Approximately one and a half times the size of the island of Manhattan and ninety miles southeast of Athens, Mykonos hosted a population of ten thousand year-round citizens that swelled by fifty thousand visitors in tourist season, plus ten thousand day-trippers who came off behemoth cruise ships that treated Mykonos as the new Mecca for their Mediterranean cruises.
Getting to that point had been a long time coming. As with everything in Greece, the history of Mykonos entwined with the gods. Some said the island’s name came from Apollo’s grandson, Mykons. Others claimed it just meant “a pile of rocks.” Whatever the source of its name, Mykonos’ habitation dated back more than six thousand years, virtually all of that time spent as one of the poorest islands in Greece.
Against those millennia of struggle, it seemed impossible that in little more than a single generation the island had achieved worldwide renown as a twenty-four/seven summer playground for international celebrities and the super-rich, drawing in hordes of everyday folk wishing to be in on the glitz of it all and transforming long-impoverished Mykonians into among the wealthiest per capita people in Greece.
But it came at a price. Much of their traditional agrarian and seafaring ways had been sacrificed to cater to the whims, desires, and fantasies of holidaymakers who flocked to their island from around the globe.
Its dozens of breathtaking beaches now boasted world-class clubs and restaurants, many designed to keep sun worshipers and partiers onsite and consuming from morning until well beyond the witching hour. Mykonos and Santorini were practically the only places in Greece untouched by the financial crisis, and everyone in Greece wanted to get in on the action. Good guys and bad.
Yianni hadn’t been back to Mykonos in over a year and wondered how much the island had changed. He had no doubt that it had. Locals who’d run traditional businesses out of buildings in town that had been in their families for generations now realized they’d make far more by turning their shops into bars, or renting their spaces to national and international fashion brands, receiving huge under-the-table sweetener payments to do so. Outside of town, farmers found themselves making more from the sale of a parcel of land than they could ever hope to make in a lifetime of farming that same soil.
Yianni stared out the cockpit window at the horizon, where a bright blue sky met a deep blue sea filled with white-edged waves and beige-brown islands flecked with green and white.
At least some things hadn’t changed.
Yianni was first off the plane and, with only a carry-on, he was out of the terminal in two minutes. It took another three minutes to cover the hundred meters from the airport to the police station. Police procedures required him to check in with the local police chief.
How much he chose to tell him was another story.
The police chief turned out to be a decent guy, but that alone wasn’t a good enough reason for trusting him. He hadn’t displayed the curiosity Yianni expected when Yianni told him that he’d be nosing around the chief’s turf on official business. The chief’s non-reaction might have reflected polite deference to Yianni’s Special Crimes Unit status, or an indifference worn into him by the impossibly frustrating task of trying to maintain order and safeguard the lives and property of so many tourists and locals on an out-of-control party island with fewer than fifty cops available to him for the summer.
Then there was a third possibility: the chief already knew why Yianni was there. Despotiko was nothing if not efficient, and he’d probably informed the chief in advance that cops from Athens would be asking questions about his wife.
Even if Despotiko had beaten him to the police chief’s door, Yianni’s instincts told him not to ask the man about Mrs. Despotiko. He’d speak to her first. No reason to risk having word reach her about what was on his mind before he had the chance to confront her face-to-face. He knew he’d made the right decision when, out of the blue, he asked the chief for directions to the Despotiko home, and without hesitation or the slightest sign of interest in Yianni’s reason for asking, he recited precise, detailed driving directions.
Given the chief’s advance preparation, Yianni wondered what he could expect from Mrs. Despotiko. The only way to find out was to ask her, so he borrowed a marked police car and drove in the direction of the Despotiko home.
He didn’t bother to call ahead; he assumed the chief would do that for him.
Chapter Four
According to the chief, Despotiko’s home lay at the north end of the island, tucked away at the top of a hill overlooking the sea close by a nineteenth-century lighthouse. Once considered undesirable because of its distance from town and lack of ready access to the island’s more popular beaches, the sunset side of that hill had experienced a surge in popularity among homebuilders who considered those conditions positives. So much, in fact, that the once-neglected area now stood as an enclave for the rich and reclusive.
Yianni turned right out of the police station, headed west toward the rotary at the outer ring road. Also known as the new road, it connected at the sea, both north and south of the old town, with an older inner road marking much of the island’s western shoreline, plus the land-based perimeter of the island’s old port area. The chief’s directions had him heading north along the new road, a major two-lane highway lined with mini-strip malls, gas stations, and squat, one-story stucco homes thrown up to take advantage of the tourist boom.
Traffic seemed exponentially greater than when he’d been here last. The island’s vehicle-rental businesses had proven as explosively profitable as its hotel, bar, and restaurant operations. Every entrepreneur in Greece, as well as every speculator from abroad, seemed to be getting in on the action. With only thirty taxis on an island of more than sixty thousand daily visitors, municipal buses offering only limited service, and walking or bicycling ranking among the riskiest of extreme sports, the only sane way to get around the island was by renting a motorized vehicle.
