any feathers or stepping on any toes he just might be able to work his way back into the good graces of the folks in Athens — and get transferred the hell out of here.
He thought it might help him to stay cool if he tried a little harder to relax. Go to the beach and blow off some steam. Maybe even one of those beaches where the tourist women like to show off their lack of tan lines. He wondered if they were still as hot for Greeks in uniform as they had been when he'd served here in the air force. It was early afternoon and he was getting into the fantasy when Kouros hurried into his office — after knocking, of course.
The news was not good: an Albanian moving stone on some property way over on the other side of the island called to say he'd found a dead body.
Andreas didn't want to believe what he was hearing and his voice showed it. 'A dead body, on Mykonos?'
'Yes, sir,' said Kouros. He'd learned to treat his chief with respect. 'He didn't say much more than that. Just the location. He was pretty frightened. I was surprised he even called. Most of them doing that sort of work are illegal and afraid of us.'
Andreas paused for a moment and stared off into the middle distance, contemplating a decision. 'Do you know how to get there?'
'Yes.'
Andreas got up from his desk. 'Well, let's take a ride over and see what he found.'
'Uh, sir?' Kouros' voice was tentative.
'Yes.'
In an even more uncertain tone: 'Aren't we supposed to call Syros whenever there's a homicide?'
Central Police Headquarters for the Cyclades was on Syros, the political capital for the circle of islands spanning one hundred miles from Andros on the north to Santorini on the south. All homicide investigators and criminal forensic facilities were based there — less than an hour from Mykonos by police boat.
Andreas knew Kouros was right, but he'd be damned if he'd let Syros trample over a murder scene in his jurisdiction before he had a chance to look at it. So much for playing it cool. 'Yeah, but let's just make sure it wasn't a dead goat he found before bothering Syros.'
Kouros said nothing, simply walked with Andreas to the car, got into the driver's seat, and began driving east. Andreas liked the way the big kid knew when to keep his mouth shut.
'Sir, I understand you were with Special Homicide Investigations in Athens?'
Word got around. 'Yes.'
'How many murders have you seen?'
'Of goats? Or sheep?'
'Nice day, sir.'
'Sure is.'
The rest of their conversation was about Kouros' family back in Athens and his roots on the Ionian island of Zakynthos. It was a pleasant chat, but one that let Kouros know there would be no personal information coming from the chief for him to share with his buddies over coffee.
The twenty-minute drive took them along the road past the air force's mountaintop 'secret' radar installation — the one everyone on the island knew about. Andreas had been stationed there twelve years ago. He couldn't believe how much that part of the island had changed. Back then there was virtually nothing to see from up here but dirt roads and endless rocky, barren hillsides crisscrossed with centuries-old stone walls. Now the road was paved and elegant homes sprouted everywhere on seemingly unbuildable sites. It was amazing what people with money could do when they wanted something.
The road turned to dirt, then drifted back down the mountain to the east before heading north and up again toward the most desolate part of the island. These steep, gray-brown hillsides once were home to goat herders who could afford no better land, but even they long ago abandoned their little stone-fenced fields in favor of other places. For almost a century no one had wanted to be here. Too far out of town, too much wind, too little — if any — water.
Now, a recent island-wide ban on new construction on land without an existing foundation made an even long-abandoned, goat herder's shed valuable. Using an appropriately connected contractor to obtain — for a price — the necessary permits, you could 'finish' construction and truck in all the fresh water you wanted along the new road. All you needed was the money.
Andreas remembered old mines around here down by the sea. Some sort of mineral used in oil drilling — barite, maybe. He wondered if they still operated. Abandoned mines were great for hiding bodies. On an island like this, though, there had to be hundreds of places to get rid of one — if you had time to plan — but he knew murders rarely took place where the murderer would like them to. That meant moving the body or leaving it where the killer hadn't planned. Either way left clues. Most murders were poorly thought out beyond the decision to kill — unless, of course, professionals or terrorists were involved.
Then again, this was an island, and the best place to get rid of a body was the sea. No one would ever find one tossed in the sea if you knew how to keep it from popping up. Thankfully, most killers didn't have that skill — though Andreas was pretty sure that on an island of fishermen most Mykonians would know how or have a relative who did.
Just past a steep switchback, the road tied in to an older, badly beat-up dirt road coming around from the other side of the mountain. Andreas could see that it wound down to the mines and wondered if the body actually might be in one. This road was much worse than the other, and their car looked to be losing its battle with some deep ruts from winter-rain runoff. He was about to tell Kouros to call for an SUV when he saw a beat-up old motorcycle leaning against a boulder by the hillside. The bike was so dusty he couldn't tell its color. A slightly built man, more like a boy, was sitting in the dirt next to it. His dark hair, white T-shirt, and brown, coarse pants were as dusty as the bike. He jumped up as soon as he saw them. He must be their man.
Though he looked a good foot shorter and eighty pounds lighter than Andreas, the chief knew there was a good chance the man, like many of the Albanian laborers who worked like ants at tough, nasty jobs no Mykonian would ever do again, was stronger than he was. Building stone walls all day in relentless heat could do that, if it doesn't kill you. Andreas reached for a bottle of water from the backseat and got out of the car. He walked over and handed the water to the man without saying a word. The man thanked him and Andreas nodded but said nothing. Kouros kept his mouth shut.
From behind his sunglasses Andreas studied him. The Albanian was probably in his early twenties, but his hands and arms bore the bruises and calluses of a far longer lifetime of manual labor. A seriously distressed wedding ring faintly glistened on his finger as he held the bottle to his lips. His hand was shaking and he was frightened. He should be; that was normal. Now to see if there was anything about his story or behavior that wasn't.
He let the man finish drinking and stared at him for a minute longer without saying a word. Probably Kouros was right about the man being illegal. He must be scared to death he'll be asked to show his papers. Andreas decided to let that fear fester while he went after what he really wanted to know. Kouros could deal with his papers later.
'Did you call?' Andreas kept his voice firm but pleasant. He didn't have to say about what; either he'd know or he wasn't the right guy.
'Yes, sir.'
'What's your name?'
'Alex.'
He didn't need his last name for now. 'Where are you from?'
'Ano Mera.'
That was the other town on Mykonos, located in the middle of the island. But that wasn't what Andreas meant by his question. He let it pass. The man had to know Andreas knew he was from Albania, if only from his heavily accented Greek.
'So, Alex, why don't you tell us what you're doing up here.'
'I was working here today.'
'Doing what?'
'Fixing stone walls.'
