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collar for the newspapers, sure. But what’s the charge going to be? I don’t see any kind of murder conviction in this for her, do you?”
Kouros gestured no. “Not on what we have now.”
“Right, we need more. And if we arrest her, she’s not going to give us any more than she already has, and everyone tied into this will disappear off the face of the earth. If they haven’t already. As long as she’s walking around there’s a chance someone might show up.” He stared straight ahead. “But have someone keep an eye on her. She’s our best link so far to the two who probably killed the boy.”
“Who should we use?”
“Check with the office to see who’s available.”
“I’m available nights.” Kouros grinned.
Andreas did not return the smile. He wanted the subject to go away.
Kouros stopped in front of Andreas’ apartment building.
As Andreas was getting out he said, “Pick me up tomorrow morning at eight. Don’t eat breakfast. We have a lot of coffee shops to visit.”
Kouros nodded. “Hopefully with ugly waitresses.”
Andreas slammed the door.
***
Maggie wanted to hide from the phone. It hadn’t stopped ringing all morning. Someone tipped off the press that Chief Andreas Kaldis had assumed personal charge of the investigation, and now every journalist in Greece wanted to speak to him, not some anonymous talking head out of media affairs. It had been years since so many suitors were after her favors, and their general approach for getting her to give up her boss was almost the same as that once aimed at her virtue: “I promise to be gentle.” They had no more success now than then.
She had spoken to Andreas twice this morning, and his instructions were firm: “All inquiries must be directed to media affairs, no exceptions.” Still, she wondered if she should call him a third time, because now Greece’s most watched, vicious, scandal-mongering, and feared television journalist, Marios Tzoli, wanted to speak with him. What concerned Maggie was that he personally placed the call. Big television egos didn’t call for routine interviews. She’d better warn Andreas that Marios must sense blood in the water or sex anywhere.
***
So far that morning they’d had two breakfasts, but Andreas couldn’t tell you what he’d eaten if you asked him while he was chewing it. He and Kouros didn’t say much more than “pass the sugar.” Sort of like an old married couple dining alone with nothing left to say on any subject. The only interruptions were two calls from Maggie.
It was a little before eleven, the heart of morning classes at the university. That meant local coffee shops filled with students who knew better than to corrupt their original thinking with some lecturer’s old ideas and historical biases. Whatever they might need to supplement their innate understanding of the world could be found elsewhere, like online. After all, it was life that mattered, not classes. Besides, if teachers really knew what they were talking about, they’d be doing something else.
Andreas and Kouros approached the front door of the third of Anna’s places of employment. They’d also stopped at two where she didn’t work, to keep anyone from wondering why only her jobs attracted cops. There was no time for an undercover operation, and so they took the opposite approach: two bull-in-a-china-shop cops looking for a quick score off a couple of drug dealers, a regrettably routine pastime for some of their not-so-honest brethren on the force. So far, their performances netted them only blank stares when they flashed the photo of two guys partially blocking the logo of a notorious drug-trafficking nightclub.
It was a nondescript place in a nondescript building filled with young men trying in the most nondescript way to look anything but. A coffee house of the post-World War II beatnik era as envisioned by twenty-first-century youth: pale orange-yellow walls with chair railings—unusual for
Kouros gestured no. “Not on what we have now.”
“Right, we need more. And if we arrest her, she’s not going to give us any more than she already has, and everyone tied into this will disappear off the face of the earth. If they haven’t already. As long as she’s walking around there’s a chance someone might show up.” He stared straight ahead. “But have someone keep an eye on her. She’s our best link so far to the two who probably killed the boy.”
“Who should we use?”
“Check with the office to see who’s available.”
“I’m available nights.” Kouros grinned.
Andreas did not return the smile. He wanted the subject to go away.
Kouros stopped in front of Andreas’ apartment building.
As Andreas was getting out he said, “Pick me up tomorrow morning at eight. Don’t eat breakfast. We have a lot of coffee shops to visit.”
Kouros nodded. “Hopefully with ugly waitresses.”
Andreas slammed the door.
***
Maggie wanted to hide from the phone. It hadn’t stopped ringing all morning. Someone tipped off the press that Chief Andreas Kaldis had assumed personal charge of the investigation, and now every journalist in Greece wanted to speak to him, not some anonymous talking head out of media affairs. It had been years since so many suitors were after her favors, and their general approach for getting her to give up her boss was almost the same as that once aimed at her virtue: “I promise to be gentle.” They had no more success now than then.
She had spoken to Andreas twice this morning, and his instructions were firm: “All inquiries must be directed to media affairs, no exceptions.” Still, she wondered if she should call him a third time, because now Greece’s most watched, vicious, scandal-mongering, and feared television journalist, Marios Tzoli, wanted to speak with him. What concerned Maggie was that he personally placed the call. Big television egos didn’t call for routine interviews. She’d better warn Andreas that Marios must sense blood in the water or sex anywhere.
***
So far that morning they’d had two breakfasts, but Andreas couldn’t tell you what he’d eaten if you asked him while he was chewing it. He and Kouros didn’t say much more than “pass the sugar.” Sort of like an old married couple dining alone with nothing left to say on any subject. The only interruptions were two calls from Maggie.
It was a little before eleven, the heart of morning classes at the university. That meant local coffee shops filled with students who knew better than to corrupt their original thinking with some lecturer’s old ideas and historical biases. Whatever they might need to supplement their innate understanding of the world could be found elsewhere, like online. After all, it was life that mattered, not classes. Besides, if teachers really knew what they were talking about, they’d be doing something else.
Andreas and Kouros approached the front door of the third of Anna’s places of employment. They’d also stopped at two where she didn’t work, to keep anyone from wondering why only her jobs attracted cops. There was no time for an undercover operation, and so they took the opposite approach: two bull-in-a-china-shop cops looking for a quick score off a couple of drug dealers, a regrettably routine pastime for some of their not-so-honest brethren on the force. So far, their performances netted them only blank stares when they flashed the photo of two guys partially blocking the logo of a notorious drug-trafficking nightclub.
It was a nondescript place in a nondescript building filled with young men trying in the most nondescript way to look anything but. A coffee house of the post-World War II beatnik era as envisioned by twenty-first-century youth: pale orange-yellow walls with chair railings—unusual for
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