"I just got home."
"With your friends."
A silence filled the line. "I don't have any ... they were all 'our' friends."
"Ah," Stelios said, putting his hand out and pushing himself up against the white sofa.
"I think I'll go to bed and head into work early tomorrow. I'll bring the coffee if you bring the pastries."
Stelios mentally picked them out from the glass pastry case. "Deal."
"Kalinychta, Stelios."
"Kalinychta, Eleni."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Savva woke with a jolt. The room was dark. The curtains were drawn against the orange glow of the streetlight. The clock read 4 a.m. He tugged the quilt around his shoulders and shut his eyes against the morning so he might fall back into dreams where Minerva walked. But as he tried to recapture her, she soared around the corner and out of sight. There was no reaching her. A cry clawed at his throat and his eyes burned. He searched for Shayma's body. She was there, curled on her side, facing the wall–oblivious to his pain.
He rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling, and then gave up sleep as a lost cause. He lifted his clothes off the valet in the corner, and padded over to the bathroom where he splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth, and combed his beard. The trousers hung loose on his hips, and he tightened the belt past the old worn hole. It's what a murder case did to you.
The bathroom door squeaked against the hardwood floor, but no one woke, the only sound of life was the clock sonorously ticking in the living room. In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of water, drinking it while he scribbled a note for Shayma on a notepad that clung to the refrigerator. Depositing the glass on the counter, Savva grabbed his keys, stuffed his tiléfono into his pocket, and left the house–pulling the door closed behind him.
Outside laid the unhurried calm of early morning. Doors were shut. Curtains were drawn. Lights were off. For the first time in days the tension in his back and legs was gone and he sauntered down the middle of the road, never before more thankful for a pain-free walk to work. None of the shops were open, the tourists were still in their rented beds, and the city was safe. In minutes the short walk was at an end; the police department rose in front of him like an unwelcome, unannounced family member at Christmas, unable to be ignored or denied shelter.
Savva inhaled in the beautiful smell of chemicals, which wafted from the cleaners retreating backs. He stepped onto the stairs, running up them with the vigor of a much younger man. At the door to his office he paused and instead walked over to Stelios' and Kaikas' desks. A white envelope lay on top of Kaikas' desk. One sentence in Stelios' handwriting was written on the front: 'As Promised.' Savva lifted the corner of the envelope with a pen. It wasn't sealed. He held it to the light and saw the outline of a twenty-euro note. He cocked his head like a dog, replaced the envelope, but continued to stare at it.
"Kalimera, Sir," Stelios said from behind him.
Savva rearranged his features into a mask of long suffering and hid his hands behind his back. If Stelios noticed or guessed what he'd had been doing, he dutifully said nothing.
"Oh good, you're here," he said, as though it was noon and not 5 a.m, and he'd been kept waiting for hours.
Stelios nodded his head at Eleni who walked up behind him, balancing two coffees in one hand and a wax bakery bag in the other. "We thought we'd come in early; get started on finding the girl."
Savva turned his attention to Eleni. "Which one's mine?"
"I put it on your desk, Sir."
He waved imperiously at the clutter like a prima donna. "Let's eat in my office. I can't work in this."
Stelios and Eleni stepped aside so he could pass. As they sat, Savva put up his hand to stop Stelios, who'd opened his mouth to speak. All that could be heard for many minutes was the sound of crisp pastry being chewed and delighted slurps of coffee. If ever there was to be a reward for arriving at work early tiropitas were it.
Savva finished his coffee and peered at his junior officers. "Anything new?"
"We haven't found a record of Matthias on any ferry or airplane manifests. He'd have to present his I.D., Sir. It's possible he has forged documents which we haven't found or he sailed here on a private boat," Stelios said.
"What about the man he murdered in Athens, what's his name?, are there any living relatives?"
Eleni brushed pastry off her freshly ironed uniform pants. "No, Sir. Yorgos Michel was an only child and his parents died years before him."
