“How the hell am I going to find him?”
“You’re in Aeropoli, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Try the port police in Gytheio. That office covers your uncle’s part of the Mani and they deal with immigration all the time. Maybe they know something about her or who might have come looking for her in the taverna. After all, the story about him being run off by your uncle is funny. It’s the kind cops like to repeat.”
“Not when it’s about themselves. If I were that guy, I’d never breathe a word of it to anyone.”
“What the hell, you’re already there.”
“Already there? Gytheio’s all the way over on the Mani’s east coast.”
“Stop complaining. It’s only a half-hour drive and think of all that beautiful mountain scenery you’ll get to see.”
“Fine, but the gas is going on my expense report.”
“Good luck with that. Let me know what happens. Got to run.” The line went dead.
Kouros shut off his phone, ate his souvlaki, and walked back to his car. It seemed a long shot, but Andreas was right about the drive. Gytheio lay across the mountains, a picture perfect harbor town nestled up against the Laconian Gulf in the northeast corner of the Mani. It was the largest town in the Mani, the municipal seat of East Mani, the seaport of ancient Sparta, and a thriving export center during Roman times. A massive earthquake had leveled the place in the fourth century, and it remained a small village until the early nineteenth century when refugees escaping from Greece’s War of Independence got the population growing again. Gytheio returned to glory in the 1960s with its new port.
But Kouros wasn’t going on holiday. He somehow had to find the guy run off by his uncle. As a general rule the best chance at getting dicey information from another service was to put the request on a cop-to-cop, off-the-record basis. Then again, from his experience with cops in this part of the country, he suspected he’d get a warmer reception introducing himself as his uncle’s nephew.
Chapter Twelve
Port police headquarters in Gytheio sat almost directly across from the causeway entrance to the tiny island of Kranae on which mythology had Paris spending his first night with the abducted Helen before spiriting her off to Troy. Kouros pulled into a spot marked RESERVED FOR HCG VEHICLES. A port policeman dressed in a black t-shirt, black military fatigues, and matching baseball cap told him to move along. Kouros showed him his badge and said he was there to see his boss, the Coast Guard harbormaster. In peacetime Greece, the Hellenic Coast Guard also served as its port police.
The man pointed at a two-story, ochre with Greek-blue trim building behind him. “Top floor, second door on the left.”
A second-floor balcony enclosed by a blue metal railing ran across the front of the building. But no one seemed to be taking advantage of the sea view, for dark brown shutters tightly covered every window.
Kouros found the harbormaster’s door open but knocked on it anyway.
A man about Kouros’ age, with close-cropped, jet-black hair and a deep suntan looked up from behind a cluttered desk. “May I help you?”
“I’m Detective Yianni Kouros of GADA. I’m hoping you might be able to help me with a matter I’m looking into in your jurisdiction.”
The man stood and extended his hand. “The name’s Pavlos. Please, sit and tell me how I may help you.”
Taller than Andreas, slim, and wearing a starched white uniform with gold trim, Pavlos looked like a proverbial movie star. Kouros couldn’t help but think it was no wonder these port police guys get all the girls.
They shook hands and Kouros sat down across from Pavlos.
“It’s a delicate matter, and somewhat personal, so I hope I can trust your discretion.”
Pavlos nodded and flashed a George Clooney smile. “You sure do know how to capture my interest.”
Kouros smiled back. “It’s about my uncle.”
Pavlos nodded.
Kouros said his uncle’s name.
Pavlos blinked twice. “He’s your uncle?”
Kouros nodded, “Yes, my name’s been shortened a bit from his.”
Pavlos’ lips went taut.
“As I’m certain you know, my uncle died a few days ago, and at my family’s request I’m making sure nothing’s been missed.”
“Missed?”
“Yes. My uncle’s past left a lot of, shall we say, ‘unsettled grudges’ and the family just wants to make sure none of that played any part in his passing.”
“Which side are you on?” said Pavlos.
“What do you mean?”
“The side that anticipates a new war on the Mani or the side that doesn’t.”
“Let me rephrase my question,” said Kouros. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
The harbormaster shrugged. “You know the routine. We gather intelligence on what’s happening in our port from locals. Dockworkers, fishermen, taverna owners, marine suppliers. They know better than anyone what’s going on. And once in a while we pick up information from someone we arrest. A couple weeks back we picked up a rumor from a guy trying to make a deal to stay out of prison.”
“What sort of rumor?”
“He called it a ‘big project’ involving your uncle that had ‘people up north’ seriously concerned a ‘war’ might break out ‘down in the Mani.’” Pavlos emphasized the words with finger quotes.
“Over a hotel project?”
Pavlos shrugged. “I don’t know what kind of project. All I heard was that it involved your uncle.”
“Who are the ‘people up north’?”
“Don’t know. It came from a smuggler trying to trade what he said was ‘hard’ information against jail time. Turned out all he knew was that there was something big ‘out there’ involving your uncle and that he’d rather go to jail than name the guys up north.” Pavlos smiled. “And so he did.”
