Disorganized Crime Page 19

  "Was?"

  "She died."

  He nodded, not meeting my eyes. "How did it happen?"

  "Karkinos." Cancer.

  "Sorry. How old were you?"

  "Old enough that it didn't screw me up for life, young enough that there's a big gaping hole in my heart and soul," I admitted. "Dad is all I've got. He's always looked out for me—now I have to look out for him."

  "He's not all you've got. Blood doesn't turn to water." I gave him a look, so he elucidated. "What about your family here?"

  "Ha! Family. My grandmother drugged me, then she had my cousins fly me home."

  He laughed, the ass. "I heard."

  "And you did nothing? That's kidnapping! Or … or …" My argument petered out. "Or something."

  "She was doing you a favor. Doing the right thing. Getting you out of harm's way."

  "She's the one who put me in it to begin with when my goon cousins grabbed me." Okay, so they were aiming for Dad. But still.

  "She miscalculated."

  "What are you, her lawyer?"

  "A parent."

  Whoa! No way had I seen that coming. "You've got kids?"

  "A son. He lives with his mother."

  "Divorced?"

  "Never married."

  "Can I have some of that moussaka?"

  "Not yet."

  "What would you do if he was missing?"

  "Tear the world apart with my hands."

  "Exactly," I said. "So why isn't my grandmother doing that?"

  "She's a mobster. They're known for not being wired right."

  "Please." I rolled my eyes. "Everybody knows family's important to Family. Hey, can I ask you a question?"

  "No."

  "Why did you tell me Dad's old gang were criminals? They're dentists and school teachers. Not exactly the FBI's Most Wanted."

  "You have problems with 'No,' don't you?"

  "No."

  The phone clipped to his hip buzzed. He glanced at the screen, made a face, stood. "I've got to go."

  "Forget something?"

  He glanced around. "No." He dropped the plate on his chair, just out of reach, then made a beeline for the stairs.

  "Hey," I yelled, panicking. It was inhumane to leave me cuffed to the pole—no food, no water. What if I needed to pee? The urge was already there. I was nearly thirty—thirty—and I already knew my bladder wasn't what it used to be. An eighteen-year-old bladder has the capacity of one of those pale blue water towers every rural American town seems to have. At twenty-eight, mine was already down to the size of a small wine cask. By thirty-five I'd be drinking out of a thimble, then cursing myself for overindulging. "What kind of Greek are you? Hospitality is what you do!"

  His voice wafted up through the pole hole. "You're half Greek too, honey."

  "Don't call me honey."

  "Then don't break into my house next time. Wait outside like a good girl."

  The back door slammed. I heard the snick of the lock I'd picked earlier.

  I closed my eyes. God, his mother's moussaka smelled good. How the hell was I going to get out of this pickle?

  I looked down, through to what was a loft-type set up, now that the Melas's home wasn't housing firetrucks. Eyes closed again, I tried to recall the layout. I shuffled around the pole, gawking at the great expanse of nothing much below. There was furniture, but none of it was in arm's reach, even if I slid down. I'd just be stuck down there, equally hungry, even further away from the food.

  The chair. Maybe I could reach that. I laid down on the floor, wiggled backwards until the cuffs threatened to tear off my arm. My shoulder socket was making all kinds of protests, but I knew if push came to shove, it would give up my arm just like that. My body was no match for metal. I glanced back at the chair with the plate of sweet mana sitting on its seat, waiting on some nice, considerate person like me to come along and chow it down. Maybe if I wiggled my foot I could hook one of the legs.

  Nope.

  Splat! That was the sound of me flopping facedown on the floor.

  Detective Melas had somehow calculated the precise distance from the pole to the chair, adding an inch or so for good luck. His good luck—mine was all bad. There was no physical way I could reach that chair, and I was pretty sure I was fresh out of telekinesis and other woo-woo talents.

  I was, to put it bluntly, screwed. And not in a good way.

  What I needed was that moussaka, and I needed it now. I could die of starvation, cuffed to the pole. Obviously Melas hadn't thought that one through. How would it look? Volos Policeman Found with Mobster's Dead Granddaughter.

