Disorganized Crime Read online

  Around.

  Was she an informant?

  Yes.

  I pocked my phone. More bad news was the last thing I wanted.

  "She was bad friend," Penka said between fresh outpourings.

  "Is there anything I can do to help? Can I get you anything?"

  "No." She stopped crying long enough to light a new cigarette. "Maybe ice cream."

  I jogged across the street to the beachside pavilion, where an old guy was snatching money, slapping drinks and ice creams on the counter. With that stony face of his he could have been a contender for Mount Rushmore. I told him what I wanted, gave him his money, and he grunted his goodbye.

  Penka balanced her cigarette on the porch, relived me of the ice cream. She pulled off the cardboard top and went mining with the tiny pink plastic spoon.

  "Did Tasha have any family?"

  "Dead."

  Poor Tasha. Sounded like Greece was her last resort and it had failed her, too.

  "Who did she work for?"

  "Same as me. Baby Dimitri. You know him?"

  Ugh. Him again. "I know him and his pyromaniac friend."

  "That is Laki."

  Holy sarcasm, Batman! "What's lucky about it?"

  "That is his name. Laki. If you are clever you will stay away from that one, too. The crazy man does not get tired—he only sweats."

  "Do me a favor," I said. "If the police try pressuring you to be an informant, don't do it, at least not until they've caught this guy."

  "Never would I do that. Penka says nothing." She zipped her lips and stowed the invisible key in her cleavage. No one would ever find it there.

  I hoped she was telling the truth. Otherwise it could get her killed.

  I jumped in my car, zoomed up the road to Baby Dimitri's shoe and souvenir shop. Today, the Godfather of Resort Footwear and Collectibles was sitting outside with his arsonist sidekick. No sign of the third guy. No table between them, just two chairs facing the road and the sea. Laki grinned when he saw me, flicking open his Zippo-style lighter. But me, I was smart. I'd parked one block over and hoofed it the rest of the way. Once again, Baby Dimitri looked like something coughed out of Florida's lung, in his white shoes and precision-creased trousers.

  "Look who it is. Little Katerina Makris, with an s."

  "Rumor is you lost a dealer today."

  Baby Dimitri shrugged. "Eh, I'll find another one. Lots of people looking for work these days."

  "The Baptist drowned her like he drowns all the others. And it sounds to me like he'll keep killing his way up the ladder until he gets to you."

  He snorted. "Tasha was an informant, the stupid skeela. She open her mouth and blab, blab, blab to the police. You think I want somebody like that working for me?"

  "How did you know she was an informant?"

  "Why else would he kill her? Before he used to kill just us—now he kills informants."

  "What happens when he runs out of informants? The guy likes to kill. It makes him all cheerful and happy. George Kefalas is dead. Christos Koulouris is dead."

  Laki flicked his lighter open-closed-open, toying with it the way old Greek guys usually toyed with komboloi—a.k.a. worry beads. "If he comes I make fire on his face."

  The thing I liked about mobsters is that these guys didn't have issues. At all.

  "You guys never played rock, paper, scissors?" I asked. "Water beats fire every time."

  Was it just me or did Laki's smirk droop? That many wrinkles it was hard to say.

  Baby Dimitri folded his arms. "They say the Baptist gave you a number, that he wants you dead, too."

  "They talk a lot."

  "It is Greece, what do you expect? Everybody knows everything."

  "I'm not an informant, if that's what you think."

  The two men looked at each other. Laughed. "Why do you think he wants you, eh? Because you are a pretty piece of ass? Plenty of pretty ass over there on the beach. Why you think my shop is so close to the water?" Baby Dimitri leaned forward, beckoned to me. Like that was going to work. When he realized I wasn't going to jump to his command, he waved his hand and leaned back in his chair. "Let me tell you something I think nobody has told you. I remember the Baptist when he was a shiny, new policeman. He was a cocky son of the bitch even then. We all talked, we all knew he was going to be a big problem. A sharp pain in our asses. He was always sniffing around, asking questions smarter men did not ask. A funny thing—he and your father were in school together. I bet you did not know that."

