He just hoped Tassos could keep his men from any more mention of rituals. He had to be careful about that sort of talk from his own cops too. All it took was one trying to impress someone and all of Greece would be shouting 'ritual murder on Mykonos.'
Come to think of it, he was surprised an Athens TV crew wasn't here by now. There always seemed to be at least one somewhere on Mykonos during the tourist season. TV viewers loved stuff knocking sexy, upscale places filled with rich people, especially on Mykonos. A murdered body being hauled down a hill out of an old Mykonos church was just the sort of story they'd run over and over again — not the kind of TV coverage Andreas was hoping after less than a month on the job.
Perhaps he'd get lucky and they'd be off catching live celebrity bodies on a beach somewhere and this dead one would be down the hill and off the island before they could film it. That's when he realized that most of the people on that road probably had cell phones with cameras — some even take video. Damn technology. He decided to leave the rest of the forensic examination to Tassos. He'd let the crowd know anyone using a cell phone camera would be arrested for interfering with a police investigation. Who knew — maybe the threat would actually work. It was worth a try.
The walk down was a lot easier than the climb up, but he took it slow. He wanted another glimpse of nature's take on blissful eternity after the time he'd just spent inside with the grim here and now. He looked straight up at the sky: bright blue, running off to almost white where it met the sea. It reminded him of the day of his father's funeral, on that hillside north of Athens. He hadn't thought of that day in years. He had only been eight. It must have been Tassos' mention of his father that brought it back. He shook his head and tried to think other thoughts.
When he reached the road he called his men together and told them what he wanted done about the cell phones; then he asked if their questioning had turned up anything interesting. Not really. He decided to talk to some of the curious personally — starting with the two men in the black Fiat.
The two had learned their lesson, or at least had enough sense to act as if they had. Both were very respectful to the chief of police. One was Alex's cousin and the other his friend. They said all three worked for the same contractor and, after Alex found the body, he first called the police on his mobile and then his cousin. They couldn't find the place until they heard the sirens and followed the police cars.
Andreas wondered how many others Alex had called. At least now he knew how word got out about a body in the church.
The guy in the gray Grand Cherokee was the contractor they worked for. He'd been sitting in it since he got there, running the air conditioner and watching. Andreas crossed in front of the Jeep and walked to the driver's door. The contractor never turned to look at him, just kept staring up the mountain as if Andreas wasn't there. Andreas knocked on the window with the back of his hand. The contractor still didn't turn to look, just pressed the button to roll down the window.
Andreas knew of him. He came from a very old Mykonian family, had once been mayor and now was the most successful contractor on the island. He'd grown very rich on the island's building boom and was said to believe his statue should be erected in the town square next to — and a bit larger than — Mykonos' legendary heroine of Greece's 1821 struggle for independence, Manto Mavroyenous.
'Andreas Kaldis, chief of police.'
No answer.
Andreas wanted to drag him out of the car and bang his head on the hood. 'Mr Pappas, I presume.'
Slowly the man turned his head to face Andreas. 'You are correct.'
Now Andreas would settle for just ripping off the guy's sunglasses. 'Would you mind telling me what you're doing here,' then choked out words he sensed he had to say: 'I mean no disrespect, but I can't help wondering why a man of your stature in the community is sitting in his vehicle at a murder site.'
The man paused. 'One of my men found the body and called his cousin — he works for me, too. His cousin called me, and I followed the police here.'
Andreas had guessed right: kissing ass would make this pompous bastard talk.
'Thank you very much. Can you tell me why your man was working here?'
'He was repairing fence walls around the church. A client of mine is planning to expand the church's facilities.'
In other words, someone was paying Pappas to use his influence to get around the building ban. With the right permits you were allowed 'slight' improvements to existing churches. This church probably would be expanded 'slightly' into a mega-villa dwarfing the original church. Pappas wasn't known for small-time jobs.
'May I ask you who owns the property?'
Again Pappas paused. 'He lives in America. His family's from Mykonos, but they moved to Athens generations ago. My client started coming here a couple of years ago. Before then, no one from his family had set foot on the property since the war.'
Andreas took that to mean World War II.
'He inherited the property surrounding the church. He wants to restore and renovate his family's ancestral church.'
Andreas assumed he was hearing the pitch in the application for a building permit. 'Thank you, Mr Pappas. May I have the name of your client?'
'I'll have to check with him.'
Andreas wanted to pull out Pappas' tongue, but instead, he held his own. 'Thank you. I would appreciate any help you can give me. By the way, I noticed someone must be taking care of the church. Do you know who that is?'
Pappas smiled. 'I know you're not from Mykonos. Otherwise you wouldn't be asking that question.'
Andreas thought maybe he could grab him by his tongue, wrap it around his sunglasses, and then beat him against the hood. He forced a laugh. 'You obviously have me at a disadvantage.'
Pappas gave a self-important wave of his finger at Andreas. 'Just remember who helped you, Chief.'
Andreas kept smiling.
'Some say today there are 2750 churches on Mykonos. The church says it's more like half that number. Fifty years ago we only had about as many churches as there are days in the year — 365.' Andreas smiled and nodded appreciatively at Pappas' concern that Andreas might not know the number of days in a year.
'With that many churches and so few priests, some churches in deserted places like this' — he waved — 'with no family members or neighbors to look after them, fell apart and mass was no longer said in them.'
Andreas kept smiling, wishing he'd get to the point, but the lecturer was not about to give up his stage.
'Then along came the savior of all neglected churches on our island. He makes repairs, cleans them, replaces candles and icons — if they've been stolen — and says mass. He says it's his mission to protect them. The mayor even gave him a plaque for his work. A little weird — maybe even crazy — but harmless.'
For Andreas, the word harmless hung in the air.