A jet howling its way out to the runway momentarily drowned out what Edgeworth was trying to say. He waited impatiently and went on after the noise of the plane receded. “I don’t know all of the fine details, but Mastri, I mean Matrazzo, and Iskur, and even that poor bastard, that diplomat who got offed – well, they were all part of an old boy network. From what I understand, it all got started when people who chased around Europe after the war looking for art and stuff the Germans had stolen, guys in CIC and OSS and whatever, learned how much money could be made selling stolen art. So they went on working for all kinds of different parts of the federal government – damn it, they got paid, they got diplomatic passports – look at that guy in Athens.”
“You mean the late Trevor Hughes,” Lucas said bitterly.
“Yeah, him. He was a courier. Even put stolen stuff in the goddamn diplomatic pouch.”
Lucas held the worn worry beads out in the sun. “And Andreas Vassos screwed up a nice thing for them, right?”
Edgeworth gave Lucas a hard look, one that told him to stop and not push any further. “Yea, they killed a cop. A damn good cop. They are going to regret it – and not just the people who aided Matrazzo. Denny McKay got recruited back when he was stationed in Japan. He was a good printer and engraver. They picked him when he was working at a CIA base in Atsugi, creating stuff to help our pilots who got knocked down over North Korea use escape and evasion routes. There are a lot of McKays out there.”
Lucas began to walk away, then stopped and turned to look at Edgeworth. “So who puts them away, sir?” The last word came out with irrepressible bitterness.
Edgeworth clasped his hands behind his back and, rocking slightly back on his heels, evaded Teddy’s eye. “I remember an old scrap of Latin that every police supervisor should worry about.” Edgeworth frowned and pronounced the words carefully: “Quis custodiet ipso custodes? It means: Who will police the police? Teddy, it stops here. We got the guys that pulled the trigger. On a good day, that’s the best we can hope to do.”
Spiro and Anna Grantas greeted their guests in their restaurant’s gaudy lobby. It was a little after eight at night and the band was holding back, husbanding their energy for later, when the Greeks arrived. Lucas stood on top of the steps looking into the crowded restaurant.
Katina watched him walk down and go to the center of the dance floor.
“Music for a Greek,” he shouted in Greek, jolting the musicians out of their lethargy. The men on the bandstand looked down at the stranger and, seeing his red, swollen eyes, understood his needs. The tambourine man raised his shallow drum, shaking the metallic disks as he beat the drum with his fingers. The bouzouki came alive, as did the steel guitar and the Udte.
Lucas, one leg crossed over the other, his arms outstretched at his sides, swayed to the rising and falling sounds of the music. Katina, watching him from the lobby, felt tears come to her eyes.
Lucas slowly began turning his body, swaying to the music, shouting in Greek, “Andreas, look, I’m dancing. I’m dancing.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Black Sand is the story of policemen solving an unusual case. It is not, nor does it pretend to be, an academic work. Any mistakes of a factual or scholarly nature are mine alone and not the responsibility of the many experts who gave their time so generously helping me with my research.
My preparation for Black Sand required extensive reading. Some of the essential books that informed many of the pages of Black Sand are: Plutarch’s Lives, translated by John Dryden; Alexander the Great, by Robin Lane Fox; A Rare Book Saga, by H. P. Kraus; The Iliad of Homer, translated by Richmond Lattimore; Scribes and Scholars – A Guide to the Transmission of Greek and Latin Literature, by L. D. Reynolds and N. G. Wilson; The Treasures of Time, by Leo Deuel; Gods, Graves, and Scholars: The Story of Archaeology, by C. W. Ceram; The Bull from the Sea and The King Must Die, by Mary Renault; The Harvest of Hellenism, by Frank Peters.
I am deeply grateful to the following members of the Hellenic Police Department for their help and for reinforcing my belief that the “Job” is the same the world over: Brigadier General Stephanios Tsintziellis, Security Division; General Stefanos Tsetselia, Security Division, Greek Constabulary (Retired); Colonel Spyros Roikos, Antiquity Squad, Security Division; Major Theodore Charalampopoulos, Interpol, Ministry of Public Order.
I am also indebted to Mr. Yiortos Chouliaras and Mr. George Dardavillas of the Permanent Mission of Greece to the United Nations for helping guide my way through the government bureaucracy and opening so many doors for me; Mrs. JoAnn Tfoukos of the American Women’s Organization of Athens, Greece, and my interpreter in Greece, Mr. Dentrios Mitsos.
Black Sand could not have been written without the generous help of scholars who gave me glimpses into their world of erudition. I am particularly grateful to Dr. Barbara Gail Rowes for pointing me in the right direction, and to Dr. Helen Evans of the Metropolitan Museum of Art for transporting me back in time to the days of Alexander the Great; to Joan Leibovitz of New York University’s Institute of Fine Arts for her help with Ph. D. dissertations and for a tour of the Duke Mansion; to Dr. Marit Jentoft-Neilsen of the J. Paul Getty Museum for showing me how to unroll papyrus scrolls and teaching me the difference between Greek and Roman pottery; to Dr. William Voekle of the Medieval Renaissance Collection of the Pierpont Morgan Library for his help with ancient texts.
To those experts at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Smithsonian Institution’s Freer Gallery of Art who requested anonymity, thank you.
I want to thank Mr. John Ross, Director of Public Relations for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for his help, and Dr. Warren Scherer, Director of Research, Department of Operative Dentistry, New York University’s School of Dentistry, for showing me how to make forensic casts.
I am also grateful to Mr. Artur R. Katon of Issco, Westbury, New York, for teaching me how to use pinhole cameras, and to Mr. Allen Gore of Alert Management Systems for showing me how certain kinds of alarm systems function.
To my friend Mr. Albert Levi, who acted as my Greek translator in New York and who shared with me some of the rich tapestry of Greek life in New York City, I say, Giassou, Albert.
The following members of the New York City Police Department have been most helpful, and I thank them for their kind help and cooperation: Chief of Department Robert J. Johnston Jr., Captain Tom Fahey, Sergeant Donald O’Donnell, Sergeant Peter P. Sweeney, and Police Officer Peter Fokianos, President, Saint Paul’s Society, NYPD.
I am deeply gratful to my agents, Knox Burger and Kitty Sprague, for always being there for me, for their tireless help in working on the manuscripts, their suggestions and many worthwhile criticisms. Thank you for helping the dream continue.
To my editor and good friend James O’Shea Wade, whose magical pencil continues to work wonders, I say, thank you, Jim. And to the members of the Crown Publishing family, whose ceaseless efforts make it all work, I say, thank you, thank you, thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William J. Caunitz was a thirty-year veteran of the New York City Police Department. During his career, he achieved the rank of lieutenant and was assigned commander of a detective squad. At the age of fifty-one, Caunitz began publishing crime novels, which were noted for their realistic depictions of the daily workings of a police precinct, as well as for their sensational plots. He wrote seven novels, and the first, One Police Plaza, was made into a television movie. Caunitz died from pulmonary fibrosis in 1996. His last work, Chains of Command, which was halfway completed at the time, was finished by Christopher Newman, author of the Joe Dante series.
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Copyright © 1989 by William J. Caunitz
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ISBN: 978-1-5040-2830-1
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