‘‘I want to see my brother,’’ she said, with a crackling voice.
‘‘All in good time, ma’am. I understand this is a very stressful time for you and your loved ones, but you have to understand that this is a murder case. It has been days since your brother’s murder and to be honest, we need your help to catch the person responsible.”
‘‘I… I don’t know what it is you think I could help you with. What do you want me to say?’’ she answered, slightly confused.
‘‘Mrs Blair, as you have been informed, your brother’s ex-wife was also murdered. By the same killer. This cannot be a coincidence. Do you know anyone who would want to hurt them? Any known enemies? Any disagreements that they may have had?’’
‘‘My brother is… was… the CEO of a major pharmaceutical company, PharmaBlair if you’ve heard of it.”
I nodded with a slight smile, even though I had never heard such a name before. I wanted her to feel comfortable and open up to us. Ioli had caught on to how Jenny Blair relaxed with hearing my accent and sat back listening to us while her eyes revealed that her brain was processing everything said.
‘‘Of course he had enemies and jealous foes, but I doubt anyone would go as far as this. And poor Stacy? She was truly the most loving person and had nothing to do with my brother’s business. They were a great couple with many friends and if it wasn’t for my brother’s erotic… escapades, they’d still be together. He loved Stacy and she was crazy for him. You see, my brother had a thing for beautiful, young, twenty-year-olds and cheated on Stacy a few times too many. He had agreed to enroll in a sex therapy program, but the trust between them was long lost. I still can’t believe they are both gone,’’ she cried, and the tears started to fall.
My hand reached out and gently touched hers. ‘‘Mrs Blair, we are doing everything in our power to bring the person responsible to justice. At the moment, I need you to be strong and concentrate. Here you go,’’ I said, and passed her a block of papers and a pen. ‘‘Please list anyone you can think who for whatever reason had any disagreements with your brother or Stacy and why. Anything you can remember. Deals gone bad, arguments over money, the business… everything. We’ll leave you alone for a while and when we come back, we’ll get an officer to take you to your brother,’’ I said, feeling sorry for the distressed woman and for what she was going to face at the coroner.
‘‘Thank you,’’ she responded, and started to write.
Ioli got up first, smiled at Mrs Blair and exited the small, dimly lit room. She was eager to check up with her team. She had officers checking up on everything. Rental car agencies, flights to Crete, ship departures from Crete to Samos in the time between the two murders, and interviews with locals and tourists around the murder area. Samo’s police department was doing the same, but nothing had yet come up. All dead ends. I could not shake the awful feeling that with no suspect, no evidence besides two naked bodies without DNA left on them, and no sign of fingerprints, our killer was eluding us. We had to be missing something here. There is no such thing as a perfect murder.
*****
Chapter 6
Greek History and Mythology professor, Michael D. Johnson woke up at six in the morning like he always did and got out of bed having enjoyed a good night’s sleep. He never had time to relax back home with all his ongoing work at UCLA where he taught. Now, exams had been marked, his latest book about the outcome and aftermath of the Trojan War had finally been completed and he had been invited to speak the day before at a history conference, here in Cyprus. He flew to Cyprus through Athens and was glad his transit flight had been delayed due to union strikes. He spent the day visiting the Acropolis and the famous temple of Athena, the Parthenon. He stood there, still between the herds of tourists; eyes closed picturing how life was back then. The professor wished that one day he would receive enough grant money to visit important Hellenic sites, like the Acropolis, with his post-graduate students. He desired them to love Greece and its enthralling history as much as he did.
Michael went over to the large window on his right, pulled the blue silk curtain wide open and stared into the tiny fraction of the sun that was sneaking up from the horizon, being born out of the sea.
‘‘Just like Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty herself,’’ he thought and at that moment he knew how he would be spending his morning. Petra tou Romiou or Aphrodite’s Rock as it is commonly known was only a five-minute-drive away. This is the sea, where according to myth the goddess of beauty, Aphrodite was born. As blood from the god Uranus –or his testicles, according to more hardcore myths-fell into the ocean, the most exquisite and beautiful woman ever to walk this earth came out of the thrashing waves.