  I felt like I'd been thrown into a Build-a-Bear store, without a clue how the whole process worked. Just when I thought I had my bear stuffed, I realized its legs were still hollow.

  "I knew it," I lied.

  "No, you didn't."

  "Okay, maybe I didn't. Go on."

  "Maybe your father was an asshole in school, maybe he stole the boy's tiropita money—who knows?" He shrugged, palms up. "I don't know. But he hated your father. And he hated him even more when they were both grown up and on different sides. During the early 80s, the Kefalas family approached your grandmother to join them in pressuring the Prime Minister, Andreas Papandreou, out of office. Kefalas was a capitalist, a businessman, and Papandreou was a socialist. He was bad for Kefalas's business. Your grandmother is many things, but always she is for the people. What's good for the people is good for her and the Family. Back then, Papandreou was good for the people, so she told Kefalas 'No.' Kefalas was not happy. He sent a cousin to kill her as she was coming out of church, but your father was faster. He killed Kefalas's cousin. Lots of witnesses, all from Makria. But nobody would say a word to the police. One of the policemen was your friend, the Baptist. It drove him crazy that your father—a man he hated—committed a murder in daylight and nobody would speak out against him."

  "Why didn't they? Were they scared?"

  Because I'd be scared but I like to think I'd do the right thing.

  He tapped his noggin with one finger. "Because the people they remember what this country was like in the 60s and 70s, when Papadopoulos and the other colonels were running Greece. It was an ugly time in Greece's history, but my Family, your grandmother's Family, and some of the others, we helped people who were targeted by the regime. We helped people escape. We fed their families. Hid them when the government came to take them away. Greeks are loyal. They remember who helped them. Kefalas—" He shook his head, mouth sour. "—he never helped them. The police did not help them. Your grandmother, she helped them. To her they were loyal; they saw nothing, said nothing."

  "And then my father ran away."

  Two palms up. "And then he ran away to America to avoid the Baptist and the rest of the police."

  "So …" My mind drifted toward the water. It seemed like a nice place to do the mental gyrations and calculations. When it came back with its wretched answer, I said, "The Baptist wants me as bait to get to my father, doesn't he?"

  He clapped. "Give the girl a free pair of shoes, or maybe one of those little statues with a huge poutsa."

  Laki left his chair, went inside, returned moments later with a squat wooden statue of a crouching man with a chin-skimming meatsicle. He thrust it into my hands.

  "Wow," I said. "I'd love to take it home with me, but I can't accept gifts from crazy people."

  "Keep it," Baby Dimitri said. "They are cheap."

  I glanced inside, took stock of the goods. "How about you swap the figurine for a bag of marbles?"

  "Marbles? What for do you want marbles?"

  "I like marbles."

  "Keep the statue. Laki, give her the marbles, too."

  "I'd be happy to pay for them."

  He made a tst sound. "Take the marbles."

  Like I was born yesterday. "What's it going to cost me?"

  His lips peeled back from his teeth. Big scary smile on the wolf's face. "We will see."

  Great. I was double bait. Everyone wanted me to be a critical part of their plan. I plopped down on the pebbled beach with my bag of marbles
in one hand, Woody Woodenpecker in the other. "I want a time machine," I said. "Because this really sucks."

  I looked at my phone. No text messages.

  I guess Melas thought this sucked, too.

  Detective Melas pulled up behind me when I stopped outside the compound's garage. He was carrying flowers and a couple of paper-wrapped souvlakia.

  "Please tell me one of those is for me," I said.

  "I don't know, I could eat two."

  "I could have you killed like this." I snapped my fingers. "At least I think I could."

  He slapped one into my hand. "Don't think this means I'm susceptible to bribes. You're getting it because I like your ass."

  The flower arrangement was big and bushy. Lots of roses and carnations, strawflowers filling out the gaps. "And those?"

  "They're for your grandmother, for letting me use her granddaughter."

  The expression on his face said he was serious. Lucky for him, his words contradicted his face. Or so I hoped.