"Alright. Kaikas, get back to finding out who was in the cottage. She'd be early 40s, unmarried, children, probably attended the University of Athens. Stelios," Savva turned, "we're going to go back to the cottage."
Stelios nodded, blinked, and then opened his mouth, his eyes bright.
"What?" Savva said.
But Stelios only blinked and then shook his head. "Sorry, Sir, I forgot what I was going to say."
Savva waved his apology away. "If any calls come in for us, transfer them to Stelios' cell, Private Kaikas."
"Yes, Sir." She left the office, closing the door behind her.
Savva wheeled on Stelios as soon as Eleni was out of earshot. "What's the envelope all about?"
Stelios paused, coffee cup frozen at his mouth. He blushed from neck to forehead. "It's nothing, Sir."
"There's money in it. What's going on?"
Stelios licked his lips. His eyes flickered to the door. "We were working late last week and we had more still to get through so we ordered pizza. We'd barely finished when her boyfriend, Dimitris, came in. He's a total shit, Sir. He lambasted her for five minutes, insinuating she was screwing her boss–namely me. And instead of working and doing her job, he said she should be at home cooking his dinner. You should've seen it; she wilted in front of him like a kicked puppy. I nearly pummeled the troglodyte, but he left before I could.
"Anyway, I ah … let her crash on my couch, Sir, she was too exhausted to go home and deal with him. She's been staying at a friend's house the past few days. Yesterday, I told her I'd give her a hundred euro if she kicked him out. I drove her over last night, Sir, and she did. But that's it. We haven't done anything."
"'Done anything', Lieutenant?" Savva said dubiously.
"We haven't had sex."
"Good," Savva said and then held up his hand to stop Stelios. "I'm not talking about whether it's against policy or not. She's vulnerable and so are you. Getting involved wouldn't be wise."
"I would've done it for anyone," Stelios said adamantly.
Savva rose from behind his desk. "Then it's not a problem."
Stelios stood as well, intertwining his fingers behind his back "No, Sir."
Savva glared at Stelios through his thick brows, holding the younger man's gaze. The clock on the wall ticked out a full minute, at the end of which Stelios was biting his lip and shuffling from foot to foot. Savva smiled and banged his hand on the corner of his desk, startling Stelios out of his reverie.
"I want you to call headquarters in Athens. See if you can find records for whoever was working on the night Yorgos Michel was killed. We need to speak to him."
"Yes, Sir."
"Ok, get whatever you need. Let's go."
Within minutes they left Mitilini behind and were soon among the olive trees and the wandering sheep and the broad fields. Stelios spent the entire drive on his phone, waving his arms, and in the end, hung up in exasperation when conversation after conversation proved a bust. Savva slowed for the drive and was pleased to see the patrol officers hadn't left their posts. He wasn't up to give a long-winded explanation of the importance of following orders this early in the morning.
Both men saluted as Savva drove up. "There hasn't been any activity, Sir," the older of the two said.
Savva extricated himself from the grey Saab. "We'll take a look around the house. You're free to go get some breakfast; be back by eight."
The officer handed over the keys and practically skipped to his colleague. Their SUV was out of
sight before Savva had closed his door. He glanced back at Stelios, yet again on the phone. Stelios waved him on in mock resignation.
* * *
At 7 a.m., the dawn bathed the cottage in pastels, flattering it the way dim lighting softens the edges of an aging woman's face. On the threshold, Savva blinked and glanced at his feet. His dark brown dress shoes were covered with dirt. The hardwood floors were still polished to a brisk sheen, and it seemed a shame to ruin them. He kneeled, untied the laces, and placed his shoes in the doorway so Stelios would also see them and follow suit. In his stockinged feet, Savva padded across the house and stood at the glass doors that overlooked the back garden. The football was still underneath the table where he'd replaced it.
He turned to the living room. It was a well-proportioned space. Across from a small, white, floral sofa and the two brown-leather tufted chairs was a fireplace, that was flanked by two bookcases. A black steamer truck, with an unused sandalwood and jasmine candle on top, was positioned in front of the sofa. Savva sat down in the middle of the couch and stuck his hand between the cushions … nothing. He flung the cushions off, but they were as clean as if they'd just been delivered from the store.
