalls. Flaking stucco. And was it my imagination or did the building have a minor lean?

  Something told me it wasn't destined for Torre di Pisa fame.

  And it had one great honking, massive, ginormous downside: Detective Melas was standing on the front doorstep, arms folded, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that showed what he was made of—bricks, mostly. A grin had made itself comfortable on his face.

  "You alone?" he asked.

  I held out my arms like I was making a presentation. "No, I brought all your friends with me."

  He threw back his head, laugh roaring out. The rich, masculine sound did things to my body I didn't want it to do. Then he got serious—fast.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Visiting."

  "No, you're not."

  "If you've got all the answers, why ask me?"

  "I'm a sociable guy and you're cute."

  Flattery wouldn't get him anywhere.

  Okay, maybe it would under different circumstances. But not until we'd been on a few dates. Or one with lots of drinks.

  I grabbed his shoulders, tried rolling him aside like a boulder, but there was more of him than there was of me—and the more was all muscle.

  "Forget it," he said. "You're not going up there."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you won't find any answers."

  "I'm not looking for answers, just clues."

  "The man's dead."

  "Drowned in a toilet, I know. His sister told me."

  "Jesus," he said, looking a mixture of horrified and impressed. "You walked right up to his front door?"

  I shrugged. "What else was I going to do? Bribe one of the servants and sneak in the back?" Maybe next time. "So how are we getting in? A special police lockpick?"

  He dangled a rabbit's foot in front of my nose. Swinging from the loop was a silvery key. "Baby, I've got skills."

  I inspected the key. "Stolen?"

  "No. I'm a cop."

  "Translation: you made baseless threats to the property owner?"

  "Come on," he said. "If I can't persuade you to leave, it's safer if you're with me. At least I can keep an eye on you." He looked past me at the mostly bare street. "What happened to your bodyguard?"

  "You know about that?"

  "I'm a cop."

  "I lost him on the beach in Agria when he went to get ice cream. Oops."

  "Bikini or one-piece?" he said, eyeing my chest appreciatively.

  I rolled my eyes, pushed past him to tug the lobby door open.

  His finger hooked the back of my dress. "What's that in your pocket?"

  "What does it look like?"

  "A slingshot."

  "Good news, your vision is excellent."

  "A slingshot? Really?"

  "That's what I said. But Grandma wouldn't give me a gun."

  "Smart woman."

  "How smart can she be? She lets Takis and Stavros carry guns."

  "True."

  The lobby floor was cleanish. The walls were covered in urban art and poetry—some of it English. There I learned somebody wanted to Fack the Virgin Mary, Fack my mother and, Fack me. Or, as they put it, Fack U. I couldn't speak for the other two women (death is hell on the libido, or so I hear), but I decided to pass. Wasn't an easy decision, but it had to be done for the good of mankind.

  Two ways up. Stairs or elevator. The stairwell had exactly one light, a single fluorescent tube five stories away. By the time the light reached the bottom it was too exhausted to shine. Which left the narrow box attached to cables of dubious quality, maintained, no doubt, by the same party responsible for the lightbulb.

  Detective Melas read my mind. "Stairs?"

  "I'll follow you."

  That way the rats would get him first.

  Cookie's apartment was on the top floor. We're not talking penthouse material here. Newspaper tumbleweeds blew past, powered by a breeze from an invisible source. Fast food litter hunkered along the hallway's edges. He had a crappy blue door, same as every other door we passed, same as his three neighbors on the fifth floor. The paint was cracked and peeling, the number tarnished, and the frame looked like it could be easily persuaded to step aside for anyone with a persistent enough knock.

  Not necessary. We had keys. That didn't stop Melas from knocking and waiting.

  "Dead men don't open doors," I said.

  "Except when they do."

  I let my eyebrow ask the question.

  "You see the body?" he asked.

  I shook my head.

  "Me either. I know the guys who gave him a ride to the morgue, and they said he was dead enough. But he has a reputation."

  "For what?"

  "Playing dead."

  "You think he faked his death?"

  "Wouldn't be the first time."

  On the outside, Cookie's apartment was a dive. On the inside, it was functional and tidy. Two cramped bedrooms. A kitchen meant for someone who either microwaved their meals or ate out a lot. Cheap furniture. Ghastly couch with ancient stains of unknown origins. Big TV on a flimsy stand. The place was clean enough, but apart from the television the place was in its twilight years—on a fixed income.

  "What are we looking for?" I asked.

  "Anything."

  Melas vanished into one of the bedrooms. I took the bathroom. When we met again, it was in the living room.

  What kind of guy faked death not once, but multiple times?

  I di
dn't realize I'd asked it out loud until Melas clued me in.

  "Word on the street is there's a price on his head."

  "Don't guys in organized crime always have prices on their heads?"

  He was flipping through a short stack of mail, most of it junk. "You would think. But every one of the crime families has their niche. Most of the time, aside from minor skirmishes, the machine moves smoothly. But this kidnapping has thrown things into air. Your father's not just anybody. He's a Makris—and Baboulas's son. You may not think your grandmother is doing nothing to find him, but she is. Guaranteed. Word is she hired the Baptist to find him and take out the trash."

  "The Baptist?" I felt woozy.

  He shrugged.

  "No way." I leaned against the wall, not wanting to sit on the couch. It looked like it could tell horror stories. "She was furious when he found out he was at the house in the middle of the night. There's no way she'd hire him. And besides, she has her own henchmen. What do they do if they don't kill people when she wants them to?"

  "Wait—the Baptist was at the house last night?"

  I nodded.

  "You saw him?"

  I shook my head. "He was outside my room. Said he wanted to give me a number."

  "What number?"

  "Five-oh-three."

  "Jesus," he said. "They say he's killed five hundred people."

  "Five hundred and two. He said he was on his way to take care of five-oh-two last night."

  Our heads turned on their stalks in the same moment, toward the bathroom.

  "Wait," I said. "Cookie's sister said he died yesterday. the Baptist was outside my window around two in the morning."

  He mulled that over for a moment. "Did you find anything useful in the bathroom?" Oh, he of little faith, he delivered the line as he was going to investigate for himself.

  "Serviettas," I said. Maxi pads. "But it doesn't look like a woman's been here, like, ever." If a woman had been here she lacked the homemaking gene.

  "Not that weird." He pulled the shower curtain aside, peered in, pulled it back across. "They're good for mopping up blood."

  "Why would a man be mopping—" My engine light came on. "Oh. Bullet wounds."