"You're a real treasure," she whispered, when she'd finished kissing me. "I know you fly off the handle sometimes and you don't know what you're saying, but deep down you're a little lamb."
Was that a compliment or not? I didn't know. But at any rate she pushed the plate of stuffed tomatoes back in front of me. "C'mon, eat now," she said, becoming bossy. "I'll take it personally if you leave it. I made it specially."
And she made me eat it. She'd outdone herself, and my appetite came back. She just nibbled and watched me, pleased with herself.
"Is that why they put you on the spot last night?" she said suddenly. "Because it's a difficult case?"
"Never mind, they've only got themselves to blame."
"If they had any sense, they'd let you get on with your work and get them out of the mess, instead of playing the big shots."
She'd changed her tune. Now I was right about everything. Not that it bothers me when I'm on the receiving end of compliments, even if I'd paid for it in part. It's not at all unpleasant to be fawned upon. But, actually, I wasn't pleased because of this but because I'd managed to lift her spirits.
CHAPTER 29
The stuffed tomatoes did give me indigestion and I had nightmares all night long. At first, they were about Ghikas, who'd suspended me because I'd put Kolakoglou behind bars. I'd done it, he said, to throw the investigations off course because I was on the take from Pylarinos. He was the one who'd raped the girls and not Kolakoglou. I tried to convince him that I had evidence and proposed to interrogate Kolakoglou in his presence. But when they brought him, it wasn't Kolakoglou; it was Petratos. They sat him down in a chair in front of me and I began shouting at him: "Tell me who gave you the duplicator so you could print the leaflets, otherwise I'll rip your heart out, you commie bastard! You'll go out of here in a coffin!" And Ghikas had taken the place of Kostaras. "That's it. You're doing fine, you're learning," he said with satisfaction. But Petratos kept his mouth shut. Then I began hitting him furiously and at that moment I woke up in a sweat.
Still sleepy, I was sitting at the wheel of the Mirafiori. The indigestion hadn't gone and I kept belching. I was trying to put the information I'd gathered up to now in some kind of order. I still didn't know if I was dealing with one case or two. If the murders of Karayoryi and Kostarakou had any connection with the file Anna Antonakaki had given me, then the murderer was Pylarinos, or someone paid by him. If they weren't connected, then Petratos was still the prime suspect. But one thing kept bugging me: Why did the murderer ransack Kostarakou's apartment when he hadn't touched Karayoryi's? If he was looking for something, shouldn't he have looked there first? Unless he didn't know about this thing when he killed her. Maybe when he heard on the news that Karayoryi had phoned Kostarakou, he'd got a flea in his ear and had gone to see her. The other question was the letter from the unknown N. That pointed to Petratos; it didn't point at all to Pylarinos, whose given name was Christos. If Petratos's handwriting didn't match that of the letter writer, then we had a third candidate on our hands. And we didn't have a shred of evidence to point to any third person. A real mess.
From a distance I caught sight of Thanassis waiting for me in the entrance. As soon as he saw me, he came charging up.
"I called you at home but you'd already left."
"What's going on?"
"We've found Kolakoglou."
From his expression, I guessed that something wasn't right. Normally, he would have swelled up like a peacock. But he seemed worried and scared.
"Where did you find him?"
"He's been staying under another name at the City, a hotel on Nirvana Street, between Acharnon Street and Ionias Avenue." His words came out like blood out of a stone. "He's on the roof of the hotel, holding a gun to his head, and he's threatening to blow his brains out."
"Get a patrol car," I said abruptly.
"I've got one ready. It's waiting for you."
The car's siren moved all the other vehicles aside. We raced down Alexandras Avenue without stopping at any red lights and turned onto Ioulianou Street. That's where it got difficult, because the road was narrow and we kept getting stuck in the traffic.
"Who let us know?" I asked Thanassis, who was sitting next to the driver.
"The crew from Hellas Channel."
"What was Hellas Channel doing there?"
"They were the ones who found him," he replied, and then I understood why he had his head down.
Once again we had our wordless dialogue, like every other morning, but now it was a little later than usual and through the rearview mirror.
He tried to change subjects. "I have something new on Petratos's car.
"Tell me later, because now we've got our work cut out."
Two motorcycle policemen had stopped the traffic at the level of Vourdoupa Street, where Treis Yephyres is. The block between Ionias Avenue, Acharnon Street, and Nirvana and Stephanou Vyzantiou Streets was sealed off by patrol cars, police, and TV crews.
The hotel looked onto the left-hand side of Ionias Avenue. We got out of the car and crossed the bridge over the train tracks on foot. As we passed through the cordon, I glimpsed the Horizon Channel van in front of the hotel entrance, but I couldn't see the crew anywhere. Then, when I got to the hotel, I saw lonias Avenue and Nirvana Street teeming with uniformed policemen, reporters, and cameramen. They were all looking up, as though watching a kite on Shrove Tuesday. I, too, looked up so as not to appear odd.
The balconies on the surrounding apartment blocks were empty and the shutters were down. Evidently, our boys had ordered the neighbors to keep back, and they were watching through the cracks.
"C'mon, get on with it. Some of us have to get to work!" How conscientious of this professional to be on his way to work at ten o'clock.
Kolakoglou was on the roof ledge. He was standing still, with the gun to his head. Dressed in a jacket and tie, he looked like a smalltime businessman who was about to kill himself because he was unable to pay his debts. Below, there was a huge commotion with police officers and reporters all shouting together as if all the noise would convince Kolakoglou to come down.
"Inspector Haritos. Who's in charge here?" I asked an officer standing beside me. He pointed to an older man in uniform, who was holding a bullhorn. I went over to him.
"Inspector Haritos, Homicide Division."
"Since television was invented, it's meant only trouble for us," the man said wearily.
"How did he get up there?"
"I'll tell you what the hotel owner told me." And he did. Kolakoglou had been in the hotel for three days. He'd given his name as Spyrou. No one knew how he'd managed to hole up in there without being seen again.
They thought that someone must have booked the room for him and he'd sneaked in when the receptionist wasn't at her desk, because the owner swore he'd never set eyes on him before. Maybe it was booked for him by the man he was with in the bar. He'd kept himself locked up in his room all day. The reporters from Hellas Channel had shown up first thing in the morning. They'd played it both hot and cold. On the one hand, they'd terrified the owner saying that Kolakoglou was a dangerous criminal, and, on the other, they must have greased his palm so he'd take them up to Kolakoglou's room. They'd begun hammering on the door. He wouldn't open it to them. In the end, they'd threatened to turn him over to the police. And he'd jumped out in front of them, holding the gun to his head. He'd begun shouting that he'd blow his brains out. The other residents in the hotel had been alarmed, the owner had dialed 100. When Kolakoglou had seen our boys arriving, he'd found his way out onto the roof, still holding the gun to his head. That was an hour ago and he was still up there, motionless on the edge of the roof.
While the officer in charge was telling me all this, I saw Petratos and the newscaster coming out of the hotel.