After a quick visit to the delicious ‘what-to-eat-first’ breakfast buffet at the Aphrodite Hill Resort where he was staying, the professor was ready to go down to the rock for a swim.
‘‘Perhaps I’ll swim around the rock three times backwards,’’ he joked to himself as he turned the key and brought to life the engine of his rental Mazda 3. Legend has it that if you swam around the rock backwards three times, then the goddess herself would grant you with beauty beyond words. Not that the professor needed much help in that department. An athletic, young-looking, forty-year old with careless blond hair and turquoise eyes; he was quite the handsome man. Not that he ever had much time for the ladies who, with great disappointment, discovered that he was married to his career.
At ten minutes to seven, he was the first one to the beach. He walked down to the shore, laid down his Scooby-Do towel and sat there enjoying the endless blue sea, the sounds of the waves hitting the tiny beach pebbles and the cool morning breeze. He rarely felt this carefree as he looked upon the rock imagining Aphrodite being born. As he stood up, sun in his eyes, he thought he was going crazy.
‘‘My mind must be playing tricks on me,’’ he said as he saw Aphrodite herself standing there upon her rock. He placed his hand above his eyes and tried to focus as he moved closer to the sea.
He never knew he could scream so loud. A wild cry came out of his lips as he stumbled backwards and fell into the sand. He looked around, desperately searching for someone in sight. He was alone.
The professor ran to his car and picked up his cell phone.
‘‘Shit, what’s the number to 911 in this country?’’ he yelled to himself. He scrolled down his contact list and with relief he found the hotel’s phone number.
‘‘Aphrodite Hills Resort, how may I help you?’’ the receptionist asked in a formal voice.
‘‘The number to the police, what is it?’’ he said in a panic.
‘‘Is something wrong, sir?’’ she inquired dropping her formal tone.
‘‘Just give me the goddamned number… now!’’ he yelled.
‘‘It is 112 sir, but if I…’’ she replied and the professor hung up to dial the police.
‘‘Astynomia, parakalw?’’
‘‘English. Do you speak English?’’ he asked hysterically.
‘‘Yes, sir. What is your emergency?’’
‘‘I’m at Petra tou Romiou. Come as fast as you can. There’s a girl here and… and her arms have been cut off.”
*****
Chapter 7
Since we were not catching any leads investigating Eric Blair’s murder, we decided to go over the case files from the murder of the ex-wife. We had both already gone over the coroner’s report and photos from the crime scene, however, we were hoping that maybe by reading it together, something new would pop up.
‘‘You might say or notice something and spark my little grey cells,’’ I said.
‘‘Whatever, Poirot,’’ she replied, and rolled her eyes.
‘‘Yes, I read Agatha Christie. I doubt you will find a true investigator who doesn’t enjoy some Hercule Poirot or some Sherlock Holmes every now and then,’’ I remarked.
We had also received files sent over by our labs in Athens and we were eager to find out what the lab rats had come up with.
We had everything set in front of us on the small white table in the same interrogation room we had sat with Mrs Blair. Just as I was about to suggest we start with the lab results, Ioli grabbed all the files, stood up and said, ‘‘I’m suffocating in here and I cannot concentrate at all when I’m hungry. Want to go to an amazing tavern I know, grab a bite and go over the case there? Maybe the waiter will be too scared to bring us the bill,’’ she laughed away as she held up the case photos.
“Who am I to argue when food is being offered?” I replied and soon we were back on the road.
Ela Taverna was situated in a quiet, little back street in downtown Chania and it was an idyllic place to sit back, relax and discuss the case. The shade from the pink bougainvilleas covered the tavern’s mahogany tables and was an oasis away from the burning Cretan sun. Moments later we were joined by an amiable and agile waitress. The dowdy blonde with rosy cheeks took our order with a wide, sincere, Greek island smile. We ordered Greek salad, pita bread with taramosalata, octopus, calamari, some home grown, home cooked French fries and a couple of bottles of ice-cold beers. This truly was a step up from my takeaway meals back in Athens.