  Melas fell into step beside me. The compound was hopping. Family all over the place. Kids diving into the pool while their mothers sat in clumps and chatted. Every so often, one of them would glance over at the children and screech an empty death threat.

  Melas said, "Reminds me of my childhood."

  I wondered if she was here, Melas's former lover and family snitch. There were a few mildly curious glances shot in our direction, and a lot of, "Yia sou, Katerina, Nikos!" going on, but none of the interest stuck.

  "Any sign of our water-loving friend?" Melas asked.

  "Not yet."

  "What the devil were you doing chatting to criminals?"

  "They're the only people I know here."

  "Jesus," he said. "You need some regular friends."

  "I'm not staying long enough to make friends. As soon as I find Dad I'm going home, back to my life. Do me a favor," I said. "Don't ask Penka to be an informant, at least not until the Baptist is locked up."

  "That's not how it works."

  I gave him a look loaded with sharp metal objects.

  "Okay," he said. "Okay. But a woman's character is her fate."

  "Who said that? Because it doesn't sound like you."

  "Heraclitus."

  I snorted. "I wouldn't have picked you for a philosopher."

  "I'm not. That's why I'm borrowing someone else's words."

  We fell silent for a moment, me pondering his hidden depths and his penchant for obscure philosophers. After Mom died and I flipped off God for spending more time worrying about Kardashians than my family, I turned to philosophy for answers. It's also possible I lit candles and offered my soul to anything out there that could bring my mother back as something other than an oozing zombie. But mostly I turned to long-dead philosophers and their ideas about life and death. Which is why my next question was: "Did you know about my father and his history with the Baptist?" and not, "Who the heck is Heraclitus?"

  "I remember hearing about the attempted hit on your grandmother."

  "Does he have a real name?"

  "Yes."

  I didn't know the Greek word for 'elucidate,' so I just let my eyebrow do the asking.

  "Forget it," he said. "The less you know the better off you'll be."

  We had reached Grandma's hovel. She was in her garden, bent over a red tub of gardenias, a mile of dimpled and sagging thigh showing. Papou was keeping her company, cleaning his fingernails with what looked like a tenpenny nail.

  Melas did the gentlemanly thing and averted his eyes.

  "Are you checking out my kolos, Nikos?" she asked without turning around. The woman truly did have eyes in the back of her head.

  Papou snorted. "Even a blind man wouldn't want to look at your kolos these days."

  Grandma straightened up, one hand pressed to her lower back. "Xander? Takis?" she called out over the fence. "Take him to the pool. If he says a word, push him in."

  The old man puckered up and smacked his lips. "At last! Peace!"

  "Bad day?" I asked her.

  "It is always a bad day when the police use my granddaughter for bait." She pointed to the flowers. "Are those for me? Because I think my day would be better if you brought me flowers."

  Melas handed them over. She took a long sniff then passed them to me. "Put them in the kitchen."

  Melas followed me inside. I sat the flowers in the center of the kitchen table. The tablecloth was plastic—no chance of water marks. I grabbed two plates and a handful of napkins. I poured cold water into two glasses.

  Then I ripped into my souvlaki like a rabid wolverine. Melas watched me sink my teeth into the meat-stuffed pita, his expression pained.

  "Jesus Christ."

  I swallowed. "That bad?"

  "That good."

  I sank my teeth in again, hamming it up Meg Ryan-style.

  "Keep it up," he said, "and I'll violate all of your grandmother's rules."

  I tried not to blush. It happened anyway.

  "So what do you think? Am I bait times two? Does the Baptist want to use me or kill me?"

  "Both. Use you then kill you."

  "What happens now?"

  "Keep doing what you're doing." He kicked back and grinned. "While I sit here and watch."

  We ate, and I cleaned up while he went out to talk to my grandmother. By the time I was done he was gone.

  "He left already?"

  "Nikos went to see his parents," Grandma said. "They live in Makria."

  "So you know them?"

  "I know everybody in Makria."

  I remembered the plate I still hadn't returned. "I've got one of his mother's plates."

  "Not for long. Nobody takes her plates."

  I was afraid of that.

