The maid came with the coffee, served it, and left. Neither spoke. They sat quietly sipping their coffees, sharing the space.
Lila broke the silence. 'Well, if you won't tell me, I guess I'm not going to be of much more help to you.'
Andreas' heart dropped. But she was right. He put down his coffee. 'I'm sorry, but you have been very helpful.' He stood up, not wanting to leave, but there was no reason to stay. He reached into his pocket, took out a card, and handed it to her. 'In case you think of anything else, please call me.'
She took the card and looked at it as if about to say something, or so he imagined. 'Thank you, Chief, I mean Andreas. Let me walk you to the elevator.'
He prayed the elevator wouldn't come. But it did. She was standing in front of the elevator doors as they closed, smiling. Maggie spared Andreas the misery of hours squinting over a computer screen by leaving him a pile of Internet printouts. It contained every news story she and Kouros could find on the three families. The printouts sat on top of an even larger pile of official reports on the families and the events surrounding their sudden departures from Greece. Andreas told Maggie and Kouros to go home. He wanted to read everything himself. Perhaps it wasn't the most efficient way, but a word here, an instinct there, might pull it all together for him. Besides, he was the only one who suffered doing it his way: sitting at a desk half the night reading.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No reports of foul play, just terrible tragedies. Each family was well off, though none as spectacularly so as the Kostopoulos family, and all had three things in common besides wealth: the head of each family had emigrated to Greece from somewhere else; each had achieved a significant level of professional, business, or social prominence in the press; and beyond a brief story on each family's separate 'tragedy' and 'decision' to leave Greece, not a single, additional word ever appeared again on any of them in the Greek media. It was a perfect example of orchestrating press coverage to deliver an unmistakable message: Leave — or this will happen to you.
The deaths took place over a period of four years, and appeared random in time. The first was a particularly grisly accident involving two young children of the same family; the second, two years later, was the death of a wife at the hands of a never-found hit-and-run driver; and in another two years came the drowning of a teenage daughter in a boating accident. That was the one Lila knew about. All were gruesome, painful ways to go, but none likely to generate more than routine police attention.
Andreas rubbed at his eyes, leaned back, and let his elbows drop to the arms of his chair. So, why this time did they do the Kostopoulos kid in a way guaranteed to get police attention? It didn't fit the pattern. And why was it always a wife or a child, never the father? He wondered how many other families receiving a potsherd simply packed up and left. Perhaps Lila would know.
He resisted thinking of her. One personal involvement per investigation was one too many. Besides, she wasn't his type. That was the second time he'd thought that. Perhaps because he was certain he wasn't her type, or maybe just because he'd never known a woman like her before. Whatever, time to get some sleep. It was after three in the morning and Lila hadn't been able to sleep. Something was bothering her. She was sure it wasn't the man. How could it be? She didn't know him at all. And he was a policeman. No, she was sure it had to do with what he was telling her — or rather not telling her. She turned onto her side and held a pillow over her head. 'Sleep, please, sleep,' she murmured to herself, squeezing her eyes shut.
It wasn't working. She kept thinking of that moment when she thought Andreas might be hitting on her. It bothered her. Why are all men like that? WHY? She drew in a deep breath and repeated the only answer she'd ever come up with: it's our culture, accept it or move. The phrase repeated in her mind, accept it or move.
Lila wasn't sure whether the pillow or she hit the floor first. All she knew was that when the thought hit her, she bolted straight up yelling, 'My god that's it!' and tumbled off the bed. It was one of those esoteric little bits of ancient history tucked away unused since grade-school days in the back of her brain. The family's sudden departure from Greece, the mother using the word 'banished,' Andreas' reaction to the family's name written on the potsherd, all pointed to the ancient Athenian practice of ostracism. Accept it and move!
She couldn't wait to tell Andreas that she knew what was behind his questions. She reached for the phone on her nightstand and, sitting cross-legged on the floor, called his office. She didn't expect him to be there but let it ring until a machine picked up and his voice said, 'Please leave a message.'