I hadn’t really opened up to Ioli yet and had not shared my views about our case. Not that I am not a team player. On the contrary, I’m a firm believer that it takes teamwork to bring in a suspect, especially one who obviously had carefully planned and executed his murders. I like to be sure before I speak; to let things swirl around in my brain before connecting and finally settling down.
‘‘I believe we are looking for one murderer, a tall and quite strong male, most likely a foreigner with knowledge of the Greek seas. Someone who owns their own boat for sure. As for age, I do not know. Anything from eighteen to fit enough to sail around and to carry Eric Blair. Probably someone who knew the two victims as this seems to be a revenge plan against them,’’ I said as Ioli was ready to dip her pita bread in the taramosalata. She paused, looked at me and I could nearly hear her fastidious brain processing everything I had just said.
‘‘I’m not saying that I disagree with you, but can you elaborate on how you reached these conclusions?’’ she said and finally dipped the round end of her pita bread in the pink tarama.
‘‘One murderer. This is obviously the work of a maniac. He killed and he killed viciously. Maniacs tend to work alone. Male. I base this on the needed strength to carry and tie Eric Blair. Also, the force used to stab and cut open a head and a woman’s lower body. If we had two non-connected victims, I would say we were looking for a Greek, but as it seems, the killer knew the victims. He must be a foreigner, most likely American like the victims. However, to sail from Crete to Samos with his own boat, he must have knowledge of the area and good sailing skills. His own boat. Your team checked everyone on the ferry that left after the first murder and arrived before the second and there aren’t any direct flights between Crete and Samos. He wouldn’t have enough time to fly to Athens and wait until the next day to fly out to Samos. I don’t think he would have had the patience either. After the thrill of the first kill, this guy needed to kill again.”
‘‘Foreigner with knowledge of the area? Might be Greek-American,’’ she said, and gave me a suspicious look before smiling and giving me a gentle nudge with her left fist. She then picked up the file from the labs in Athens. We were both eager to see if any light would shine on our in-the-dark case. Before opening the large, brown envelope she asked, “what do you think the pomegranate stands for?”
“Well, it is a known symbol of fertility.”
“I was wondering if we checked if the victim was pregnant or had any problems having kids.”
“The coroner in Samos would have written it in his report if she was pregnant though we should give him a call and make sure. As for any pregnancy problems, we could get in touch with Eric’s sister before she leaves.”
“I need a reason, you know? I mean, you don’t place a pomegranate in a woman’s vagina for no reason.”
“Or cut open somebody’s head,” I added.
“If we find the meaning in his symbols maybe we will find a connection to the killer who as we agree, most likely, knew the victims.”
She did not wait for a reply. She pulled out the papers from the envelope and looked down at them. Her eyes scrolled up and down the documents for a few seconds and then she said, ‘‘they have identified our murder weapon. It’s an Imperial Bowie knife and listen to this, it’s vintage. Most likely from the late sixties, early seventies. Thousands were made and sold in most western countries. Not much help there,’’ she said and paused to check my reaction. I nodded with a slight smile. ‘‘Ah, this is interesting. Eric Blair was drugged,’’ she continued.
‘‘Drugged?’’ I asked.
‘‘In Eric Blair’s body we found remains from powerful sedatives called Alpha-2 drugs and Acepromazine (ACP) used mostly on horses during operations,’’ she read from the report. ‘‘It says that the combination of the two drugs in the right amount would sedate the victim within less than a minute. No such sedatives were found in the body of the second victim, Stacy Anderson Blair.”
‘‘So that’s how he got Eric to the oak and as Stacy was not drugged she was most likely already down on that isolated beach.’’
“We need to call the coroner and ask him to check for a needle entry on Eric’s body. Does it mention if the sedative could have been inhaled?” I asked.
Her eyes moved rapidly across the document.
