Disorganized Crime Read online

  "Did you know Baby Dimitri didn't have Dad?"

  "Yes."

  "So why send me there to make a fool of myself?"

  "I knew he did not have Michail, but that does not mean he did not take him."

  "You mean you suspected someone outsourced the muscle to Baby Dimitri?"

  "At first I thought yes, but now I do not think it was him. Are you a brave woman, Katerina?" she went on. "I think you are. You stormed into Baby Dimitri's shop like an avenging angel."

  More like a smart-ass, with a mouthful of checks my body couldn't afford to cash. I was hot-stuff with Xander as backup, fixated on his phone, and at the time I had been amped up on a cocktail of jet lag, desperation, fear, and confusion.

  Come to think of it, I still was.

  "Not so much brave as deluded."

  "Bravery is not something you feel. It is something you do. I have been brave many times, but not once have I felt brave. In this family we need brave people, or the family will not survive."

  I slept for a week. Or maybe twelve hours that felt like a hundred and sixty-eight. When I got up it was slowly. I ran a hand down my legs to make sure I hadn't gone Rip Van Winkle. Slight stubble but not a full forest. Phew!

  After losing fifteen minutes to a shower, I wandered into the kitchen and found my aunt but no Grandma. She was drinking brown sludge and daintily picking at the hairy stuff I'd watched Grandma bake.

  She blew me a kiss. "The best thing about being a man under the hood is that I can eat more without gaining weight."

  "You're so lucky," I said, sliding into the seat across from her. I wanted coffee, the kind with foam and milk and a squirt of vanilla syrup, not engine sludge. "Where's Grandma?"

  "In the gardens. She does all the gardening herself. I keep telling her to hire a gardener or two, but does she listen?"

  "No?"

  "No."

  Stubborn. Or maybe she just really got her kicks doing the gardening.

  "So what's the deal with Xander, does he ever speak?"

  "Xander, Xander. Oooh la la. He is a tasty dish. Very sad history, that man. Very sad. Tragic."

  I looked at my aunt, both eyebrows raised—the international expression of, Just hurry up and tell me before I explode.

  Aunt Rita wasn't biting. "I am not one to gossip. But his story is very sad."

  Argh! Why wouldn't people here just speak plainly? Just one question answered in a straight line; question leads to satisfying answer. But no. Ask a simple question and they gave me alternate routes, codes, and detours leading to nowhere but frustration and confusion.

  The screen door opened and Grandma shuffled in, no sign that she'd been playing with compost and worms. "Are you ready, Katerina?"

  "What for?"

  "Church."

  The massive garage doors had retracted, showing off the family's car collection. No limo for us today. The cousins who kept the motors running around here had parked a shiny black SUV in front of the fountain, where Thetis the sea nymph, and goddess of water, was pouring a bottomless jar of the wet stuff into a marble pool.

  Grandma hoisted herself into the passenger side, then reached across and flung open the driver's side door. "You drive," she said. "I do not have a license."

  Hadn't stopped her the other night.

  I climbed in. The SUV came equipped with running boards but it was still a struggle to heave myself into the driver's seat without flopping around like a walrus. How Grandma was so limber and spry was a mystery. The vehicle's seats were leather, the dash fully loaded, and when I turned the key there was a grating, peppy voice asking me where I wanted to go. I'm not a violent person, but I wanted to karate chop her throat. For the record, everything I knew about karate I learned from The Karate Kid. The original, of course. Not that remake I tell myself never happened.

  Anyway, Grandma seemed to be okay with the inquisitive computer woman. "GPS," she said, beaming. "Her voice is always so cheerful, it makes me happy." She leaned forward like she was about to kiss its shiny black buttons. "Makria."

  The screen set into the dash came to life. The tiny woman stowed in the computer began to nag. I knew it. She wanted me to turn left and she wanted me to do it now—in a sweet, electronic voice.

  Grandma jumped in on the act. "What are you waiting for? For the Turks to come back? Turn left!"