  Bad. Very bad.

  Grandma would flip. She sent me away, yeah, but not so some cop could kill me slowly, through cruelty and neglect. Probably he'd wake up with a whole dead horse in his bed.

  If only I could call someone—someone with a hacksaw or a key.

  A light popped on in my head, small but intrusive like the dreaded Check Engine light. I had a phone, didn't I? Right now it was wedged between my hip and the floor, which explained the bone-deep ache.

  But who could I call?

  Grandma? Fuggedaboudit. She'd export me ASAP.

  Takis and Stavros were out of the question. They had their lips surgically attached to my grandmother's butt—especially Takis.

  Xander? I'd never live it down. He and Melas both got their kicks out of torturing me, so he'd be on Team Melas for this war.

  Which left Aunt Rita.

  Now that I thought about it, that wasn't such a bad idea. She was a mobster's kid, so I was confident she was in possession of skills that veered into shady territory.

  She picked up on three. "Ela."

  That's the way most Greeks answer the phone. No "Hi" or "Hello" for them. They go with "Come."

  "Aunt Rita?"

  "Katerina?"

  "The one and only," I said. "I need some help."

  There was a long pause, filled with the whoosh of a smallish tornado. She was doing her nails. "Anything, my love, unless you need help coming back to Greece. Mama would kill me if I helped you back into the country—and that's not a figure of speech."

  Didn't I know it? "Too late," I said cheerfully. "I'm handcuffed to a pole in Detective Melas's house."

  She sucked in her breath. "Oh-la-la, that delicious cop has a pole in his house? Wait—what are you doing in his house?" Her voice rose an octave. "What are you doing in Greece?"

  I winced as her voice went falsetto. "Do I really have to tell you?"

  "No," she muttered. "I guess I know. How did you wind up on the pole?"

  On the pole, like this was a career move.

  "Could be I broke into his house."

  She laughed. "He wasn't happy about that, eh?"

  "Not at first. But then I think he kind of liked it—after he cuffed me and ate moussaka in front of me."

  "He ate in front of you without giving you food?" She was horrified. "What kind of Greek is he? I can kill him if you want. Or we can have someone else do it."

  "No, no," I said quickly. "I just need out of these cuffs. Can you help me, please?"

  She asked for his address, so I reeled off the details from the phone, then I got down to the serious business of waiting.

  Gunshot jerked me out of my daydream. Metal blasting metal.

  Oh my God, somebody was breaking into Melas's house, and I was stuck to the stupid pole. Because of him, I was going to die at the hands of a crazed gunman.

  Despite not being overly religious, I crossed myself Greek-style and begged for an intervention. I'm one of those lousy Christians, one of people who only remember God when I need something. When Mom was dying I almost talked His ear off, but he tuned me out and let her die anyway, because he was busy catapulting Kardashians into the spotlight. I guess mankind really did something to piss Him off.

  Anyway, I needed Him again.

  Downstairs, the back door burst open.

  "Katerina?"

  Aunt Rita. Relief washed over me. My k
nees went spongey.

  Never mind, God. As You were.

  "Up here!"

  A moment later, she appeared at the top of the stairs. She was a sight in knee high boots, pink fishnets, and a skirt that used to be somebody's belt. No wig today; her hair was her own: buzz cut, dark brown. A Greek Grace Jones. Her top half—between head and waist—was hiding behind a huge gun. I didn't know what kind—I was gun illiterate—but I knew it could spit bullets and kill a lot of people in a very short amount of time.

  Or it could open a metal door—fast.

  "I kind of love you right now," I said. Then I looked from the cannon she was toting to my manacled wrist. "You're not going to shoot these off, are you?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know how to pick a lock."

  What kind of mobster couldn't pick a lock? Even I could do it with the aid of the internet, and I'd never committed a crime.

  Well, I'd never committed a crime before Greece.

  I nodded to my bag, told her I could do it if she gave me my bag.