‘‘No. Just that remains were found in the body. Maybe we should call the lab and make sure.”
She paused for a second and continued, “the rest is known to us. It goes on about pre and post trauma stabs. What the victims had eaten etc, etc. Here have a read,’’ she said, and passed me the papers.
As I was reading, Ioli kept herself busy with her well-cooked meal. Suddenly, she looked up and out of the blue she asked, ‘‘why did you leave New York?’’
The question caught me off guard. ‘‘Well… I…’’ I said, trying to take my focus off the document and focus on an answer.
‘‘None of my fucking business, right, sorry, too personal,’’ she rushed to say. ‘‘It’s just…’’
‘‘It’s just been bothering you and you could not get the thought out of your head,’’ I replied. ‘‘You would not be an investigator Cara if you didn’t ponder upon it. Anyway, to satisfy your curiosity, my wife left me and I needed to get away.”
‘‘And you gave up your life and your career for a woman?’’ she instantly said in obvious shock. ‘‘Sorry,’’ she added hastily as she realised that she had crossed the line. Her indiscretion provoked an answer I had not uttered before in Greece.
‘‘She left me because she blamed me for the death of our daughter… I blamed me too,’’ I said dryly.
Ioli sat up, all of a sudden feeling uncomfortable in her chair, hoping that the earth below her would open up and swallow her whole.
‘‘I’m really sorry. I did not mean to stir the past. I was just trying to make small talk and get to know you. I did not know you were married,’’ she said in a hurry as she noticed the white circle round my index finger and thought to herself, ‘‘yeah, I’m a great investigator, did not even notice that he used to wear a wedding ring.”
‘‘It’s ok, ancient history, don’t stress about it. Let’s enjoy our meal,’’ I said, and looked away.
Cold silence filled the air as our eyes focused on our octopus and calamari which we consumed without talking or making any sort of eye contact. The Greek singer Anna Vissi finally broke the silence as Ioli’s phone started to sing.
‘‘Hey mum,’’ she answered. ‘‘Yes, mum, I have eaten! I’m not five you know.”
This is where I would have made a joke about overprotective Greek mothers whose main worry is to feed their children until the day they die; however, I was not in the mood to be funny. My mind was travelling over oceans and back in time to my apartment, back in N.Y., where my love for Tracy was housed.
I could see her, elegant as always, cooking an amazing roast dinner in our small kitchen whilst my angel, Gaby, was drawing on the kitchen table. She would have been eleven now. My baby girl, my life, gunned down in the street by the drug gang whose ringleader, a Jesus Sanchez, I had shot dead during a bust… an eye for an eye!
*****
Chapter 8
New York – Two years earlier
It had been the perfect family day out.
The Bronx River Festival took place on a warm July Saturday. My beautiful wife Tracy and I were with our little nine year old angel, Gabriella riding upon 2Train heading to Burke Avenue, west of Bronx Park where the festival was in full swing. Gabriella looked stunningly beautiful for a young girl, in her white Benetton dress and her hair tied up into two ponytails.
‘‘She is as excited as a porcupine meeting a pineapple,’’ Tracy joked and we all laughed. Gabriella always laughed at her mother’s sayings, even though most of the time she had no idea what she was talking about. Why would a porcupine be so happy to meet a pineapple anyway?
The Bronx River Festival is a celebration of the Bronx River with loads of activities on deck for the entire family. Gabriella was eagerly looking forward to the nature scavenger hunt where she had high hopes of proving daddy what a good little investigator she was. Tracy was going to take part in all calorie-burning activities like capoeira and power yoga while I would stand by a tree smoking in secret so Gabriella would not see me. I would stand there all day if Tracy let me, admiring the two of them and occasionally waving and giving a thumbs-up to every, ‘‘daddy, daddy look.”
The festival did justice to the saying time flies when you’re having fun and four hours went by without any of us noticing. Soon, it was time to head back home.
Greek Island Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-2-3): Gripping, psychological mystery/thrillers destined to shock you! Page 3