  The SUV crawled across the paved ground to the iron gates. The man in the guardhouse—a different one today—pushed a button and I nudged the SUV forward until we were clear.

  Grandma rolled down her window and stuck her head out. "Give my love to your mother," she said to the guard.

  "I will. Thank you, Nouna." Godmother.

  "Are you actually his godmother?" I asked, once we were on the move again.

  "Yes."

  The GPS woman told me to stick to the dirt road, so I did that until she passive-aggressively told me to turn left where the dirt met the blacktop that threaded itself around the mountain like dull tinsel.

  "Why is the town named Makria?" In the Greek-English lexicon makria meant away. As in, far, far away. "Is it named after our family?"

  "Yes," she said, not volunteering further details.

  "Why? Did our family do something amazing?"

  "Our family has accomplished many things."

  The SUV bounced slightly as I coaxed it onto the main road. Its suspension seemed to sigh with relief that we were past the point of dirt and stones.

  "Turn left in half a kilometer," the electronic woman said.

  How far was a kilometer? How far was a half of that?

  "Help," I said, "What's a kilometer?"

  Grandma shook her head. "Americans. Turn left here."

  The name was a lie. Makria wasn't far, far away at all. It was—apparently—half a kilometer up the street from the family compound. The village was compact. It contained all the essentials along one short cobbled street: bakery, meat market, produce store, grocery store, and a couple of souvenir shops that sold collectables, mostly made in China, no doubt. It was a postcard-worthy place, something I confirmed when I saw the village's portrait twirling on a postcard rack near a shelf of Makria mugs, wind chimes, and calendars.

  The stunted street split in four at a crude crossroad. One arm lead to a village square, which contained a half dozen souvenir carts, cafes, and enough tourists to fill a plane. They all had cellphones, which they were using to snap pictures of the view. From here I couldn't tell if the view was Instagram-worthy or not. Their heads were clumped together, blocking the way.

  One of the other three arms climbed the mountain. It was flanked by houses and frequented by livestock that dropped hillocks of dung on their way from field to field.

  The final arm dead-ended at a church that was bigger than it needed to be in a village this size. The outside was stone, the dome white, and—in the absence of a lightning rod—the cross was big enough wipe out everyone in town if the antichrist needed them to shut their traps about his identity.

  "Ayia Aikaterini," Grandma said.

  Saint Catherine.

  The grand double doors were open. I followed her inside.

  Saint Catherine's guts had been designed by the latest crop of rappers and hip-hop artists. Gold everywhere. Everything that wasn't gold was silver, or something like it. Saints had been captured on the ceiling and walls in moments of extreme boredom; they were tired of hanging around, and they didn't care who knew it. Even J.C. Himself had a mild frown that suggested that he'd prefer to excuse himself and find the nearest bar.

  The pappas—a.k.a. the father, a.k.a. the priest—rushed to greet Grandma. He was a half dozen heartbeats away from a heart attack. He was red-nosed and purple-cheeked and the circumference of his waist was greater than his height. If I had to staple an adjective to his forehead I'd call him jolly.

  "Kyria Katerina," he said, beaming. He wiped his hands on his black cassock. "What a treat it is to see you on a weekday. I only saw you just this weekend." She didn't kiss his ring as was
customary; he kissed hers. Maybe that was customary, too.

  "Father Harry," she said, "I have come to light candles."

  "Of course, of course! And candles you shall have—as many as you like." His attention slid to me. "A new face, and a lovely one. Welcome to Ayia Aikaterini. I am Father Haralambos, but everyone calls me Father Harry."

  After performing brief introductions, Grandma left me with the jolly priest while she paid homage to the icon of the Virgin Mary and her son. She pressed her lips to the glass, crossed herself forehead to chest, shoulder to shoulder, then went to front of the church, where she sat in one of the polished pews. Like most Greek Orthodox churches the seating was limited. Pews were there for the elderly, the infirm, the strays that wandered in to pray outside of services. Everyone else was expected to stand—women on the left, men on the right. All equal in the eyes of God … except not.