“Drug smugglers would lie to God on their deathbeds.”
Pavlos nodded. “But this guy wasn’t a drug smuggler. His deal was arms. We caught him on a freighter bound for North Africa.”
“So ‘north’ to him meant what?’”
“We took it to be the Balkans. The freighter was out of the Balkans and most arms smuggling into that part of Africa runs through the Balkans or the Ukraine.”
“Have you heard of anyone else with an interest in going after my uncle?”
“No. He was pretty much retired as far as I could tell. That’s why I took the smuggler’s talk for the bullshit it was.”
Kouros paused. “There’s one other matter you might be able to help me with. It involves a girl who works in a taverna just south of Vathia. Her name is Stella—”
Before Kouros could say her last name, Pavlos burst out laughing. “Please don’t tell me you’ve heard that story, too.”
“From the way you’re laughing, I think I have.”
“Your uncle was quite a character, God bless his soul. Especially where women were concerned.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“About six months ago he showed up in my office and asked me to help a girl working at a taverna he owned—”
“That ‘he owned’?”
“Yes. At least that’s what he said. He wanted to get her a residency card. I asked why he was going through me, and he said it was delicate. It had to be done without her knowing.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I didn’t. He said everything had been arranged except for her personal interview with the police. He wanted me to sign off on it.”
“What did you say?”
“That I couldn’t possibly do that without meeting her.”
“And?”
“He said that was fine as long as I didn’t tell her the true purpose of my meeting her or of his involvement.” Pavlos burst o
ut laughing again.
“I loved your uncle’s style. He told me to come into the taverna any morning he was there to satisfy myself that the girl actually existed and spoke Greek.” Pavlos shook his head and smiled. “Then he added that he’d really appreciate it if I made him look ‘good’ in the girl’s eyes.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. He sat right there in the same chair you’re in and told me how to play it. I took it to mean he wanted to screw her.” Pavlos shrugged. “I decided what the hell, someday maybe I’d need the same sort of help with a woman.”
Kouros doubted those days were anywhere close for a guy with Pavlos’ looks. “But why go through all that if he was getting her a residency permit? If you wanted to impress an illegal immigrant girl into bed, I can’t imagine anything better than letting her know you’re making her legal.”
“I told him just about the same thing, but he said she wasn’t like that. She’d feel like a hooker if she knew. Besides, he said even if he never got into her pants he wanted to help her out. Her boyfriend was always threatening to turn her in to immigration if she didn’t do what he told her. Your uncle wanted to end all that.”
“Did the boyfriend know?”
“Don’t see how. I’ve told some of my buddies on the force a made-up story about when I was stationed on Mykonos and how an old guy once asked me to play an immigration bad guy to win the heart of a fair maiden. I never mentioned real names or places, and certainly not the residency card shenanigans. Just in case the real story ever got out, I didn’t want to seem more involved than I was, because, even though your uncle’s heart was in the right place, it’s pretty obvious everything wasn’t kosher with her application.”
“Kosher?”
“It’s a Jewish word. Means ‘legit.’ And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread that part of the story around.”
Kouros nodded. “So what’s the status of her residency permit?”
Pavlos shrugged. “She should have it any day.”
“Did my uncle ever sleep with her?”
Pavlos gestured he didn’t know. “Personally, I think she’d have done him even without our little performance. Your uncle was a charmer, good to her, and both of them thought her boyfriend an asshole.”
It seemed his uncle and he agreed on a lot of things. “Any idea why my uncle kept the boyfriend running a place he owned if he thought him an ‘asshole’?”
“Because he was ‘his’ asshole?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?’”
“It’s no secret the boyfriend put his former boss away to die in prison and that your uncle likely set the whole thing up. The boyfriend had no place to run but to your uncle, and my guess is your uncle wanted to keep it that way. Better to have him inside the boat pissing out, than outside pissing in.”
Kouros smiled.
“Those guys up north still haven’t forgiven your uncle or his asshole.”
“Guys up north?”
“By Pirgos, not the Balkans.”
Kouros paused. “That arms smuggler on the Balkan freighter who mentioned ‘people up north.’ What was his nationality?”
“Greek. From Crete.”
“If you’re from Crete, both the Balkans and Pirgos are ‘up north.’”
Pavlos nodded. “And both places have ‘people’ capable of bringing ‘war’ to the Mani.”
Kouros thought but didn’t say, if they haven’t already.
***
“Maggie, it’s Yianni. Is the chief free?”
“He’s in a meeting but I can pull him out if you need him.”
“No, not necessary. Just tell him I spoke to the port police in Gytheio about the girl, Stella, and it looks like my uncle was involved with her in a way that if her boyfriend knew, would definitely make him our likely guy.”
“You make it sound like one of those Turkish soap operas.”
“This one is all Greek. Tell the chief I’ll call back. Any more word on the autopsy?”
“They’re working on it. Hope to have something definitive this afternoon.”
“Terrific. Catch you later.”
“Bye-bye and be careful, my boy.”