  Bag in hand, I rifled around, hunting for my lock picks. Predictably, the way of all women's bags, they'd sunk to the bottom. One of those laws of the universe that—so far—no one has attempted to explain. Picks finally in hand, I began Googling my way out of the cuffs. Everything is on the internet if you know where to look.

  Aunt Rita was eyeing the food still sitting on the chair and on the bed. "What happened to this moussaka?"

  "Microwave."

  She poked at it with the pointy end of the gun. "And he calls us criminals."

  "He's a monster." Okay, so I broke into his house, but he'd started the war by cuffing me to a pole then leaving food almost within reach.

  Payback was going to be vicious.

  "You know what would be funny?" Aunt Rita moved from the food to Melas's dresser. When I looked up from the cuffs she had a pair of his boxer briefs in her hand. "Trophy," she said.

  "Stealing underwear? That sounds like something Takis and Stavros would do."

  "Ick. You're right." She dropped her prize on the bed, peppered it with a few holes. When we recovered from the noise she said, "What would be funny is if we made a fire and burned his house down."

  Uh … "That's a bit drastic."

  "He cuffed you to a pole. You want the police to think they can push you around? If they disrespect you now, it could be a problem later."

  I looked at the underwear and the unfortunate mattress. "I think he'll get the message."

  "Hmm," she said. "I guess it's an overreaction. It's the estrogen pills. They make me bitchy."

  A second later, the lock clicked and the cuffs popped open. I held up my hands in victory, Rocky Balboa-style, then I stuffed Melas's shiny bracelets into my bag. Finders, keepers.

  In the end we left the house in one piece, although I couldn't stop my aunt firing a few dozen rounds into the microwave.

  "Let him eat cold leftovers," she said.

  I didn't argue. Also, I didn't leave the moussaka behind. I grabbed the fork, the plate, and we left.

  Aunt Rita had come charging to my rescue in her pink convertible. The top was down, the radio was blaring, keys swinging from the ignition. She threw my bags into the trunk.

  I leaped into the passenger seat, wishing I had a convertible. My Jeep was nice, but this was pink.

  My sense of direction wasn't stellar, especially in a new country, but I was pretty sure we were going the wrong way.

  "Isn't Volos back there?"

  "I can't just take you to Mama's place."

  "Oh," I said. "I guess not. So where are we going?"

  "A little place I keep."

  "For?"

  "Nieces who aren't supposed to be in the country."

  Fair enough. "What's everyone saying about me? Did Grandma tell them she sent me home?"

  "Mama told them nothing. Only Takis and Stavros know you went back to America. Everyone else has their own ideas."

  "Like what?"

  She shrugged one cheetah-print shoulder. "That Mama had you killed. That Xander locked you away as his mistress. That you look down on the family, so you left on your own. That the Baptist got you."

  Sadly, that all sounded reasonable with a family like mine. Then my eye twitched. "Wait—they think I'm Xander's mistress?"

  "Only the stupid ones."

  "Stupid?"

  "I know his mistress, and it's not you."

  "Who is she?"

  "Nobody. His hand."

  A laugh kicked its way out of my throat. "Is he a monk?"

  "Close." She shook her head. "A man like that? If he's single it's a crime. He's a god."

  "He kind of is," I agreed. "So no women, like, ever?"

  "Not that I've heard about—and I hear everything. People who are too scared to talk to Mama, they come to me and I go to Mama."

  "Maybe he's a virgin," I said.

  "I remember when I was a virgin," she said wistfully. "In those days we used to do anal instead."

  I blinked. I was pretty sure that was one way to squash virginity, but who was I to argue with the country that probably invented butt sex?

  "If everyone thinks I'm gone, then maybe the Baptist thinks I'm gone, too. That's good—right?"

  "He could be transatlantic. Probably he's standing on your front doorstep in Portland right now."

  Probably. And I bet he had a latte. "Why is he hunting me? I didn't do anything."

  "Maybe somebody paid him. Or maybe it's one of those pro bono things."

  I wasn't sure which was worse: that idea that someone wanted me dead badly enough to hire a hitman, or that a hitman hated me enough to kill me in his own time, for funsies.