  "She always comes here to pray in times of trouble." He looked at me. "Are these times of trouble?"

  "I think so. My father has possibly been kidnapped."

  "Ah. That's why she's praying out loud, then."

  "You can tell her," Grandma called out.

  I must have looked baffled, because he explained. "The front of the church is bugged. Just about every law enforcement agency in the world is listening in."

  "And she knows?"

  "It was her idea."

  My mind blanked. "Why?"

  He rocked back on his heels. "Do you know about Saint Catherine?"

  "Not really," I said. Meaning up until now I had never given her a second thought. Most Greek names are derivative of one saint's name or another, and Catherine was Katerina's point of origin.

  "Saint Catherine was born in Egypt. Alexandria, to be precise. She was a brilliant woman, the daughter of a king. Clever. Educated. And very beautiful, like your grandmother was when she was a young woman, and like you are now. Many, many men pursued Catherine, but she turned them all away. She said she would not marry until a man who was more beautiful, more educated, more brilliant than herself came into her life. But there was no such man until she was introduced to Christianity. Jesus Christ was the man she sought, and to him she pledged herself forever, wearing the ring of their union upon her finger."

  "What happened to her?" Nothing good ever happened to saints. They always seemed to meet sticky ends, often involving fire. Saints are the poster children for bad things happening to good people.

  "The Roman emperor, Maximinus, upon seeing her, wanted her for himself. She refused to be unfaithful to Christ, and so the emperor had her killed. His executioner cut off her head."

  I was feeling slightly woozy. It would have been nicer to be named after someone who lived an amazing life and died happily in their sleep, some hundred years after their birth. "Okay …"

  "Kyria Katerina, your grandmother, is like her namesake. She is devoted, one hundred percent. Her commitment to her family is unwavering. Everything she does is for her family and the people in her care."

  "Like …" I felt around in the metaphorical darkness. "…you?"

  "This whole village. She has performed miracles for people here. Is she a good person, a bad person, who can say? Whether a person is good or bad is sometimes a matter of perception. From here—" The sweep of his arm encompassed the whole church. "—she is a saint."

  "You talk too much, Father Harry," a voice cut in.

  Grandma was back.

  I was faking it when I remembered Detective Melas's business card. Everyone else was indulging in a siesta, and I wanted my share of the napping goodness, but sleep wasn't happening, no matter how hard I reached for it. Finally I just lied to myself and said I'd drifted off for a moment, and surely that counted—right?

  My hand went pocket diving. It pulled out Detective Melas's business card. Black on white. Nothing fancy. Definitely not American Psycho quality. Grandma wasn't home—Xander had driven her into Volos after the church—but that didn't stop me tiptoeing into the kitchen for the phone. I unhooked it from the wall and tiptoed back to my room. My cell phone was in my handbag, but I was pretty sure it wasn't set to call from Greece, and I wasn't in the mood to argue and plead with customer disservice, who would understand half of what I said and nothing I meant.

  Detective Melas picked up on the third ring. "Melas," he said.

  No time to waste on small talk. I poked him in the ear with my pointed question: Who was my father and why would anyone snatch a guy who'd been gone thirty years?

  A long silence happened. During that time I wondered if I'd accidentally dialed Xander.

  "Want my advice?" he said, finally. "Go home. Call a friend, beg, borrow, steal if you have to, but get a plane ticket home and go. Today."

  "Can't. I don't have a passport."

  "Jesus," he said. "I don't want to know how they got you into Greece."

  "Same way they got me out of the United States: illegally."

  "La la la. I'm not listening."

  "Anyway, I think I might be changing my mind about leaving. I'm not going anywhere if my father's here."

  "Do you have any proof he's in Greece?"

  "No."

  "So he could still be in America."

  "My grandmother doesn't think so."

  A big sigh leaked out of him. "Your family is …"

  I imagined him scratching his head, hunting for the right word. One that wouldn't get him killed.

  "… dysfunctional."

  "Everybody's family is dysfunctional. It's like the law of families, or something."

