from Syros were here. Although the call from Peter's father triggered her Greek temper, on balance Catia actually felt more relieved than worried by what she'd heard. She'd never liked Peter and had told Annika so more than once. She'd hoped the relationship would end when he left Yale to study in London but it hadn't. Something about him grated on her. She described him to her husband, Schuyler, as the quintessential pretentious Athenian braggart, consumed by appearance over substance. He pointed out to his wife that Peter came from an old-line English family and that bourgeois was a French word not confined to Greeks. She preferred her description.
Catia was sure their breakup explained why she'd not heard from her daughter. Annika didn't take well to 'I told you so' scenarios — even if the actual words were never uttered. Still, Schuyler was right; a young woman should not be backpacking across Europe alone. She'd learned to accept in silence her daughter's assorted injuries and broken bones as part of the price for raising an independent, athletically gifted child. She no longer even winced when Annika described such things as hang gliding and skydiving as 'too routine.' But for Catia's own peace of mind, whether Annika wanted to talk to her mother today or not, she would have to. It had been too long — far longer than most mothers would tolerate.
She dialed Annika's mobile and waited for her voice to say 'Please leave a message for Annika at the beep.' Annika rarely answered her phone. That was a practice she picked up in college to cut down on distractions from studying. Every few hours she checked her messages and called back those she wanted to — or had to. Catia intended to leave a message, putting her at the very top of Annika's 'must-call' list. Finally, voice mail picked up, but instead of her daughter's voice, she heard, 'Sorry, this voice mail box is full and cannot accept additional messages. Please try again later.' She tried again, and again, each time getting the same message. That was not at all like Annika.
She decided to call Peter in London.
'Hello.'
Catia tried sounding warm and charming. 'Hello, Peter, it's Catia Vanden Haag. How are you?'
He spoke abruptly. 'My father called you, didn't he?'
So much for civility, she thought. 'Yes, he did.'
His voice became icy and distant. That old pretentious tone. 'I'm sorry, but there's nothing I have to say.'
'Excuse me, young man, but I expect a bit more respect from you than I'm receiving at the moment.' She knew how to sound like a senior career diplomat's wife when necessary.
His voice wavered a bit. 'I meant no disrespect, Mrs Vanden Haag, I simply think that whatever is said to you on the subject should be Annika's decision, not mine.'
That answer did not assuage her, but she sensed that if she got any testier, he'd probably hang up. 'Peter, I haven't heard from Annika since she left to meet you in London. You certainly must appreciate that I'm worried.'
He paused. 'Yes, I do, but honestly, Mrs Vanden Haag, I haven't spoken with Annika since she left, and I don't know where she is.'
'Do you have any idea who may know where she is or how I can reach her? I've tried calling her cell, but all I get is a recording that her voice mail box is full.'
'No, but the reason you can't reach her is she forgot to take her phone.' Again he paused. 'She was very angry when she left. She wouldn't talk to me, just threw her things in her backpack and walked out. I didn't find her phone until later. It was turned off and I left it off.'
Catia shut her eyes to compose herself. If Annika called her phone to find where she'd left it, there'd be no answer. Was he just stupid or vindictive? Greek men were legendary for screaming at the drop of a hat; it was a cultural trait that serendipitously taught most Greek women patience. She let out a long, silent breath. 'Thank you; and if you think of anything that might help us find her, please call me. And please, send me Annika's phone — I'll give you our FedEx number.'
When she hung up, the word in her mind was asshole. Not very ladylike she knew, but accurate.
Her daughter's incommunicado jaunt around Europe must stop at once. No matter what the reason. The first thing to do was call Annika's friends and find how to reach her. Surely they'd know. No, she thought. The first thing to do was tell her husband. Oh boy. It was a virtually deserted, almost impassable road, but all three police cars arrived with sirens blaring. So much for keeping things quiet, thought Andreas. They're attracting the whole island. Sure enough, a gray Jeep Grand Cherokee and a beat-up black Fiat sedan pulled up behind them. Two guys got out of the Fiat and started up the hill before the investigators had their equipment out of the cars.
Andreas shook his head. Greeks — they were more curious than cats. He yelled at the two to stay on the road. They kept coming, as if they didn't hear or didn't understand. He yelled to one of his officers to arrest them if they didn't turn back immediately. That stopped them. He heard them mumbling questions about his parentage, but they were retreating back to the road.
There were eight men in the police cars: Kouros, three other Mykonos officers, and four strangers dressed in jackets and ties — in ninety degree heat. These guys were going to be a pain in the ass, he could just tell. He yelled to Kouros and another local officer to help the investigators with their equipment and told the other two to keep the curious off the hillside. He also told them to get the names, addresses, and phone numbers of everyone who stopped to watch — starting with the two in the Fiat. Andreas wanted them to know that he was particularly proud of his parentage.
Andreas took a schoolboy-like joy in watching the jacketed cops labor up the hill in twice the time it had taken him. It wasn't because of the equipment they carried but because three of the strangers clearly were deferring to the fourth — and much stouter — man's difficulty with the climb. At least now Andreas knew who was in charge. By the time they reached the church, the heavy one was sweating like the proverbial pig but still wore his jacket and tie. He stopped about five yards from Andreas and looked back as if reviewing his path. Andreas knew he was trying to catch his breath. He took that moment to step forward and introduce himself.
'Welcome to Mykonos.'
The stout man turned toward him and nodded. He said nothing, just kept trying to breathe.
'I'm Andreas Kaldis.'
The man nodded again and was able to say, 'I know.' He was about a half foot shorter than Andreas, with bushy, dark brown hair. From the almost pure gray of his eyebrows, Andreas guessed his hair was dyed.
Andreas was starting to enjoy this but decided he'd better stop. No reason to antagonize the man unnecessarily.
The man said, 'I knew your father, good man.'
That caught Andreas off guard. His father had been on the secret police force during the Junta or the Regime of the Colonels or the Dictatorship, depending on your point of view. Most cops avoided open discussions of those seven years and certainly wouldn't risk offering compliments on someone from that part of Greek police history to a stranger, even a son. Especially a son of his father.
Against his original instincts, Andreas thought he might actually like this guy. 'Thank you for saying that,' he said and extended his hand.
Taking off his sunglasses, the other man reached out and shook his hand. 'Tassos Stamatos, chief homicide investigator for the Cyclades.'
Andreas had heard of him, a real old-timer. One of those guys who'd never retire and had the political connections to keep his job. He probably was about sixty, but strangely, his weight and short, bulldog build made him look ten years younger. Andreas decided there was no need to mention his homicide background to Tassos. It seemed pretty clear he already knew it. Politically connected cops knew that sort of stuff. It's how they kept off the wrong toes.
'So, what do we have here, Kaldis?' Tassos asked, his tone crisply official.
Andreas took the use of his last name as force of habit more than an effort to show who was in charge. 'A body in a crypt, female, probably between fifteen and thirty, Caucasian, light-colored hair, dead a few weeks I'd say.' He stopped.
'That's it?' Tassos seemed surprised.
'No, not at all,' said Andreas.
A glint of anger came to Tassos' voice. 'What's this, a little test for the boys from the islands?'
So he knew Andreas' history. He tried putting the conversation on a more personal footing. 'Not at all, Tassos, I just thought it might be better for you to look at this with fresh eyes and reach your own