  What would Grandma do if he was hunting her?

  Probably something proactive.

  I should do that. Be proactive.

  Too bad I felt like digging a hole, burying myself inside until this all blew over and Dad was back home, where he belonged. Where we belonged.

  "Who is he?"

  "The Baptist?" She shrugged. "Who knows? There are rumors about his identity. But you are the only living person I know who has admitted to seeing his face."

  Something clicked in my head. Pieces locked into place. My life had become such a shitstorm circus since Dad was kidnapped that the merely weird had no choice but to bounce off me like a rubber ball.

  And it was weird that Detective Melas knew I'd gotten a good look at the Baptist, yet he never asked me to mosey on down to the precinct house, or police station, or whatever they called it here, to flip through mugshots or describe the guy to a police artist.

  Which meant he knew the Baptist's identity.

  Chapter 14

  Aunt Rita's idea of a safe house was what is known as a crack house back home. I had decided not to point out the similarity, figuring something would get lost in translation, when she said, "I scored it in a card game. The former owner was a Russian sisa dealer."

  "Sisa?"

  "Greek meth. The cocaine of the poor, they call it."

  "I didn't realize Greece had a meth problem."

  "Oh yes," she said. "Greece has all the problems."

  The house was a small square cakebox. It used to be white all over, but now it was bare stone with chronic dandruff. Tufts of grass sprouted from the rocky earth, but had given up when they realized the trees were hogging all the sunlight. The porch was crooked (kind of like my family), the patio had cracked and was bleeding weeds, and there was a stone basin with a red hand pump slightly to the left of center.

  "No running water?"

  Aunt Rita nodded to the pump. "Yes, but you have to chase it."

  No quite what I meant. "Toilet?"

  "Outhouse. It's not so bad."

  "How do you stand it?"

  She scratched her nose with one glossy red nail. "Must be the leftover testosterone."

  That probably did it. Men never seemed to care much where they pooped.

  "Inside is nicer," she said.

  Not that I
doubted the veracity of her words, but I didn't believe her.

  We were on the edge of nowhere, which turned out to be not too far from Agria. The house was hidden by scores of olive trees, fighting dirty in their battle to see the sun. They'd brought jagged branches, and by the looks of things they knew how to use them—albeit slowly. The ground was sticks and stones, things that were known for breaking bones. Somewhere nearby there were goats. The jangling of their bells and their happy bleats were a giveaway.

  My phone rang.

  "Hello?" I still did it American-style, with an actual greeting instead of a demand.

  "What happened to my bed and microwave?"

  Melas.

  "I didn't do it."

  "Somebody did it. You know who?"

  "Um," I said vaguely. "I think I have jet lag-induced amnesia."

  "Doesn't exist."

  "Google it." I hung up.

  Two minutes later it rang again. "Like I said: Doesn't exist."

  "What do you want, Melas?"

  "I want to know which one of your crazy family members shot up my place so I know where to send the bill."

  I sighed hard enough to strain something. "Send it to me."

  "What about my cuffs?"

  "Keeping them. Never know when I might want to cuff someone."

  "That a threat or a promise?"

  Because I was still cobbling together a plan, I didn't mention the Baptist. When I came out it was going to be swinging. Melas was going to lose an eye, or maybe just some of his dignity. I wanted to be the kind of surprise he never saw coming.

  "You'll never know."

  I hung up. Technically I ended the call, but hanging up sounds much more dramatic and final.

  My aunt was in the bedroom, blinking into the mirror. Its edges had lost paint, and there were remnants of white powder in places. There was a bed in the corner, a double with a cheap metal frame. The room was otherwise deserted.

  "Ever hear of Latisse? I'm thinking of getting some. Supposed to be a drug for glaucoma, but all these people slowly going blind grew crazy long, thick lashes, so now it's a beauty product. I could use crazy long, thick lashes. Falsies look like caterpillars crawled onto my eyelids and died."

  I leaned against the jamb. "Sounds like Thalidomide. First they gave it to pregnant women for nausea, until they realized it was a teratogen. Now it's a cancer drug."