Savva turned to take in the rest of the room. The walls were hung with bright anonymous paintings of Greek islands, which might have been bought from one of a thousand different shops. He turned to the two bookcases, which flanked a small flat screen TV. His mind perked at the sheer quantity of bound and gilded books. He walked to the bookcase on the left, stood on tiptoe, and read the titles from the top shelf. 'Aegean Art and Architecture' by Donald Preziosi; 'Art in Theory 1900-2000' by Charles Harrison and Paul Wood; and 'Arthurian Romances' by Chretien de Troyes.
Savva stepped back. The shelf below began with 'Cavafy; A Biography' by Robert Liddell, followed by a volume of C.P. Cavafy's collected poems, then 'C.S. Lewis: The Collected Works.' On it went. It struck Savva as a method created by someone who remembered every title. He pulled out books at random: a biography of Constantin Carathéodory, the Greek mathematician; a collection of Jane Austen's complete works; and Christos Ikonomou's more recent 'Something Will Happen, You'll See.' There were fat volumes on gardening in hot climates and 'An Encyclopedia of Walt Disney's Animated Characters.'
Savva leaned forward to study the simple oak planks on which these volumes rested. He pulled three books out and ran his finger on top of them then craned his neck to look behind them. Not a trace of dirt. Savva scanned the shelves, touched each book, searching for something personal, something that stuck out–something that might point him to the people who lived here.
There was nothing. Whoever they were, they brought in what they needed and brought it back out again; like efficient campers. All they left was this fascinating collection of books and the furniture. The furniture! Savva sunk to his knees, peered under the sofa, and then turned to the trunk. He placed the candle on the rug, and unlatched the top. It squeaked open. Savva pulled out three thick blankets with mounting excitement and then gazed at the fabric-covered bottom with deep regret.
Stelios' voice drifted in from the front garden. Savva revolved on the spot; his eyes probed every corner, every recess for some clue. He pulled the anonymous paintings away from the wall to see if something was hidden behind them. Nothing. But every place he checked was too obvious, or not obvious enough, not for someone who'd spent two decades working for the mafía. If there was anything to discover it wouldn't be here.
Savva gave the small bedrooms a cursory glance. Why did he expect to find anything after forensics had been through the house? He gathered his shoes from the front door and walked out to the back garden with no clearer idea of who Matthias Papatonis was than the first time he'd searched the house–except for the singular fact that Matthias was cultured and well-read. Every spine of every book on every shelf was flexible. Savva tied his shoes, padded around the house to the back garden, and collapsed onto the wooden bench. His stomach growled. The tiropitas and coffee seemed so long ago. What he wouldn't give for a cup of yoghurt and fresh berries and a drizzle of honey.
Stelios rounded the corner. "Finished, Sir?"
"I hope you had more luck than I did."
"I can't tell you how long I've spent on hold. My phone's almost dead. I did manage to talk to whoever handles employee records at Hellenic Police Headquarters. I gave her the date of the murder and the address and asked who would've responded to the call.
"She wasn't thrilled. She lectured me about how she has more pressing calls upon her time than dealing with an islander lieutenant–I won't offend your sensibilities with what else she called me. Colonel Callas must pull a lot of weight around there. I let his name slip into our delightfully stinted conversation–how he's an old friend of my boss. Then suddenly, she had no issue getting the information. She came back huffing five minutes later.
"She found three officers, retired now, who worked in the area the night of the murder. There wasn't a record of who responded to the shots fired call, but she said one of them would know something. She didn't have contact information though. Do you still think this murder in Athens is connected with Matthias' death?"
Savva shrugged. "It's not anything I can put my finger on, but it was the start for Matthias. This incident keeps popping up. I think it's because his bosses were much more careful afterward. Taras wasn't supposed to kill anyone, and because of him, because he thought he owned his son: a man died. It was messy and there were probably witnesses."
