Greek Island Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-2-3): Gripping, psychological mystery/thrillers destined to shock you!

by Luke Christodoulou

  Ioli followed the knife forward and hit back with all her strength, head butting the professor in the face. She ran forward and two shots were fired.

  My bullet swirled through the room and hit the professor hard on the chest, pushing him down to the floor. The professor’s bullet hit Ioli in the back and she fell forward into my arms. The swat team filled the room while Ioli lay in my arms, breathing heavily. Her blood oozing out quick.

  “No, not again,” I thought.

  “I need a paramedic here,” I yelled.

  “Thank you,” she said and swallowed hard. I looked down at her with watery eyes.

  “Another case solved,” she said, and smiled before coughing out blood and closing her eyes…

  *****

  Chapter 38

  New York, three days earlier

  The plane touched down at JFK airport and I was feeling disoriented in time. I had left Athens with the sun in my face and now thirteen hours later and the sun was still facing me. I took comfort in managing to sleep for most part of my time in the air. I dreaded the fact that in a couple of days I would be entering the metallic prison bird once again for another double digit hour flight with at least an hour stop in Heathrow, London. All thoughts of the flight were washed away as I walked out the airport’s see-through doors to find Jimmy arguing with a cab driver about taking his space.

  “Costa!” he shouted with his distinctive cheerful tone and ignoring the red-faced driver who was cursing the feds and their ways. He rushed towards me and opened his big arms out wide and I walked into his brotherly hug.

  “Hey, bro. Thanks for coming.”

  “Anytime, my man. You owe me one. If your mother knew you were here and that I kept it a secret, she would kill me and then call up Toula to apologise!”

  I threw my head back and laughed. It always amazed me how good Jimmy made me feel. To be honest, he was really the only one I missed in America. The bond between men that grew up together is hard to explain and even harder to break.

  “Here you go,” he said and passed me a bunch of printouts that he had scribbled on. I read through them as Jimmy drove through my city. New York would always be home. A home that I did not feel like home anymore. The professor taught at UCLA, but he was in New York in June, giving lectures about the outcome of the Trojan War and how it affected the Hellenic society of the time. Apparently, he stayed in the city after the series of lectures and on Wednesday, the 24th of July, the night Eric Blair was killed, he attended a formal gala hosted by the America’s Historian Society that took place at NYU. His flight to Athens was booked for Saturday, the 27th. However, as Jimmy found out after my request, the professor never boarded the plane. The only plane that he did board was the one from Athens to Cyprus on Monday the 29th. How the hell did he get to Athens? And how did he kill Eric Blair if he was at a gala on the other side of the planet?

  My thoughts swirled through my mind as I gazed upon Meadow Lake. Jimmy turned at Corona Park and took the 495. Soon we would be at New York University. I could only hope for answers.

  “Did you read about the librarian?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Jesus, you are a slow reader. I already checked up on the gala. A librarian, Aliza Lowitz, was his date for the evening. We are meeting her at Elmer Holmes Bobst Library in half an hour. If she confirms she was with your professor then that blows your theory out of the water.”

  “You’re the best, Jimmy.”

  “I know. Call my jerk of a boss and tell him that. I deserve a raise!”

  “How’s life going by the way?” I asked.

  “Shit, but it’s liveable. I miss you man,” he answered frankly like he always did.

  “I know. Who wouldn’t?” I said and continued my apparently slow reading. Before I reached the end of his notes, Jimmy had parked his spotless, white Buick Enclave opposite the south facade of the twelve story library, along west 3rd street.

  “I never could understand what fucking colour this building is,” Jimmy said as we stepped out of the car.

  “It’s a kind reddish, pinkish, faded brown.”

  “Well, that’s another mystery solved by the great detective Costa Papacosta!” he said and started to walk towards the building, beeping his car to lock.

