'Here are the photos the lab downloaded from your camera.'
'Thanks, Maggie.' She preferred that to the Greek Margarita.
Andreas placed the half-dozen eight-by-tens on his desk. The crime scene unit had a lot more photographs to study, but he wanted to check for anything that might be helpful in the few he took. He picked up one of the boy's face. Nice-looking kid, he thought. Damn shame.
Maggie was standing on the other side of the desk, staring down at the photos. She'd worked as a police secretary for longer than Andreas had been alive and ages ago forgot her official lowly status in the bureaucratic food chain. 'May I take a look at the one you're holding, Chief?' She reached out and took it without waiting for him to answer.
Andreas couldn't help but smile. He really liked her, and not just because she knew his father from his days as a cop. A lot of people knew his dad, though most wouldn't admit to serving with him during his last years on the force as part of the Junta's secret police. They preferred acting as if they played no part in those seven years of dictatorship. But Maggie was unique. Sure, she had her quirks and told you exactly what was on her mind if you dared to ask, often even if you didn't, but she knew all there was to know about the department and everyone in it. The department was her 24/7 life. She never seemed to leave the building. Pure luck, though some may have described it differently, landed her in his unit. Her long-time boss had announced his retirement a few weeks before Andreas arrived and, when human resources suggested she retire with him, her answer could be heard as far away as Turkey. So, the legendary Maggie Sikestis now reported to Chief Kaldis. Or was it the other way around? Andreas never was quite sure.
'Good-looking boy, Chief.'
'That's what I thought.'
Maggie waved the photograph in her right hand and pursed her lips. 'I've seen this boy before.'
She never ceased to amaze him, but this was too much to believe. 'Maggie, how could you know this kid?' Then he paused. 'He's not a relative or a friend's child, is he?'
'No, nothing like that. I just swear I saw him in one of those tabloids.'
It seemed all of Greece was addicted to National Enquirer-like publications. All except Andreas. He was too busy battling with facts to spend time amidst gossip and rumors.
'I think it was in Espresso, maybe Loipon. Possibly even Hello.' Obviously, Maggie saw her job description differently. 'Wait!' She almost shouted the word, then turned and hurried her sturdy, compact five-foot-three-inch frame out the door.
Andreas picked up the phone and pressed an intercom button. 'Yianni, get in here. Maggie thinks she knows our kid from the dumpster.'
Both arrived at the door together. It looked like a mother and son team. Except Maggie had a bit more hair and dyed it close to red. 'Here it is, Chief.'
He took the paper. The headline read, FAMILIES WHACK AWAY AT WAR, WHO'S NEXT? Andreas hated that sort of headline; it reminded him of what cost him his father.
'It's inside.' Maggie pulled the paper out of his hands, turned to the appropriate page and gave it back to him. 'The boy's picture is here.'
Andreas and Kouros looked to where she pointed. There he was, among photographs of members of the two families. One picture of a pretty girl had an 'x' through it. The caption below the photo said 'Whacked' and gave the link to a website.
'What's this?' he asked Maggie.
Kouros answered. 'She's the granddaughter of the publisher of The Athenian. She was caught on a cell phone camera doing two guys at the same time in a public toilet at a club in Gazi. That's a link to the video.'
He wanted to ask how Yianni knew so much about it but decided not to ask. He probably was the only one in the room, perhaps all of Athens, who hadn't seen it. Andreas sat quietly for a moment staring at the paper, then let out a deep breath. 'All hell's going to break loose when this gets out. Surprised it hasn't already. Better get media affairs ready.'
'I'll take care of it,' said Maggie.
'Yianni, get a home address on the kid's family. We have to get over there before someone in the coroner's office recognizes the kid and tips off the press.' He didn't bother to mention the number of cops who'd like to pick up the money for such a tip.
Kouros left. Andreas turned in his chair and stared at the chart. He wished he could break the news to the family by phone; that way you didn't have to see their grief, feel it, let it get to you. But this wasn't the sort of thing you could do like that. At least he couldn't. He remembered the day he learned his father had killed himself… Andreas tore away from the thought. He waved at the chart. 'Maggie, find a new place for some of this stuff. We have to make room.' A lot of room. If you lived in Athens' northern suburb of Old Psychiko, people were impressed. At least that's what many of its residents hoped. Just north of Athens and west of Kifissias Avenue, it was a refuge of peace, greenery, and high walls for foreign embassies, exclusive private schools, and the upper echelon of Athenian society. A few nearby neighborhoods and one or two to the south might claim to be as tony, but none would dare argue to be greater.
Psychiko's confusing array of one-way streets, winding every which way about its tree-lined slopes and hills, was designed that way for a reason: to keep out the casual passersby. But it hadn't worked as well on the new money crowd. They flocked to the neighborhood, sending prices through the roof for houses they often tore down to build grander homes than their neighbors'. Among long-time residents, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone happy with the changes to their neighborhood. Until it came time to sell, of course.
Kouros knew how to get to Psychiko; his trouble was finding a way to get to the house. They passed the same kiosk twice trying to find the correct connecting road to the one-way street they were looking for.
'Screw it,' said Andreas. 'Turn up here,' pointing at a DO NOT ENTER sign marking the end of the street they wanted.
About a quarter-mile up the road, an eight-foot-high, white concrete-stucco wall ran for about one hundred feet along the right side of the street. A ten-foot-high, black wrought iron gate stood midway along the wall. The gate's leaf-and-tendril design was so tightly spaced not even a cat could squeeze through.
They parked outside the gate, and Kouros walked to the intercom on the wall by the left side of the gate. He identified himself and held his police ID up to the camera. They were buzzed in and made their way along a stone path winding around closely planted eucalyptus, lemon, bougainvillea, and oleander shielding the house from the gate. Andreas thought a lot of care must go into this place. A man waited for them outside the front door. He asked to see their identification again. When he asked the purpose for their visit, Andreas told him, 'It's a personal, family matter.'
The man took out his cell phone and called someone. Andreas' eyes scanned the front of the three-story building. Hard to imagine it was only a house. 'I could live here,' he said to Kouros.
'I'd never find my way home at night.'
'Who said I'd ever leave?'
'Gentlemen, please, come with me.' The man gestured toward the open front door. He showed them into a room most would call a living room but, between the front door and where they stood, they'd passed through so many others Andreas would call a living room that he couldn't guess what this one might be called.
'Please, wait here. Would you like something to drink?'
'No, thank you,' said Andreas. He felt out of place in these surroundings, or maybe it was the purpose of his visit, but whatever the reason he sensed his hand might shake slightly if he held a glass. Adrenaline could do that. He preferred his hands free.