'Hi, Andreas, it's Lila Vardi. I figured out what you didn't want to tell me. And I think I can help you. Why don't you call me in the morning?' She paused. 'Or just stop by my home anytime between ten and one. I'll be here. Thanks, goodnight.'
She hung up the phone and crawled back into bed. Why did I have to add the last part? She tossed the thought around in her mind until drifting off to sleep, finally. Andreas checked his messages before leaving his office. He played Lila's back three times, each time looking at his watch and wondering if it was too late to call her. He decided five either was too late or too early. He headed for the door mumbling, 'Damn, why didn't I check my messages sooner,' and wondering what was on her mind.
10
The alarm went off twenty minutes before, but all Andreas could manage, so far, was drag himself out of bed long enough to hit start on the coffee maker and plop face-first onto the sheets. His father always had a morning coffee the old-fashioned way: his wife made it for him. But Andreas preferred appliances. Some day he'd get married, raise a family, and make his mother thoroughly happy. For now, there was no time, not even enough to court a new woman into bed for a night. He did his laundry and shopping on a catch-as-catch-can basis and cleaned his apartment in hurry-up style just before the occasional 'stop by' from an old girlfriend.
Of course, his mother did visit once a week to cook for her 'boy' and 'tidy up a bit.' Once, Andreas told her it wasn't necessary, and she asked why he didn't love her any more. So, Thursday afternoons the apartment was his mother's. He tried getting home at least in time to say hello, but many times couldn't. She didn't seem to mind; said she just liked knowing she still could help her boy. She always cooked and left him far more than he could eat, something for which his next-door neighbors were eternally grateful.
The apartment didn't have much of a view, but not many did in this neighborhood. At least not any a cop could afford. But he liked it here, even when the elevator wasn't working. The four flights helped keep him in shape, and his commute was only 25 minutes in traffic or a brisk walk and two stops on the metro.
Pangrati was a neighborhood by Pangratiou Park filled with old five-story apartment buildings 'south of the Hilton,' as the locals would say. These days, new locals likely were students and other young people preferring the more spacious feeling of Pangrati to other better-priced but 'more populated than Tokyo' areas at the heart of Athens. There also was the charm of its trolleys, electrified yellow-orange buses running into Athens; and a walk to Kolonaki, with its fancy bars and shops, or to Syndagma, Athens' central square and the home of Greece's Parliament, took only fifteen minutes. The home of Lila Vardi, and a completely different world, was even closer.
Andreas rolled onto his back and thought of Anna. Not of wanting her but of how stupid he'd been. He meant to call her about Demosthenes but decided he'd better stay away. Any further contact with Anna meant certain suicide for his career and rapacious 'like-father-like-son' headlines shaming his family, especially his mother. Never again. He'd get Kouros to talk to her; couldn't risk sending anyone else. God knows what she might say. He was angry with himself. He knew better: compromise integrity once and cover-up compromises never end. He spun off onto the floor and into his wakeup-workout routine: sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, and flexing.
Andreas finished and jumped into the shower. That was where he did some of his best thinking.
There really wasn't all that much to do in a late-night club early in the morning. Of course, there's the booze, the drugs, the noise, and the (lingering) hope of getting laid by someone of your preferred sexual orientation, but if you actually wanted to talk to someone, forget about it. Sure, you had the ramblers, philosophers, stoics, Hamlets, and expletive-stringers — yougottabefuckingshittingmemotherfuckermalakia — all willing to share their predawn wisdom, but when you reached the bottom line, the whole scene got old and boring pretty quickly. And when you had to be there every night making nice to everyone…
That was Giorgio's life. Every night he'd be at his expected position by the front door nodding to his regulars, coddling visiting celebrities, embracing politicians, stroking those who despised other guests; all the while smiling. He ruled every aspect of the madness of the place with the pinpoint red-dot of a silver laser pen never out of his left