Some hotels and beachside clubs offered private bus services to clients, but it was the plethora of private limos and vehicle rentals that clogged the island’s arteries. They existed to serve those who stayed in places off the transportation grid, or who desired an independent way to get around on holiday, often renting more than one vehicle per family. Compounding the number of vehicles was their size. VIP vans and large SUVs served as a sign of affluence to many, yet on roads too narrow to allow one to pass the other, they were more of a badge of foolishness.
Yianni turned right at the shore road and continued north, through Tourlos, Agios Stefanos, and Houlakia. Between the old and new ports, hotels lined all but a small portion of the hillside sections of the shore. A half-mile beyond the new port, hotels and tavernas stood grouped around a small beach, but for the most part, from the new port north to the lighthouse, visitors experienced a slower-paced version of the island.
He had no trouble picking out the Despotiko home. Much larger than any of the other whitewashed structures on that west-facing hillside, its stone, bougainvillea-draped, and polished wood veranda encompassed an infinity pool running the full length of the residence. Its sumptuousness was unmistakable, set against the otherwise stark desert landscape.
He’d seen it as soon as he reached the crest of the hill leading down to the private road that would take him up to the Despotiko home. Like many private roads on the island, this one’s construction showed little consideration for physics; it looked more like an experiment for determining how steeply a rough concrete road must be angled to overcome a tire’s coefficient of friction.
Yianni noticed someone moving in the pool area and slowed down to make sure whoever was up there realized his blue-and-white cruiser was headed their way. No need to unnecessarily heighten tensions by arriving unannounced at the woman’s front door, just in case the police chief hadn’t warned her of his imminent arrival. He drove slowly up the hill to a driveway, parked in front of a sliding gate made of horizontal wooden sl
ats painted the same deep blue as the rest of the home’s wood trim, and sat in the car.
From where he sat he couldn’t see over the walls but he assumed whoever was inside knew he was there. He waited three minutes before getting out of the car. He walked over to the gate, and pressed a buzzer while facing a camera.
“Yes?”
“Hi, it’s Detective Yianni Kouros here to see Mrs. Despotiko.”
“Is she expecting you?”
“I guess you’ll have to ask her that.”
“What’s it about?”
“Highly confidential.”
“Sorry, I can’t let you in.”
“Just tell Mrs. Despotiko her husband sent me.”
A minute later the gate slowly slid open. A short, trim, olive-skinned woman of indeterminate age dressed in a pale blue maid’s uniform stood in the way, sizing him up. She could have been a sister to the maid at the Despotiko home in Athens.
“Mrs. Despotiko said to show you to the pool.”
As soon as Yianni stepped through the open gate, the maid pressed a remote in her hand, sending the gate back the other way. She stood waiting until it closed before saying, “Follow me, please.”
She led him along a gray flagstone path embraced by bougainvillea and geraniums, toward a set of steps leading to the pool. She pointed up the steps. “Mrs. Despotiko will see you there.” With that, she turned away and disappeared into the main house.
I guess I’m on my own, thought Yianni. He turned and faced the steps, wondering who was about to surprise whom.
Yianni steadily mounted the steps leading to the pool area. At the top, he paused to take in the view. A massive deck area, made of the same non-slip composite material used by luxury yacht-builders to simulate wooden planking in their high-end creations, surrounded a blue-lined pool spanning the west-facing side of the house. From where he stood, the crystal blue hue of the water almost perfectly matched the sapphire sea, into which the pool seemed to vanish.
Almost perfectly, he thought. He’d read somewhere that the ancient Greeks didn’t speak of the sea in terms of tint, because sunlight so often changed the hue, but instead thought of it in terms of brightness and movement. To them a “winey” sea did not portray a color but the shine and glimmer of wine inside a cup. Still, he would’ve been willing to bet that even the most demanding of ancient Greeks would agree this was a pretty impressive, if not almost perfect, interpretation of reality.
He wondered if the same could be said of the tall, slim, bikini-clad blonde lying on a chaise lounge ten meters away from where he stood. She lay facing Yianni behind a pair of Jackie O-style sunglasses, close by a portable bar with a magnum of champagne in a silver ice bucket, a plate of whole strawberries, and a single champagne flute. He guessed her to be in her late thirties, but she clearly worked hard at appearing a dozen years younger. She held a second champagne glass in her right hand, and with her left, beckoned to him.
“It’s perfectly all right to come over, Detective. I promise you I won’t bite.”
Yianni walked toward her, stopping just shy of the lounge. “Mrs. Despotiko, I presume.”
She waved at him with her glass, spilling a bit of the champagne as she did. “You’re blocking my sun.”
“Sorry,” said Yianni, moving.
“That’s okay, there’s plenty more champagne. Alma!” she yelled.
“I was talking about the sun.”
She didn’t reply but concentrated on the maid hurrying out of the house and onto the deck.
“Yes, ma’am?”
She wiggled her glass. “More champagne.”
She watched the maid lift the champagne bottle with two hands, and carefully aim for the woman’s wavering glass. “And pour a glass for, Detective...uh, what’s your name?”
