When the Devil's Idle (11 page)

“
It’s
been hard,” she said. “I never rent more than three or four rooms a
week, barely enough to get by.”

“
So
you’re not from Patmos?”

“
No,
no. I’m from the Peloponnese, a place you’ve never heard of. The
hotel belonged to my grandfather, got passed down to my mother and
then to me. It’s a dump, I know. I tried to sell it, but no one
wanted it. I was thinking of getting some money from the government
to fix it up, but then things got bad and I gave up.”

She leaned toward
him, her dress falling open. “What about you? What do you
do?”

He was fighting a
losing battle to keep his eyes on her face. “I’m a cop. Yiannis
Patronas, Chief Officer of the Chios Police.” He gave a little bow
when he finished, surprised at how much he wanted to impress
her.

“
Hairo poli
.” Pleased to meet you. “Chief Officer, huh?
I’ll have to watch my step.”

They both
laughed.

A voluptuous
morsel.
Patronas noted the tasty way the fabric tugged at her
breasts, her splendid knee caps, and trim little ankles. She was
something, Antigone Balis, reminiscent of Gina Lollobrigida in her
day, far too good for the likes of him.
Den einai ya ta dontia
sou
, his mother always said when she thought he was reaching
too high
.
Not for your teeth. Still, a man could
dream.

“
You
have a wife, Mr. Chief Officer?” Antigone Balis asked.

“
No,
I’m divorced.”

“
Children?” She’d noticed his interest in her dress and it
amused her.

“
No,
nobody.”

She gave him a
sympathetic look. “Hard to be alone.”

“
I
have friends.”

“
It’s
not the same. Without family, you’re nothing. Believe me, I know.”
She fanned her face with her hand. “It’s going to be hot today. I
hope you’re working some place air-conditioned.”

“
Part
of the day. The rest of the time I’ll be outdoors.” He took a sip
of coffee. “Oh, I almost forgot. Two men will be checking in this
afternoon. They’ll be sharing the room with me. That’s why I asked
for a triple.”

“
All
those beds … I did wonder what you were up to.” She shifted
suggestively and gave him a knowing look. “Are they policemen,
too?”

“
One
is. The other’s a priest.”

“
A
priest!” she exclaimed. “What happened? Did someone
die?”

He didn’t want to
alarm her. “No, no, nothing like that.”

A newcomer to the
island, she might not learn of the murder for a day or two. Maybe
when she bought her groceries, she’d hear the story. A place as
small as Patmos, there’d be no way to hide such a crime. Still, he
didn’t want to taint their relationship from the onset with such
darkness. Let her find out from others.

If she asked him
later why he hadn’t told her, he’d say he wanted to spare her. Men
had done that in Greece in the old days, shielded their women. Yes,
that would be the answer he’d give her. He’d been trying to be
chivalrous, he’d say. Sir Galahad.

“
It’s
just a routine police matter,” he added, buttering a piece of
bread. “The local officer used to work with us on Chios. He’s here
by himself. He called and asked for help on some cataloging for the
department of culture. Someone found relics on a hill behind Chora
and we need to log them in. Things were slow on Chios, so I
came.”

A lie, but a
small one.

“
If
you think things are slow on Chios ….” Antigone Balis shook
her head ruefully. “You said a priest would be checking in. There
are plenty of priests on Patmos—too many, if you ask me. No need to
import another one.”

Patronas wiped
his mouth with a napkin. “He’s retired from the priesthood and
works part-time for the department. He doesn’t have much money, so
I asked him to come along. I thought a trip to the island would be
good for him, be a vacation of sorts.” He knew he was talking too
much, but couldn’t seem to stop himself.

She smiled at
him. “Paid for by the government?”

Patronas grinned
back. “Of course.”

They shared
another laugh; then she gathered up the dishes and stood up. “What
time will your friends be arriving?”

“
I
don’t know. Whenever the police cruiser gets here from
Leros.”

“
A
police cruiser for a routine matter? You’ve been holding out on me,
Chief Officer.” Her laugh was low and musical. “You’re here about
the German, aren’t you? The old man someone killed in
Chora.”

So much for
chivalry.

Patronas called
Giorgos Tembelos a few minutes later, making sure first that
Antigone Balis was well out of range. Not much got by that woman,
that was for sure. She’d let him go on and on before delivering the
skylovrisi
—the dog’s curse. He should have been more
circumspect over breakfast, not run his mouth like a schoolboy. It
was the see-through dress that had done it, that glimpse of her
nether regions.

He could hear the
roar of the engine in the background. “You on the boat?”

“
Yup,”
Tembelos said. “Just left Piraeus.”

“
I
rented a room for you in a hotel, the Sunrise. It is on a
backstreet in Skala. A woman named Antigone Balis owns it. Be
careful with her. She’s a wily creature.”

“
Is
she pretty? You sound smitten.”

Remembering the
dress, Patronas reluctantly answered in the affirmative.

“
Married?”

“
Nope.
A widow.”

“
A
widow!” Tembelos chuckled. “Oh, Yiannis, here we go
again.”

Since the
divorce, Tembelos had started treating Patronas like he was some
kind of Don Juan, a man who bedded a different woman every night.
Swedish, French, it didn’t matter, they were all after him,
according to Giorgos. Patronas was Casanova and then some. Books
could be written about his sexual peccadillos. Tembelos actually
called them that. The playboy Hugh Hefner could take
lessons.

Truth was,
Patronas hadn’t been with a woman in the biblical sense for more
than two years. Long before his divorce, he and his ex-wife had
occupied different rooms in the house. A homely man, he knew he was
nothing to look at. He had a mirror. Sometimes he wondered if he’d
ever sleep with a woman again.