  His laugh was more like a bark. "Your family is more messed up than most. Don't tell me you don't know what they are."

  The picture was getting clearer by the minute. "Let's pretend I'm stupid."

  Another sigh. The man had talent. "Okay. Jesus. Your father was your grandmother's right fist before he took off thirty years ago. She barked the orders, and he took care of people who needed their minds changing—or worse. A lot of stories around about what happened to him. I don't know which is true. One story goes, she wanted him to marry some girl—another Family's daughter—to cement a business deal."

  "What deal?"

  "Tobacco. It's one of Greece's biggest crops. Your grandmother wanted in. Had transport lined up and a buyer in Bulgaria waiting to go."

  "Why tobacco?"

  "In those days taxes on tobacco were low. But in other European countries taxes were rising and people were looking for cheaper alternatives to what was on the shelves. Legal or not, didn't matter. Never does to addicts. One of the biggest names in the Greek tobacco industry had a daughter your father's age. Her father wanted connections in Bulgaria and your grandmother wanted tobacco. So they pledged their two kids to the cause. Then your father disappeared. There were stories he was dead, buried in a speed bump, drowned out at sea. Rumors your grandmother shot him herself."

  My face was going hot-cold-hot. Menopause already? Couldn't be. I had maybe twenty years before my parts started desiccating.

  "My grandmother wouldn't shoot her own son."

  He snorted. "She killed her own brother-in-law."

  "What?" I squawked.

  "He sold insider information to a rival Family, so she poisoned his Name Day cake. Or so the story goes."

  "I want to go home." My voice was faint. It had already packed its bags, fled the coop.

  "Great idea. That's what I'm telling you."

  "Except my father would still be missing. Where is he?" I was asking the universe more than Melas himself, but he answered.

  "We don't know, and I'm not convinced your grandmother does either. She'd go guns-in if she knew for sure. Hell, maybe she knows but there's some other plan twirling around inside her head. You never know with that woman."

  "Why now? Why kidnap him? It makes no sense."

  There was a long, problematic silence before the detective spoke again.

  "What did your father do in America?"

  "For work? He was a truck driver."

  Two b
eats, then: "Was he?"

  The 'of course' played peanut butter, sticking to my mouth's pink roof. "Okay, so let's say he wasn't—which is what you suspect—how do I find him?"

  "You don't. Whoever took him took him for a reason. They expect to profit, so you can't just knock on doors, bat your eyelashes, and ask for your father back."

  "Then what am I supposed to do?"

  He groaned. Seemed like I brought out his inner emo. "You're not giving up and going home, are you?"

  "Would you?"

  "If it were my father? Never. But I'm in a different position. My father's a baker—a verifiable baker. His biggest sin is keeping a cat in the bakery."

  "So if you were me, where would you start?"

  "I'd figure out what your grandmother is doing that's new. Business-wise, I'm talking. Has she made any new deals, new friends? Any old deals where the terms have suddenly changed?"

  "Okay …"

  "Wait," he said. "Are you calling me on the house phone?"

  "Yes."

  "Jesus," he said, and hung up.

  What was his problem? Now I had a head rattling with questions and not nearly enough answers to satisfy them. Figure out what Grandma's got going on—how was I going to do that? I didn't know the layout of the family compound, let along the layout of the family itself. Who was I supposed to trust? Who spat out answers if you thumped their back the right way?

  Takis and Stavros. They both had a way of unintentionally burping up details. And Stavros was the nicer guy. Takis was more of an anthropomorphic weasel.

  I'd start with the human and work my way down.

  Chapter 6

  Stavros was wifeless, so he was banished to the bottom floor in the section of the compound known as the bachelors' barracks. One of the family kids ponied up the information for the sweet, low price of me listening, while he and his—and my—cousins practiced their English on me.

  Fifteen minutes of "What you name?" and "Where's the party?" later, I was wandering pale hallways inside the main house.

  The bachelors' barracks were less barracks, more suites, complete with kitchenettes and en-suites, from what I could see as I peered into open rooms. They made my new digs look even sadder.