Yianni smiled. “Kouros. Detective Yianni Kouros.”
“Yeah, for Detective Kouros.”
The department’s official guidelines told him to decline, to keep everything strictly professional, but his instincts told him otherwise. She seemed relaxed and, even if this routine was put on for his benefit, playing along with her, getting her to think she was in charge, might give him a shot at getting around what her husband and his minions had undoubtedly warned her: be extremely careful what you say to police.
The maid filled the lone glass on the cart.
“Don’t forget the strawberry,” snapped her employer.
“Yes, ma’am,” and, using silver tongs, dropped a single strawberry into the glass before handing it to Yianni.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding to the maid. She said nothing, and hurried back into the house.
Mrs. Despotiko patted the space on the lounge next to her waist. “Sit here.”
Yianni hesitated and glanced toward the house.
“Don’t worry, no one’s filming this.”
“It seems inappropriate.”
“Damn it, man, we’re on Mykonos. I’m just asking you to sit down, not to fuck me.”
Yianni wasn’t sure what the official guidelines said about this situation, but having gone this far, continuing along seemed the sensible choice, and so he sat on the lounge, but by her feet, not her waist.
As soon as he did, he realized he’d made a huge tactical blunder. He should have sat by her waist as she’d suggested, because from where he now sat, in order to see her face, he had to stare straight up between her legs and over the tiniest string bikini bottom he’d ever seen.
He tried sliding forward on the lounge, but she moved her foot to block him, spreading her legs as she did.
Checkmate, thought Yianni.
All smiles, she said, “So, what can I do for you, Detective Kouros?”
Yianni waggled his eyebrows. “That’s now a far more difficult question to answer than it was a moment ago.” He raised his glass. “Salut.”
She raised hers. “Just start in and let’s see where it leads.” She sipped her drink.
Yianni took a tiny sip. “I have the sense you’ve been down this road before.”
“What road is that?”
“Answering questions from police about your husband.”
She shrugged. “It comes with the territory. But being married to a man who has nothing to hide makes it easy.”
Yianni glanced at her bikini bottom. “Speaking of nothing to hide, do you mind if I move up a little closer to you on this lounge?”
She lifted her foot and closed her legs. “Suit yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Yianni, moving up to beside her waist. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”
She sipped from her glass. “The police colonel who was murdered in that restaurant outside of Athens.”
Yianni nodded. “Can you tell me how you met the restaurant owner your husband suggested meet with the Colonel?”
“I assume you mean Pepe?”
“Yes.”
“At Easter, I was having lunch at The Beach Club with some girlfriends. Some guy I didn’t know was acting like a big shot, talking up the owner and his son, tossing money around. It was Pepe. None of my friends knew who he was, so I asked our waiter if he knew him. He said he was a longtime friend of the owner who planned on opening his own place on Mykonos later this summer or next.”
“So, you introduced yourself to him?”
She peered over the top of her sunglasses. “It is not my style to introduce myself to strange men. I was just curious. After all, The Beach Club is the hottest place on the island, and if a friend of the owner planned on opening another place, that new one might be the next hot spot. There’s no harm in having connections.”
“Agreed,” said Yianni. “So how did you meet Pepe?”
“The waiter told Pepe I’d asked about him, so he came over and introduced himself.”
“Did he know who you were when he ca
me over?”
She glared at him over her glasses. “Are you suggesting he knew I was Mrs. Despotiko when he came over to meet me?”
Yianni blinked. “Excuse me, did I say something wrong?”
She raised her voice. “Do you think men are only interested in me because of whom I’m married to?” She waved at her body with her free hand. “They’re still attracted to this.” She gulped down her drink. “Alma! I need more.”
Yianni jumped up and went for the bottle.
“My maid will take care of me.”
“No need to bother her. I can handle this.” He filled her glass using one hand, and waved the maid back into the house with his other.
Mrs. Despotiko bit at her lip as he poured.
“Would you like a strawberry?”
“No.”
He returned to his place on the lounge, placing the champagne bottle at his feet.
“Okay, let’s start over again.” He leaned in toward her and whispered in her ear. “But trust me, you’re definitely hot.” He sat up and held out his glass. She clinked on his with hers.
“So, did Pepe know who you were when he introduced himself to you?”
“If you promise not to tell my husband, I’ll tell you the truth.”
Yianni wasn’t sure where this was headed. “Not tell him what?”
“About me and that man, Pepe.”
Yianni paused.
She stared at him, and laughed. “Oh, my. That didn’t come out right. Not even the thought of an affair with that man crossed my mind. He was terribly unattractive.” She paused. “Not anything like you.”
Yianni forced a grin and patted her elbow.
She sighed. “I told my husband that I’d raised the subject of Pepe needing security if he wanted to open a club on Mykonos, and that until I had, he’d had no idea who I was married to.” She took a sip. “I wanted to make my husband jealous. I wanted to make him think men were still interested in me, not just using me to get to him.” She gulped down the rest of her glass and held it out for more. Yianni reached for the bottle at his feet and refilled her glass.
The Mykonos Mob Page 5