  We walked through the main entrance and looked up. The building had surely changed since last time I was here. Tracy had been a law student here. She would spend hours in the library and time was never enough. I remember standing outside my old yet trustworthy banger of a car, smoking another cigarette as she had not finished studying on time. She would run out apologising and always reward me with a one of those passionate, wild kisses that as we grow older we forget to give.

  Plexiglas barricades stood tall on each floor and work was undergoing on a fencing construct over the see-through barricades.

  “Why are they ruining the place?” I complained.

  “They can’t seem to be able to stop students leaping to their deaths.”

  “I remember hearing about a couple of incidents quite a while back…”

  “Well, there have been new attempts. One was successful. Somehow, he managed to climb over the barricades and fly to the ground.”

  I was ready to answer Jimmy something along the lines of how it was a shame at such a young age to feel that life had nothing to offer you but I did not utter a single word. A very stylish forty-something year old woman with chestnut hair and large round brown eyes approached us.

  She stood opposite us, took off her reading glasses and introduced herself.

  “I am Aliza Lowitz. How do you do?” she asked, but did not wait to receive an answer. “I would prefer we spoke outside. It is such a fine day, shame to lock ourselves up. I have made sandwiches.”

  “Guess we do stick out from the crowd. I am Costa Papacosta and this is…”

  “Jimmy. Enchantée.”

  “I’m sure you are. Follow me boys,” she said, and cat-walked herself out the building, leaving us no option but to follow her to what she described her favourite spot on the grass.

  “Sit down. It’s quite clean, I can assure you. This is where I eat most of my lunches. Here. Hope you like pastrami,” she said and passed us our sandwiches.

  “Guess it can get stuffy in there with all those books” Jimmy said. Aliza gave him an empty look. She was a librarian. Books were never stuffy to her.

  “I respect the books too much to dirty their place with food.”

  She was an honest lady and that is my favourite characteristic with potential witnesses.

  “Aliza. Can I call you Aliza?” I asked.

  “That is my name,” she replied and bit down into her sandwich. She seemed to be enjoying our little picnic.

  “Aliza, we are here to ask you a few questions regarding a history professor, a Michael Johnson.”

  “Yes, I already know that. The enchanted fed guy next to you told me so over the phone,” she said and took another substantial bite. With a wide smile I asked her to confirm that she was with the professor on the night of the faculties’ gala, the 24th of July. I passed her the photograph of the professor that I had downloaded and enlarged from UCLA’s web page.

  “Yes, that’s him. And yes, we were together that night. He escorted me to the party.”

  “How well do you know Michael?” Jimmy asked.

  “Not so well, but he seems like a pleasant guy. I have a special itch for history and we had met a few times before at various seminars. I participated in his lectures this summer, providing him with all the books he would be needing. I guess to thank me, he asked me out.”

  “And you were with him the entire party? Afterwards?” I inquired.

  “That is a bit of an offensive question,” she said, not sounding offended at all.

  “I don’t mean it that way. I am just trying to form a time frame of his whereabouts,” I said and she still did not ask why we were asking all these questions. Not once did she show any signs of wanting to know what this was
all about.

  “Time frame? Well, he was very punctual. I remember he picked me up at nine o’clock sharp; I was obviously not ready. We went straight to the gala. It must have been past one o’clock when we parked outside my house. He did not stay the night,” she stated the last sentence with slight regret.

  “Didn’t go as well as you wished? If you don’t mind me asking that is,” I said and smiled for an answer.

  “To be completely honest, I thought it was leading somewhere, but the night of the gala, he was a bit… off. He never made a move so neither did I.”

  “A bit off? Can you elaborate in what manner?” Jimmy asked.

  “I know this may seem kind of strange to you, but for me it mattered. He did not speak about history all night. I mean nothing at all. I had never been with him more than ten minutes without him saying something related to the past.”

  “Do you know what hotel he was staying at?”

  “The Ritz-Calton, central park,” she said with admiration and a wide opening of the eyes.

  We thanked her for her help, her company and of course her delicious sandwiches.

  “Thank you for adding to my otherwise same routine.”