  Chapter 19

  The sirens went off just after midnight, ripping me out of a dream where Melas had been violating my grandmother's rules—repeatedly and with vigor. I leaped out of bed, bolted into the hallway, heart hammering against my ribcage.

  Not all the extreme heart palpitating was the alarm's fault. Grandma was charging toward down the hall with a shotgun in her hands, the business end pointed right at me.

  That unnatural screeching? Me.

  "Behind me, Katerina" she hollered. The front door banged open and Aunt Rita pushed her way in with the same cannon she'd along brought to rescue me from Melas's old firehouse.

  "Where is Xander?" Grandma demanded.

  Aunt Rita pointed up.

  The three of us burst through the door. Beside us, something—or someone—hit the concrete and quickly unraveled to its full height.

  Xander. He looked like he was here to put the hurt on anyone who needed serious hurting. No lie: yeah, I was a panting, sweating, close-to-wetting-myself mess, but his intensity was kind of hot.

  Where was I?

  Panicking, that's right.

  Footsteps pounding ground everywhere, beneath the scream of the alarm. No fire, no smoke, no oncoming tornado, no Unidentified Flying Objects waving To Serve Man in our faces. So what the hell was going on?

  That blabby big-mouthed voice inside me said, her voice pure valley girl attitude, that this was what was supposed to happen when someone unauthorized stepped onto the family's property.

  Grandma barked orders. "Xander, Rita, into the cellar with Katerina!"

  "Wait—what? No!" We couldn't leave her up here alone.

  Xander's arm snapped like a steel band around my chest, holding me tight against him. Aunt Rita fell into position beside him, and the ground beneath us began to fall away. We sank maybe seven or eight feet, deeper than a grave, then stopped. All three of us stepped off the concrete pad—although it's more accurate to say Xander stepped me off—into the darkness. The floor was cool, the air dry and lightly refrigerated. The concrete square jumped back into position, ready to fool intruders.

  Someone had broken the perimeter, and my grandmother was up there fighting. It wasn't right. We should be up there, too. What if she got shot—or worse? The unive
rse had dangled more family in front of me and now it wanted to yank it away? Not cool.

  "I'm going back up."

  I didn't know how, but I was going.

  Except I wasn't, because Xander had me by the scruff of the pajamas, and I was doing that cartoon air-walking thing. Again. It was becoming a habit I wanted to quit.

  Bulbs flicked on. Bright white light flooded the cellar.

  I blinked. Could anyone really call this is a cellar?

  It was more like the control room of a giant robot or battleship. Directly in front of me was a wall of monitors—one large, at least two dozen smaller—all switched on. Compound front, compound back and sides, pool, the house above, hallways, and several places I didn't recognize.

  Oh, and several police stations, including the one I'd visited twice already.

  I'd bet Detective Melas didn't know about this room.

  Laptops booted up along a row of tables. An office chair sat in front of each. The captain's chair rose up behind them on a shortish pedestal. It had a footrest and a side pocket, currently filled with yarn and knitting needles. On each side of the room were two doors—four total. None were marked.

  Aunt Rita pointed to each one. "Bathrooms, kitchen, sleeping quarters."

  "What's behind the other one?"

  "Warehouse. Food, water, weapons. Whatever people keep in warehouses."

  "What's that big, red button?" I asked.

  The big, red button was under a see-through dome on a control panel in front of the captain's chair.

  "Don't touch the button," Aunt Rita said. "Nobody touches the button."

  "What does it do?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know. All I know is not to touch it."

  "I bet it does something terrible," I said. "Red buttons usually do."

  "If you want to make Baboulas very angry, push it."

  "I won't push it." My inner child wanted to—desperately—but I smacked her fingers.

  My aunt slid behind one of the computers and began clacking frantically, at a nail-breaking pace. To her credit, not one of them snapped.

  "It's an intruder," she said. "He or she is out the front by the garage."

  She tapped a key and the front of the compound came into focus in that one big center screen. She tapped another key and the camera moved. There was my shiny, new yellow Beetle. And there was Detective Melas with his hands up, his expression somewhere between pissed and contrite.