Murder in Mykonos

'Here it is. Helen Vandrew. See you at four.'

4

Catia had not expected to hear back from Demetra so quickly. She'd just hung up with her husband — and alarmed him to no end — when Demetra called.

'Mother told me you're worried about Annika. Don't be. I spoke to her a few days ago. She's fine.' Demetra sounded her typical, bubbly self.

Catia's heart felt lighter — but not completely relieved.

'Where is she?'

'Patmos.'

Patmos was a beautiful, eastern-Aegean Greek island very near Turkey, reachable only by boat. It was a well-kept secret among the world's elite seeking seclusion and quiet, but not one Catia would have thought suited her daughter's mood after a breakup. Annika liked distractions when she was upset: parties, athletics — anything to keep her mind off what was bothering her. Patmos was not that sort of place. On its hillsides, Saint John wrote the apocalyptic Book of Revelation, and the island remained dominated by the church in more ways than just the massive mountaintop monastery named in his honor. 'Why Patmos?'

'She said she'd never been there and wanted to go.'

'Do you have a telephone number for her?'

Pause. 'No. She called me.'

Catia sensed a conspiratorial silence among cousins. Annika probably told Demetra not to give her mother the number. Catia thought of pushing the issue but decided not to. As long as Demetra and Annika were in touch, things were fine for now.

'Please, ask her to call me the next time you speak to her.'

'Sure. I'll be seeing her the day after tomorrow.'

Catia was relieved at hearing that but also surprised. 'You're going to Patmos?'

'Oh, no, too boring,' she giggled.

'Where are you meeting her?'

'Mykonos. I think she gets there tonight.' Annika thought she'd never get over catching Peter in full thrust with that Bulgarian tramp — the one he'd dismissed as being as base and uninteresting as her bought-and-paid-for tits when she dropped her entire string-bikini-clad package next to them poolside their first day in Sicily.

She'd also never forget that bastard's words the next morning: 'I'm not feeling very well, but don't worry about me, honey. Please, go out and see Siracusa. Call me when you're ready for lunch, and if I'm feeling better, I'll meet you.' A very unladylike urge to inflict severe bodily harm raged through Annika each time she thought of the moment she swung Audrey Hepburn-like into their hotel room loaded down with food and wine for a surprise, romantic lunch together in Peter's sick bed.

She felt it alclass="underline" betrayed, rejected, used, and victimized. Worse still, she felt somehow it was all her fault, that she must be a real loser as a woman if the man she thought her soulmate could so easily lie to her just 'to fuck a tramp.' She unconsciously said the last words aloud and quickly looked around to see if anyone had heard. She'd spoken in Dutch — perhaps that's why no one seemed to notice. Or maybe she didn't speak loud enough to be heard above the hum of the ferry's engines. She looked out toward the horizon from her seat in the protected, glassed-in section of the foredeck. They should be in Mykonos around midnight. She'd try to catch a little sleep. That might help her forget, or at least temporarily rid her thoughts of him.

She'd been trying to forget for weeks. First she tried a long ferry ride from Bari to Patras staring into the sea. That didn't work. Then a long bus ride to Athens across Greece's Peloponnese staring out at the countryside. That didn't work either. In Athens she'd hoped to surprise her cousin Demetra. They always made each other feel better. But Demetra wasn't there, and though they talked by phone, it wasn't the same thing.

Annika was too embarrassed to call her parents, and her mother would know instantly from her voice how utterly devastated she was. They would insist she come home immediately. She needed to get over this first — this bastard Peter. She went to Patmos thinking perhaps a spiritual place might help. It didn't. Then she called Demetra and they agreed what she needed was something quite different from spiritual comfort — and Mykonos was the perfect place to find it. Tassos was surprisingly prompt for a Greek. Only fifteen minutes late. He seemed agitated, preoccupied. Andreas led him upstairs to his second-floor office. It was bright and sunny and faced away from the road, but the view was not as great as the weather. It overlooked the backyards of Mykonos' working class — the people who never could afford to vacation here. Rusted skeletons of cars and trucks once kept for parts sat ignored in the midst of scratched-out gardens and scraggly goats. Stray cats ranged everywhere.

His office — like the rest of the place — was furnished with things from the old station. Tassos sat in a beat-up, brown leather armchair in the corner — the two of them fit together like old friends. Andreas sat behind his desk slowly swiveling his chair from side to side. It was only the two of them, but each seemed to be waiting for the other to speak.

Tassos started. 'I thought it best we talk here, away from all the curious eyes and ears in my office.'

Andreas kept swiveling. 'How are we ever going to keep this quiet?'

Tassos fluttered his lips as he exhaled. 'Don't know. Certainly not for long.'

Andreas stopped swiveling, leaned forward, and put his forearms on the desk. 'When it gets out we're looking for a serial killer, all hell's going to break loose. There'll be a thousand reporters here making it impossible to catch the bastard.'

'I know.' Tassos nodded. 'So far, only Costas, you, and I know about this — and he won't say a word — but, if we don't catch the guy soon, someone's going to put things together and' — he slapped his hands against the chair arms — 'BOOM!'

Andreas grinned at the sound. 'Is that meant to be our careers?' He lifted his arms and leaned back in the chair. 'You know, the press will cut off our balls if we don't go public now with what we have.' He paused. 'And, come to think of it, don't you have to tell your boss?' For an instant, Andreas felt as if he were warning his father to be careful of cop politics.

Tassos closed his eyes. 'We've worked together for many years. He trusts me not to tell him what I think he'd prefer not to know officially. This is one of those things — at least for now.' He opened his eyes. 'Besides, Chief, the murders occurred in your jurisdiction, and haven't you insisted on taking full responsibility for their investigation?' He smiled.

Well, so much for worrying about him, thought Andreas. Here was a political master offering Andreas what he wanted if he were willing to pay the price of assuming the political risk.

Andreas nodded. 'Yes, but God help us if another woman's murdered.' He paused. 'I think we should go public with a physical description of the dead woman — it might make tall blonds more careful.'

'And mention the crystal meth.'

Andreas nodded again. 'That too.' He hoped they were doing the right thing.

Tassos asked, 'What about asking Athens for help with a serial-killer specialist?'

Andreas gave a quick upward nod of his head — the Greek way of gesturing no. 'There aren't any in Greece. Remember, we've never had a serial killer here, so no one's a specialist. We'd have to contact Interpol, and you know what that means.'

'So much for keeping things quiet.' Tassos patted the chair arms.

'We'll have to do our own research.' Andreas opened his center desk drawer.

'How do we do that?' Tassos sounded surprised.

'The same way everyone else does these days, on the Internet.' He lifted some papers out of the drawer.

Tassos waved a hand in the air. 'You must be kidding.'