  We started to turn, to walk away when I felt I could not leave without an answer.

  “Aliza, can I ask you one last question? Why are you not interested in finding out why we are investigating him?”

  She smiled. “I guess most do ask that first. Well, as he was with me, it means he was not where you think he was, not doing what you think he was. Right?”

  “That is what we are trying to find out. Thanks again. Have a nice day.”

  “Weird chick,” Jimmy whispered in my ear as we approached his car.

  “Helpful chick though. Take us to the hotel.”

  “Aye, aye El Capitan!” he joked and sped to our destination.

  I had no time to waste so I let Jimmy do his whole FBI emergency performance and in a matter of minutes we were sitting opposite the hotel’s manager explaining that we had no warrant but it was really a matter of life and death.

  “Serial killer you say?” the pale, fifty-year-old said, lowering his reading glasses to glance a better look at us.

  “You do realise I cannot give out information…”

  “We are well aware of the circumstances, Mr Roberts. However, we require no records or any testimonies. Just a simple yes or no to help us with our case. We only need to know if a Michael Johnson stayed here on the night of the 24th of July.”

  He read my face for a second and without replying, turned to his computer’s screen. A minute of typing and pressing enter later, he looked up. He took off his glasses and coughed.

  “No.”

  I could not help but smile.

  “Though his name does show up on a receipt.”

  “Meaning?” Jimmy asked.

  “Meaning he paid for someone else to stay in the room.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Gentlemen, you asked me for a yes or no. No, the man you said did not stay at our hotel. You are placing me in a very discomforting position. I am not at liberty to reveal names of our guests.”

  “Mr Roberts, this man has slaughtered and beheaded a set of young twins. He has murdered innocent women and tortured them in ways I do not wish to describe.”

  “I am afraid I am going to have to ask you to go,” he said.

  “Mr Roberts…”

  “Wait, my phone,” he said even though his phone made no sound or move. He got up and turned his computer’s screen slightly towards us. He walked over to the window apparently talking on the phone.

  Room 317. July 22nd-July 25th. One guest. Alfred T. Lawrence. Billing: Michael D. Johnson.

  “I am sorry about that,” Mr Roberts said, placing his phone back on the wooden office desk.

  “No problem. We are thankful for your help. Have a good day, sir,” I said and left the office satisfied. As the elevator doors opened, Jimmy dialled his secretary and asked for all information on Alfred T. Lawrence.

  Either FBI secretaries were amazing either the FBI system is astonishing. Maybe both. All I know is that in the eight minute drive along Broadway, the one minute along West 4th street, the one minute to park and the two minutes up to the 23rd floor of the Federal Plaza building, Jimmy’s secretary had formed a list with all the Alfred T. Lawrences currently residing in the States. We easily cut down the number by using an age margin. Thirty to fifty years of age brought our Alfreds down to forty one. I flicked through their passport card photographs and you can imagine my shock when on the computer screen opposite me appeared the professor, the name Alfred Theodore Lawrence underneath it.

  “Michael Johnson is an alias?” Jimmy asked.

  “It says here, that he lives in Utah and works as a used car salesman. He is married with three children, a boy and two daughters. How can it be an alias? The professor has lectures every week at UCLA.”

  “Nothing is making sense. What are you doing?” Jimmy asked as I picked up the phone.

  “I’m going to call him. It has a land line listed.”

  The second between every dial tone seemed to take forever. I was about to give up when a sweet, happy woman’s voice was heard.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. May I speak to Alfred, please?”

  “Sure. Just a sec. Who may I say is calling?”

  The question caught me off guard. I was not expecting him to be home.

  “The FBI,” Jimmy said and winked at me.

  “You get more answers and quicker this way,” he whispered in my ear.

  “The FBI?” she asked and her tone changed. “What do you want with my husband? We run an honest business and…”

  “Nothing to do with your business, ma’am. Just a couple of routine questions.”

  She did not reply. We faintly heard her order the kids out to the garden to play and her calling to her husband.