"And you think one of the witnesses ..." Stelios trailed off, letting the rest of the question hang between them like a hunk of rotting meat.
"I'm not sure. But we don't have anything else. Just a brick."
Stelios motioned to the cottage. "Could it be because Matthias had a family?"
"Could be. Could be both."
"How do you mean?"
"Perhaps the murderer didn't think Matthias deserved a family after what he did. Perhaps, by chance, he saw the four of them together, and not only was he killing Matthias, but he was also protecting the woman and the children as well."
Stelios' lip curled and he spat in the dirt. "How sick do you have to be to think that's your decision to make?"
"You forget what fear and hate do to a person," Savva said softly. "Hate tears you apart. Every good emotion, every good memory, every decent part of themselves, is twisted until it's gone. Soon you begin to believe your own lies and no one can reach you. Think about what you felt when you started seeing Theia–she was all you thought about. You wanted to be with her every day, all day, to learn everything she'd ever thought or done."
"But that's love … attraction."
"Love and hate walk hand in hand. I imagine you've had a hard time getting her off your mind these past few days," he said softly.
"It's not the same thing, Sir. I wouldn't ever hurt Theia. Not even now."
"But, it stems from the same place. Every murder I've ever investigated begins with a story: a relationship turned sour by an ill-spoken word, a betrayal, a loss. We are all capable of murder. It depends on how much is necessary to push us there."
"You never went there, Sir; when Minerva died," Stelios said cautiously.
Savva's hands collapsed into fists. He stared at his white knuckles. "I wasn't given a chance."
Stelios carried on valiantly as though he hadn't made the last comment. "Did you find anything inside, Sir?"
"Books organized by title."
"Why does it matter they're organized by title?"
"It matters because some people organize by size or color and those people obviously don't read. Some people buy books at antique stores by the yard, another obvious non-reader. Actual readers organize their books by subject, by author, or they slam the books up pell mell and call it organized chaos."
"So why does title matter," Stelios repeated.
"It matters because it's a sign of an ordered mind. Some of the books were pushed back farther than others. There are signs of wear on all of the
spines. The books weren't decor. They're entertainment."
"So Matthias was a reader."
"An extensive one: Greek poetry, biographies of mathematicians, English novelists." Savva smiled at Stelios' dubious face. "It won't lead us to his killer; but the house feels calm. Safe. A haven of sorts. I think Matthias turned his life around. This place was precious to him."
"That's what bothers me, Sir. What's he been doing these last ten years? Kaikas checked employment records: there's nothing."
"I doubt he worked under his true name. Remember what Kaikas said about the likelihood he had false documents. Matthias left the mafía for good, and no one walks away from them–no matter what Damasos said. I'm sure Matthias went to great lengths to protect himself. He could make money any number of ways."
"Do you think Matthias told her who he was and what he'd done?"
"It's likely, although I can't prove it, and it doesn't prove anything, even if she did."
"What if she told someone else? It could've exposed Matthias for what he was and lead the murderer right to him."
"Why? It would have put their children at risk. What mother would make that mistake?"
Stelios shrugged, not being a parent and therefore wholly incapable of understanding the deep-seeded fears of all parents. "Do you think Colonel Callas could put a rush on the DNA evidence?"
Savva grinned, exposing his bright teeth. "That, Booras, is a very good question."
* * *
Savva and Stelios waited another 20 minutes until the patrol officers returned from their breakfast, before they drove back to Mitilini. Savva's phone rang as they passed the entrance to the Arkhaio Theatro of Mitilini.
"Savva."
"Kalimera," Iason Rallis said. "Are you alone?"
"I'm with Booras."
"I think I have some information for you."
"I'll give the phone to Booras, you can tell him. I'm driving."
"Alexandros," Rallis said softly, "How about we go for a coffee?"
"Will there be food involved?"
"Sure? Our usual spot?"
"Ok," Savva said and hung up.
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