man's arm.
Andreas hoped it wouldn't come up this way, so abruptly and directly to the point. But that's how most mothers reacted to police appearing at their homes unexpectedly: had something happened to her children or her husband? And usually in that order.
He must now give these people probably the worst news they'd ever hear. He hoped his voice wouldn't crack. 'Yes, I'm afraid it's about Sotiris.'
'What's happened? Is he all right, did he wreck the car, did he hurt someone, did-' Before she could finish the man cut her off.
'Please, dear, let me handle this.' He looked at Andreas. 'Whatever trouble he's in I'm sure we can work it out. I have a lot of friends.'
Andreas knew how to handle this sort of approach, but not today. No matter how obnoxious or pretentious this guy might be, he would get a free pass on this.
'I'm sure you do, sir, but it's not that sort of situation.'
The man started to say something else, but Andreas put up his hand and said, 'Please.'
Perhaps it was the look of anguish on Andreas' face or a paralyzing, simultaneous chill felt in each one's spine, but each stood perfectly still, quietly waiting for Andreas to speak.
Andreas only paused long enough for them to look directly into his eyes. 'A terrible thing has happened, Sotiris has been killed.' Unconsciously, he crossed himself.
No one moved, not a word was said. It was an eternity. It was three seconds.
'Noooooooooo…' The word went on forever. The mother kept pitching it higher and higher, twisting her hands about the man's arm, then grabbed her face in her hands. Still struggling to scream, but without the breath for it, she started pounding on the man's chest. He did not move. He did not blink.
Andreas did not know what more to say, and so he said the obvious. 'I'm so very sorry, Mr and Mrs Kostopoulos.'
3
Andreas never got used to delivering such dreadful, unexpected news. He didn't want to; his skin was thick enough. He watched Mrs Kostopoulos go from pounding on her husband's chest to sobbing against it, but he wasn't judging how they chose to mourn. There should be no rules for grieving. Especially for a child.
Ginny Kostopoulos was twenty-four when she met fifty-year-old Zanni. Like so many other Eastern-European beauties migrating to Greece in search of work, she put her natural charms to good use on celebrity-filled island beaches catering to the desires of thirsty sun worshipers. Zanni's were obvious from the start, and Ginny, an unwed mother of a four-year-old son, did not object. They married as quickly as he could divorce wife number two. Zanni adopted the boy, giving him the name Sotiris after Zanni's late father. He had two grown daughters from his previous marriages and, together with Ginny, twin ten-year-old girls. Sotiris was the only son.
Andreas waited patiently; he knew the question would come soon. It always did.
'What happened to our son?' It came from Zanni.
'He was…' Andreas swallowed hard. 'He was murdered.' A priest or a social worker might have put it differently, but Andreas was a cop. And cops want reactions. They're more telling than words.
'Murdered? Murdered!' It was Ginny. She dropped her arms from around her husband and turned away from all three men. Her right hand was over her mouth and her eyes fixed on the floor.
'Who did it… how did it happen?' Zanni did the asking. Ginny didn't move from her spot.
'We don't know yet, sir. It occurred a few hours after midnight. Your son's body was discovered at dawn and the coroner hasn't completed his examination.' Neither parent responded. Andreas' instinct was to say more. 'But we think it was directed at your family.'
Zanni's expression did not change. His face had turned to stone since Andreas first said his son was dead. Ginny was frozen in place, her breathing increasing rapidly, as if about to hyperventilate.
They were in shock, a normal and expected reaction.
'Thank you, Chief, for your concern.' Zanni sounded as if tipping a waiter.
Andreas thought perhaps he hadn't made his last comment clear enough or they may have missed it in their grief. 'Mr Kostopoulos, did your son or your family receive any threats? Or can you think of anyone who might have done such a horrible thing as a message to your family?'
Zanni stared straight ahead. 'No, sir.'
Andreas pressed him harder but got no better an answer than an interviewer trying to force genuine beliefs from a politician. Nor was there a hint of Zanni's legendary temper; no matter how hard Andreas pushed him it was always the same: 'No, sir.'
Zanni eyes stayed focused somewhere in the middle-distance while Ginny stood with hers fixed on the floor, clutching her arms across her chest and swaying from side to side. She said not a word and was no longer crying.
The chief of Athens Special Crimes Division had just asked the parents of a murdered boy if their son's death was a message to their family, and neither asked what the hell he was talking about. Shock or no shock, Andreas knew their silence definitely was not normal. They were sitting in their car in front of the Kostopoulos home. 'So, what do you think?' It was the second time Andreas asked that question in the three minutes since they'd left the house.
Kouros' first answer to the question was a summary of what the boy's parents and the household staff told them: Sotiris was almost seventeen, into girls not guys, and well-liked. He'd been playing backgammon at home with two male classmates until eleven when all three were picked up by a taxi for some late-night clubbing. He hadn't been expected home until late Sunday afternoon, at the earliest. Those weren't unusual hours for him or for his friends on weekends, and, yes, they were underage for the clubs, but so were a lot of kids from fancy neighborhoods who hung out there. They got in because they could afford it or some family celebrity-status made them attractive customers. Some, like Sotiris, got in for both reasons.
This time Kouros' answer was, 'About what?'
'Mr and Mrs K.'
Kouros shrugged. 'They were pretty much out of it. Especially her. Until that doctor got there with a sedative, I thought she was going to lose it big-time.'
'Me, too.' Andreas stared at the gate. 'Something's not right about this. They couldn't name one person with a possible grudge against their son or them. All they needed to do was open a newspaper, any newspaper, and find Linardos spelled in capital letters. But they didn't even mention the name. It was as if that family didn't exist.'
'He had to be thinking the same thing we were. The most obvious suspect was someone tied into the Linardos family.'
Andreas nodded. 'For sure, but he's never going to tell us. It's not in his DNA. He can't ask for help. Certainly not from cops.'
'The wife seemed pretty close to saying something. I thought she was going to explode.'
'What I'd give to be a fly on their wall when she wakes up and starts tearing into him.' Andreas gestured for Kouros to start the car. 'May as well stop hoping for miracles and get back to police work. Let's find those two friends of the boy. We'll come back here in a day or so, after the funeral, and try to get her to talk. They're not going anywhere.' Andreas learned early on as a cop that sixteen-year-old boys lived forever. They all knew that rule. It applied to all boys, not just those with doting parents forgiving all trespasses, indulging all whims, and setting no boundaries. It was a hormonal thing, so every cop knew they were at the core of the most dangerous age groups to predict. Children died of war, famine, disease, and other, far too remote causes, to raise even a passing thought of personal mortality in most sixteen-year-old minds. Thankfully, most grew up unscathed in any serious way.
He also knew not all were so lucky. A few died, some survived close calls, and others were left to grieve the fates of their peers. But even the most personal of accidental tragedies, a friend's horrific, deadly motorcycle crash, rarely had but short-term influence on their behavior. In their minds, they were protected from a similar fate by greater skills, better judgment, and the ever-intoxicating bravado of their hormones.
But that rationale would not help Sotiris Kostopoulos' friends deal with his death. Perhaps, if he'd died in a