  “Yes?” the man’s voice was heard.

  “Alfred T. Lawrence?”

  “Yes, this is he. My wife said you were with the FBI?”

  “Yes, sir. There seems to be a sort of mix up. Did you stay at the Ritz-Carlton in New York last July?”

  A moment’s pause passed before he admitted that he had.

  “What was the reason for your stay, sir?” I asked.

  “I’m I in trouble? What is this about?” he asked, stumbling on every other word.

  “Do you know a Michael D. Johnson?”

  “Yes, he is my twin brother.”

  “Twin brother? Our records show that Michael Johnson has no siblings.”

  “Yes, your records would show that. My biological mother gave me up at birth and kept only Michael. She was a seventeen year old girl, unmarried. I guess she thought it was for the best. Anyway, I did not even know about Michael’s existence until last year when he approached me at my work. You can imagine my shock when I saw myself walk into my office. Is he in trouble?”

  “Not yet, sir. We are trying to clarify a few details about his whereabouts. So it was you that took the librarian to the ball?”

  “Yes. I meant no harm. Michael said he had other engagements and needed my help. He offered me $5,000 and three nights at the Ritz. I would have been mad to turn him down. Things have been rough, with the economy down and all. And suddenly, a rich twin brother shows up out of the blue offering money.”

  “Rich, you say?” I asked.

  “Yes. You see, Michael ended up for adoption too, to a wealthy family in Los Angeles. He must have been eleven or twelve at the time.”

  “Why was he given for adoption at such an age?”

  “Oh, it was tragic he said. His… our mother Katie and her partner were shot to death by a burglar.”

  “Mr Lawrence, thank you for all your help. May I request that if your brother gets in touch with you, tell him nothing about our conversation and call FBI agent Jimmy Papandreou on 2-1-2-3-8-4-1000.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said and hung up. I could
not believe it. A twin brother. And all along Michael was already in Greece.

  “Jimmy, get your amazing secretary to check for Michael Johnson’s flight to Greece. You search for the Johnson family that adopted him and I will look into his mother’s death. And quick. I need to get back to Greece as soon as possible!”

  *****

  Chapter 39

  This time Morpheus did not provide me with sleep. The hours of the flight to Heathrow were agonising. All the puzzle pieces had fallen into place. Where there were once scattered incomprehensible fragments of events now stood a clear picture. Katie Bishop gave birth to identical twin boys. One was given up at birth for adoption to a family of farmers in Utah while the second one was named Michael after the father of the mother’s partner, Alexandros Petride. When Michael was thirteen, a burglar broke into their apartment and apparently shot both adults dead. The only account of the night’s events was of Michael’s. The boy was taken into custody and sent to an orphanage that dealt with children and teens with traumatising pasts. The psychologist reports of the time spoke of a highly intelligent and cunning, young adolescent. The boy often got into fights with other children and the orphanage staff as he did not respond well to being touched. Psychologist suspected abuse, however Michael never opened up in any of his sessions. He only seemed to get along well with the orphanage’s benefactor, Mrs Rebecca Johnson, a wealthy philanthropist from Los Angeles who eventually adopted the smart and handsome young teenager. The Johnson family raised him like one of their own and offered the intelligent youth the finest education. He grew up on the Johnson’s ranch where no doubt he learned how the horses were given sedatives. The family spent most of their summers in Greece; cruising the Greek islands on their yacht. Young Michael had a talent for sailing and participated in many local races and events. The Johnson family was acquainted with the Blair family and Mrs Rebecca organised many charity events with Eric Blair’s mother. No doubt Michael heard about the Blair’s divorce and their plans to travel to Greece. He had flown to Greece through Mexico on the 5th of June, having crossed the border by car. He was in Cyprus at the time of the Aphrodite murder. He was in Greece at the time of the twins’ murder. He was in Lemnos at the time of the attack of the blacksmith. There was no doubt in my mind that Michael D. Johnson was The Olympus Killer.