As he drove away from the port, a sign for a hotel caught his eye. It incorporated an ancient Mani tower into its design and bore the name of an old, well-respected Mani warrior clan. Maybe his uncle had the right idea and hotels were the way to go. Which gave Kouros an idea.
An hour later he turned right off the main road at a sign to Gerolimenas and wound down a narrow, well-paved road for a half-mile into a tiny harborside village just beyond a broad beach of white pebbles. At the far end of the beach, behind a row of centuries-old homes in need of various levels of attention, gray and terra cotta sheaves of limestone cliffs shot five hundred feet into the sky and ran straight out to sea for almost a mile, offering natural shelter to the harbor from harsh north winds and a perfect haunt for pirate ghosts.
The harbor-front road hosted five tavernas, two rooming houses, a hotel, three private residences, a tiny supermarket, and a hodgepodge of tables, chairs, and umbrellas perched upon a stone apron wider in some spots than the narrow road it abutted. All but one taverna sat across the road from the sea, and all were built of gray and honey color limestone—in recognition, perhaps, of this tiny port town’s survival depending upon a single word: picturesque.
At the other end of the harbor the road turned abruptly west, narrowed by half, and ran between a ramshackle array of melancholy stone huts, homes, and workshops, some teetering on the edge of eroding into rubble. Once tied to lives at sea, their futures now hinged on preservation whims of the sort that had saved the stone buildings just beyond them, the target of Kouros’ journey.
An elegant hotel stood at the southwestern tip of the harbor, offering new life for a long ago bustling dock and warehouse complex. Merchant ships once flocked here to the region’s thriving mercantile center, but now the village depended on tourists looking to spend seaside holidays in quiet seclusion amid memories of a bygone era.
Kouros parked in a tiny courtyard close by a flagstone patio spanned by a stone archway. He found the hotel lobby under the archway to the left, a former nineteenth-century warehouse office appointed with preserved wide plank and stone floors, fieldstone walls, and massive ceiling beams.
He asked the young woman behind the reception desk to please tell her boss, “The new guy from his morning coffee crew would like to see him.”
She relayed the message into a walkie-talkie, paused, and smiled at Kouros. “Mr. Panos would like you to join him for lunch. He’s in the dining room.” She pointed behind him. “It’s in our former warehouse, through those doors on the other side of the patio.”
Like the lobby, the dining room reflected considerable effort at leaving no doubt that this now-elegant space owed its origins to a place of hard, difficult work.
Panos stood by a table at the far end of the room shaking hands with a man in a suit and tie who looked to be in his late thirties. The man had left by the time Kouros reached the table.
“I’m sorry. Did I interrupt something?” asked Kouros.
Panos waved his hand in the direction of the departing man. “More liked saved me. He’s a lawyer from Athens. He came to pitch me with an offer from one of his clients to buy my hotel. Every son of a bitch who got his money out of Greece before the crisis is now running around the country trying to buy the best properties on the cheap. You spared me telling him to go to hell. Nicely, of course.”
“I’m surprised he left so quickly.”
Panos smiled. “I told him an investigator from the tax office was here to see me. I invited him to stay and I’d introduce him. Suddenly he remembered another appointment and bolted.”
Kouros smiled. “Why did you agree to see him?”
“I’m in the hospitalit
y business, and on the high-end side of it. Guys like him, and more importantly, his clients, are my bread and butter. I just listen and graciously decline their offers to steal my business. Even offer to treat them to lunch while they try to screw me. By the way, I hope you like lobster and linguini. It’s what that malaka ordered. Those types always order the same thing, even when they’re paying for it. It’s the most expensive dish on the menu and they think it’s impressive to order. Someday they’ll learn the only thing it impresses is my cash register.”
“Remind me to drop him a thank you. I’d be embarrassed to order more than a chicken souvlaki.”
Panos leaned forward and planted a finger squarely in the middle of Kouros’ chest. “Which is precisely why your uncle thought so highly of you. You’re real.”
Kouros nodded. “Yeah, and by the time this conversation is over you’ll probably be calling me a real pain in the ass.”
Panos laughed. “Just tell me what you want to know.”
Kouros stared straight into Panos’ eyes. “Was my uncle screwing Stella?”
Panos smiled. “I sure as hell hope so.”
“That’s not a helpful answer.”
“How about, ‘With all that he did for her I sure hope she at least gave him a hand-job.’”
“You’re still not helping. Let’s go at this a different way. Just what did he do for her?”
“Scared off the immigration guy.”
Kouros shook his head. “Time for me to become that pain in the ass I promised. We both know that was a full of shit hustle he ran on her just to get in her pants.”
Panos looked away. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Why do I get the impression you’re fucking with me?”
Kouros watched Panos’ face redden. “Be careful what you say.”
“Then be honest in what you say.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
Kouros leaned in, “Since I’m not in the hospitality business, in a word, yes.”
Panos glared at Kouros. Then smiled. “So you know about the port police cop from Gytheio?”
Sons of Sparta: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery Page 12