Tembelos knew
this and was trying to build his confidence, to give him the
courage to start over. Women were necessary evils in his view.
Without them, a man weakened and lost his edge. They were sort of
like vitamins.

“
I’m
here on a murder investigation,” Patronas answered primly, playing
along. “I’m not looking for romance.”

“
Got
to be careful with women, Yiannis. Some are like spiders; they eat
their mates.”

“
I’m
not unfamiliar with them.”

More laughter.
“Oh, by the way, your ex-wife, the
vouvala
, is leaving
Chios.” A vulgar term for a woman,
vouvala
meant ‘water
buffalo.’ Tembelos hated Dimitra and always called her
that.

“
What
do you mean, ‘leaving’? Where is she going?”

“
Italy. According to my wife, the
vouvala’s
uncle in
Bologna said he could find her a job there. No worries, Yiannis;
your ex is out of your life. She’s finally moving on.”

The news that
Dimitra was leaving for Italy took Patronas by surprise. They’d
been to Italy once, years before, walked through the streets of
Rome and visited the Sistine Chapel, drank expensive coffees on the
Via Veneto and inspected the Michelangelos. His wife had been
stunned by the handsomeness of the Italian men, and he’d bought
himself a fedora and a cashmere scarf, in an effort to look like
them. Foolish now, he realized, him thinking a hat could make a
difference. Turn a dumpy, middle-aged detective into Marcello
Mastroianni. He’d been trying to impress Dimitra in those
days—Dimitra, who’d adored the Italian actor. Hard to believe that
now.

He looked down at
himself, buttons straining across his midriff, his splayed feet,
and ran a hand through what was left of his hair. She’d laughed at
the way he walked, rocking from side to side, said he reminded her
of Charlie Chaplin. At one time or another, she’d laughed at most
everything about him. His camel’s nose and boxy mustache—the
mustache he cherished because he thought it made him look like his
father. His clumsy eagerness in bed. He closed his eyes.
Oh,
God. Dimitra. My wasted life.

Soon she would be
well and truly gone. Somehow this news did not make him as happy as
he thought it would.

“
Anything else to report?” Patronas kept his voice light. No
reason for Giorgos Tembelos to know his news had upset
him.

“
Not
really. They finished the autopsy in Athens. I’m sure you’ll hear
more from Evangelos, who called last night and got the report. It
was pretty much just like you said: someone split his skull open.
Death wasn’t instantaneous, the coroner said, but close to it. The
blow rendered the victim unconscious, but he was still alive when
the perpetrator cut the swastika on his forehead. Alive, but on his
way out. Hard to tell what they hit him with. Could have been
anything. The coroner found dirt in the wound, and he’s going to
test it against the sample of soil you took from the garden. Going
to run a toxicology screen, too—see if there’s anything unusual in
the victim’s blood. Nothing but beer would be my guess, but the lab
still has to check. Also, they’re testing the tallow from the crime
scene, comparing it to the church candles from Patmos to see if
there’s a match.”

“
Let’s
hope not. I don’t want a Greek involved in this, Giorgos. I want it
to be a stranger passing through who beat the old man to death. Not
one of us. I couldn’t bear it if it was one of us.”

“
Sometimes we don’t get what we want, Yiannis. Greece has crazy
people, too, just like everyplace else.”

“
Not
that crazy.”

“
Suit
yourself.”

“
What
about Interpol?”

“
They’re still checking. If there’s anything about Bechtel in
their database, they’ll get in touch with us. Otherwise, not. Same
thing in Athens. They might never get to the databases, they said,
given the backlog of cases and the budgetary situation. Cut the
staff in half, the government did, and turned off the
air-conditioning. It was hell in that lab, I can tell you. You
wouldn’t believe the smell.”

Patronas quickly
filled Tembelos in on what he’d learned from the victim’s family.
“Someone killed the grandfather’s cat, tortured it apparently.
Could have been random, but I don’t think so. Someone’s been
targeting the family for a reason.”

“
But
why?”

“
Damned if I know.”

There was a long
silence.

“
I
don’t like this, Yiannis,” Tembelos finally said.

Patronas sighed.
“Nor I, Giorgos. Nor I.”

T
he autopsy report was as Patronas had expected: death
from a subcranial fracture and bleeding in the brain. No indication
of what had been used. The coroner rarely speculated; this time had
been no exception.

“
I
thought of something as I was driving the other day,” Evangelos
Demos said as he and Patronas walked toward the car.

Must have been
quite an experience—driving and thinking. A wonder he didn’t kill
himself.
Patronas had concluded long ago that his colleague was
incapable of thought. The process simply eluded him, as did the
concept of cause and effect, tit for tat, many other useful things.
Zippers would give Evangelos trouble.

Edging closer,
Evangelos Demos whispered in his ear. “It occurred to me that
terrorists might be involved.”

“
Terrorists!” Patronas was astounded. Even for Evangelos, the
idea was stupid.

“
Yes.
Remember that terrorist group, November Seventeeth? Their leader,
the mathematician, resided on Lipsi. That’s very close to Patmos.
Less than an hour away by boat.”

“
So?”

“
So
one of them could have done it.”

“
November Seventeenth shot people, Evangelos. CIA agents, Greek
politicians, and industrialists. They never went after Germans. And
if they did, a rock would not have been their weapon of
choice.”

“
You
don’t know it was a rock.”

Patronas fought
to keep his voice down. “Evangelos, they used
bazookas
.”

“
Maybe
they’ve changed their tactics.”

Patronas had been
trying to quit smoking, but the situation demanded nicotine and he
pulled out his emergency pack of Karelias and lit up. “You share
this ‘thought’ of yours with anyone else?” he asked.

“
I
told Stathis in Athens.”

Patronas closed
his eyes. That’s what you get when you try to help someone. They
ruin your career. How did the proverb go? I taught you to swim and
now you try to drown me.