Disorganized Crime Page 30

  "How's Dina?" I asked, focusing his discerning lens elsewhere.

  "She sent bonbonieres to the whole department yesterday." My face must have given away my insider knowledge, because the next thing out of his mouth was, "I guess I don't need to tell you what was in them."

  "Not sugared almonds?"

  "No, not sugared almonds."

  My smile went into hiding behind my hand. "I guess she wanted to thank you for a job well done."

  "She's crazy."

  "She really is," I said. "But she came through for me in the end. Which means I owe her. What are you going to do about the party favors?"

  "The captain sent her a 'Thank you' note from the department."

  My thoughts ticked over to the inevitable. "What happens when someone notices Pistof is missing?"

  He shrugged. "Difficult to say. There might be questions. Or they might want it to go away."

  "Do you know why he hated my father so much?"

  Another tst. "Maybe your father's old friends know."

  I thought about it. "Dina knows, too. She mentioned it when we were … when we were captive."

  "Are you going to ask her?"

  "Probably." I told him about how her house was a shrine to Dad.

  He made a face. "You've got my number if you need it. Or if you just want it."

  "Melas …"

  "Nikos."

  "Too late," I said. "I already think of you as Melas."

  He stood, stretched. It did things his body that made me want to pounce. Evidently it showed, because he leaned down and tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear. His breath was warm against the crispy fried shell. "I'm going to kiss you again—and soon. Count on it."

  That afternoon I went to church. Father Harry rushed to greet me, but backed off quickly when he got a load of my sunburn and bruised face. My eye was less black, more green now. Aunt Rita offered to balance the act, give me two green eyes or conceal the other with magic spackling paste, but I couldn't be bothered hiding what had happened. Maybe I was teaching myself a lesson I needed to learn. Stay away from swinging fists wielded by psychos. Or learn to duck.

  "Let me know if you need anything, eh?" Father Harry said. He went to pat me on the shoulder, but then retracted his hand when he realized he'd have to peel me off his glorious gilt ceiling if he made contact. He flashed a sympathetic smile, then he vanished into the room at the back of the church.

  The priest was gone, but I wasn't alone.

  Grandma had been keeping Xander busy. Since he blew Pistof's head off his shoulders, I'd only seen the silent man from a distance. Now here he was at the front of the church, legs splayed in the front pew, eyes on the marble mosaic floor. He didn't strike me as religious, but what did I know? Thanks to Grandma he'd lost his whole family and found a new one with their enemy. He'd killed a man to save my life. Both good reasons to want to have a powwow with The Man Upstairs. I'd make sure to put in a good word for him when it was my turn.

  I sat beside Xander, leaving a respectable distance between us. He hadn't dressed up for the occasion. He was in shorts, running shoes, and a sleeveless T-shirt, his ball cap beside him on the polished wood of the pew. Had he run here?

  "I heard you, you know. When you were sleeping you spoke. You said a woman's name. Sofia. Just in case you're keeping it a secret, I haven't told anyone—and I won't."

  Silence.

  Then he unfolded his body and stood. He was strong, physically and mentally. He was densely muscled but he could move like a cat. He was a killer. But I'd seen tenderness in the man, too. And he was gentle now as he touched his hand to the top of my head, as though delivering a benediction. I looked up and met his dark eyes. He was unreadable and I was all out of Rosetta Stones. Not a word passed between us. I watched him walk away. He stopped to light candles—six in all, and stuffed a thick wad of euros in the wooden box.

  Then he was gone.

  I turned back around. I was alone. Which is how I needed to be for what came next.

  "I know you're listening in," I said in English. "Whoever you all are. I'm an American citizen and so is my father. We pay taxes on time. I've never broken the law. I don't really count underage drinking, because who doesn't do that? If my father dies because you guys refused to part with information or you couldn't be bothered helping, I'm going to be seriously pissed." I looked up at the man on the cross. "Sorry. But it's the most apt word under the circumstances." Back to the matter at hand. "If you can help … do it. Please."

  With a jittery heart and rubbery knees I stalked over to the candles. I lit one apiece for Mom, Dad, and Grandma. The fourth I lit for myself. Something told me this thing was far from over, and I'd need all the divine help I could get.

  Outside there was no sign of Xander, but the people of Makria were going about their business, living life as if they knew no other way. They smiled and waved to me like I was one of theirs.

  It struck me that maybe the quiet man hadn't gone to church to pray.

  Maybe he had been there to talk.

  Thank you for reading Disorganized Crime, the first of Kat Makris’ adventures! Kat’s story continues in Trueish Crime, available now.

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  All my best,

  Alex A. King

  Also by Alex A. King

  Disorganized Crime (Kat Makris #1)

  Trueish Crime (Kat Makris #2)

  Doing Crime (Kat Makris #3)

  In Crime (Kat Makris #4)

  Outta Crime (Kat Makris #5)

  Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece #1)

  One and Only Sunday (Women of Greece #2)

  Freedom the Impossible (Women of Greece #3)

  Light is the Shadow (Women of Greece #4)

  No Peace in Crazy (Women of Greece #5)

  Summer of the Red Hotel (Women of Greece #6)

  Pride and All This Prejudice

  As Alex King:

  Lambs