Panos leaned forward and planted a finger squarely in the middle of Kouros’ chest. “Which is precisely why your uncle thought so highly of you. You’re real.”
Kouros nodded. “Yeah, and by the time this conversation is over you’ll probably be calling me a real pain in the ass.”
Panos laughed. “Just tell me what you want to know.”
Kouros stared straight into Panos’ eyes. “Was my uncle screwing Stella?”
Panos smiled. “I sure as hell hope so.”
“That’s not a helpful answer.”
“How about, ‘With all that he did for her I sure hope she at least gave him a hand-job.’”
“You’re still not helping. Let’s go at this a different way. Just what did he do for her?”
“Scared off the immigration guy.”
Kouros shook his head. “Time for me to become that pain in the ass I promised. We both know that was a full of shit hustle he ran on her just to get in her pants.”
Panos looked away. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Why do I get the impression you’re fucking with me?”
Kouros watched Panos’ face redden. “Be careful what you say.”
“Then be honest in what you say.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
Kouros leaned in, “Since I’m not in the hospitality business, in a word, yes.”
Panos glared at Kouros. Then smiled. “So you know about the port police cop from Gytheio?”
Kouros nodded. “And?”
“And what?”
“Stop making me pull teeth here, Panos.”
“The residency card?”
“Bingo, we have a winner.”
“I go back to my original question, ‘Was my uncle screwing, Stella?’”
“Only a few times. That I know of.”
“How would you know?”
“He used my hotel. He’d bring her here when Babis was away.”
“Away?”
“Athens, wherever.”
“How often was he away?”
“Not enough for your uncle.” Panos smiled. “Maybe once, twice a month.”
“How did you find out about the port police cop and the residency card?”
“Your uncle told me. He knew I’d find out about him and Stella using my hotel and didn’t want me talking to the guys about it. So, on the condition I’d keep it just between us, he told me about the song and dance he’d arranged to put on at the taverna to get Stella her card.”
“And now for the big question. Did Babis have any idea my uncle was screwing her?”
“Why? Do you think his death wasn’t an accident?”
“The rules are that I ask the questions and you give the answers.”
Panos bit at his lower lip. “I don’t know.”
“Does that mean maybe?”
Panos shrugged.
“Aside from my uncle, Stella, and you, who else knew they were screwing?”
“No one, unless somebody saw them going into a room together. Or coming out.”
Again Kouros leaned in. “Or maybe you told somebody?”
Panos’ eyes fixed on Kouros’. “I told no one. I kept my word to your uncle.”
Kouros shook his head. “Sure sounds to me that if Babis found out about them screwing around in your hotel, it likely came through you.”
Panos glared.
“You know, maybe you drank a bit too much one morning in the taverna, decided to tease my uncle, said something about Stella that Babis overheard?”
“As I said before, I never said a word to anyone, including your uncle, about the two of them. It was forbidden to talk about, let alone joke.”
“So you tried?”
“No. I knew your uncle all my life. I knew what I could joke about and what I couldn’t. This definitely wasn’t a subject to raise with him. And so I didn’t. Period. End of story, Detective.”
If only it were.
Chapter Thirteen
Kouros left his car at the hotel and walked into the port. He hadn’t been in Gerolimenos in years and wondered if that crazy priest with the long black hair, jeans, and dirty cowboy boots still hung around the harbor. Kouros was never actually sure he was a priest, even though he wore the cassock. And considering the colorful history of priests fighting alongside the Mani’s bandits and pirates, he wouldn’t be surprised at anything.
He stopped at the southern edge of the harbor next to a lone pay phone. It had no handset, the same as the last time he’d been here. In this day of mobile phones no one probably noticed. Certainly never complained. This village always struck him as a combination of traditional Greece and the American Wild West. The harbor scene was quintessential, old-time, tiny Greek fishing village taken to perfection. But behind the busy row of harbor-front buildings stood a single row of open spaces and tired, nondescript two-story homes bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the quaint images portrayed one street over. It made him think of the false-front towns used in making old-time American cowboy movies.
His phone rang. “Yes, Chief.”
“I thought you were going to call me back?” said Andreas.
“Just finished an interview with the owner of the hotel where my uncle was screwing Babis’ Stella.”
“Then you’ll love what I have for you. I just read our tech guys’ final take on the autopsy report. Your uncle definitely was poisoned, but they’re still not sure how. The only new information they thought might be relevant was a bruise on your uncle’s body containing traces of wax.”
“Wax? What’s wax got to do with anything?”
“For that I have to thank Tassaki.”
“Huh?”
“The other night we were playing with finger paints and I remembered Tassaki kept coating his fingertips with paints. That got me to thinking. If you’re a killer looking to administer a poison lethal to the touch in front of a lot of people, you have two primary concerns. One, doing it in a way that doesn’t get you noticed, and two, not killing yourself in the process. Since this hit happened in a taverna, it wouldn’t be a big deal to melt some wax in the kitchen and dip your finger in it before touching the poison. Especially if it’s your kitchen.”
“Sounds like something out of a BBC mystery.”
“I know. But I went online and you’ll never guess what I came up with. Applying wax to a fingertip was an ancient ninja method used for administering poison through a finger thrust to a penetration point. The question is, how was our killer able to get to your uncle and apply that sort of force in a crowded taverna without anyone noticing?”
“Where was the bruise with the wax?” said Kouros.
“On the side of his neck by the carotid artery.”
“Jesus, Chief. Babis must be our man. This morning I saw him slapping backs and squeezing necks as his customers were leaving. It was his style. No one would have noticed.”
“But the jealousy angle doesn’t tie in to your uncle’s death threats.”
“Yeah, I know. But Babis is all we’ve got, and maybe once we start squeezing him we’ll get an answer that makes sense of it all.”
“Okay. Bring him in.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Be careful. I don’t want you going after him without backup. If he’s our killer, he’ll know he’s facing prison.”
“If he did it, once my cousins find out, he’s a dead man. In or out of prison.”
“Not our problem. We just solve the cases and let the justice system run its course.”
“That’s comforting.”
“No, it’s Greece.”
***
The lights flashing, siren blaring, the blue-and-white police car streaking through Vathia on its way to the taverna created precisely the sort of bravado entrance Kouros told the local cops to avoid. He’d hoped to get Babis safely away from the Mani before his cousins learned of Babis’ arrest. No way they’d think he’d been busted for overcooking the spanakopita. Kouros’ hopes on that score vanished when Mangas pulled up to the taverna seconds behind the police car.
Kouros stared at a pair of Laurel and Hardy look-alike cops walking toward him, followed by Mangas. “Why didn’t you two malakas offer to give Mangas a ride when you told him I needed help with an arrest?”