The Venetian Judgment Page 10

“He was in Ravenna, on the Adriatic. You can see the old castello in the background there.”

  “His age at this time?”

  “Thirty-one. These shots were taken in August. He was on a vacation with friends, as you can see. He disappeared later the same day, just . . . vanished. He told his friends he was going for a gelato with a girl he had just met and that he would meet them later on the Ponte L’Espero. He never showed up. At first, they thought that he had gone off on a tear with this girl, but no girl was ever identified. The Carabinieri did all they could, and we brought in private investigators—”

  “You spoke with these . . . friends, I imagine?”

  “Yes. Not personally, but the police did, and later our people.”

  “And now you have come to Santorini because of this body we found here a few weeks ago?”

  “Yes. I know it’s a long shot, but we can’t let anything go . . . My wife, she still hopes. For myself, less so. But we do . . . whatever it takes.”

  Sofouli kept his head down, looking at the shots far longer than was necessary. Then he sat back, the wooden chair creaking under his weight like a tall ship tacking hard. He tented his large fingers and looked at Dalton over their pink-skinned tips.

  “Your son, he does not look like you. I have not yet met your wife, so I assume she is the dark-haired beauty I see reflected in your son’s face?”

  “Yes, he takes after her, fortunately.”

  “This will be hard for you. I must ask you, how tall is your son?”

  “He’s a little under six feet. Five-eleven. He weighs about one hundred and eighty pounds.”

  “He was fit. ‘Well-knit,’ as you say?”

  “He played football for Washington State. Not your kind of football.”

  “Yes. The American helmet-bashing, bloody-nose kind. I like it very much. Soccer, these poncey-boys tripping over shadows and writhing like stuck piglets on the . . . Well, I am wandering. You would wish to know about the body that was found on the far side of Thirasia, then, earlier this fall?”

  “Whatever you feel you can tell me.”

  “May I ask, what is your profession?”

  “I’m a teacher. A lecturer, actually, at Portland State University.”

  “You have received an injury to your face.”

  “Yes, kicked by a horse. Caught the edge of his shoe on the bone.”

  “Kicked very hard, I see. You are a lucky man. You ride, do you?”

  “Bystanders might argue with that.”

  “You look fit. Are all teachers in America so fit? You look more like a soldier than a teacher, Mr. Pearson. Have you been in the service?”

  Dalton, trying to recall if the real William Pearson had done any military service, was finding Sofouli’s methods instructive. He managed to radiate an odd combination of friendly interest and jovial threat.

  “I was in the Navy for a while. Years ago.”

  “I see. You do not seem to be the teacher type, Mr. Pearson . . . But, let us set that aside. If you wish to see the photos of the body that was pulled from the sea, I will allow it, although you will not like what you see. The body was that of a young man, very fit, of about the same weight and height as your son. Around the same age, according to the bones. Did you happen to bring some dental charts with you?”

  “Yes, they’re at the hotel.”

  “It will not be necessary since they had all been pulled out.”

  “Pulled out? By whom?”

  Sofouli shrugged, reached for his coffee, sipped it with surprising delicacy, set the cup down.

  “That, we do not know. But the cause of death was murder. Other signs of violence were on the body, we think before death, but most of the damage that had been done to the corpse happened after it had gone into the water. The sea is full of life, and all of it feeds on whatever it finds. Many fish found this body. Also he was—do you know the term?—adipose. It refers to the fatty tissues of the body. After long exposure to water, the flesh begins to shed. The body turns into an unpleasant waxy thing, Mr. Pearson, swollen, grotesque, a horror. That is the thing we took pictures of. It did not resemble a human at all.”

  “The body was male?”

  “It was not female, that much could be told.”

  “The eyes, the color?”

  “There were no eyes, I am afraid.”

  “Anything about the skin, the body hair?”

  “There was little skin left, and, of course, with the skin goes the hair.”

  “Were you able to obtain some DNA?”

  “Yes, degraded, but enough to establish that the body was that of a Caucasian male, with Nordic ancestors. Would that describe your boy at all?”

  “Yes, but I am afraid it would also describe half the boys in America. Would there be any chance that I might obtain some of this DNA? We have some very fine labs in the U.S. and perhaps they could narrow the field—”

  “We have many fine labs here too, Mr. Pearson. But I cannot say yes to your request . . . There is the matter of procedures . . . jurisdictions. You are an interested party, but you have no legal standing. I have done what I can for you, but, beyond this interview, I must decline. I have not the power.”

  “I understand.”

  “Did your boy have any broken bones when he played sports?”

  “Yes, he broke his fibula and his femur.”

  “Left or right?”

  “Right, if you mean the femur.”

  Sofouli looked at Dalton for a time, clearly thinking him through.

  “There was no broken femur on this body. Do you know the name of Kirik Lujac?”

  “I know the body you found was identified as someone named Kirik Lujac. They called him Kiki, and he was some kind of fashion photographer.”

  “That is all?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you see, I am troubled . . . The report we filed mentioned that no bones had been broken in this body. And now you have come all this way to ask about a body with no broken bones and yet your son had broken bones.”

  “I see,” said Dalton, trying to look nervous and succeeding. “Well, we were just following any leads no matter how unlikely. Sometimes the report is incomplete. I’m not sure I understand you . . . ?”

  Sofouli looked at Dalton for a while longer.

  “Regarding the body, we are satisfied that the person identified as Kiki Lujac was the body we found. The body is not the only evidence we have. Mr. Lujac was last seen here in Fira in the company of a young man named Marcus Todorovich, who was known by the Athens police to frequent the gay nightclubs around the islands, especially Mykonos. He had a reputation as something called ‘rough trade,’ and a long police record.”

  “Do you know his location at all?”

  Sofouli said nothing for a time, his expression hardening.

  “I am interested to know why you would ask that.”

  Dalton let his eyes wander away from Sofouli’s hard look as if he were trying to think of some excuse. Then he came back.

  “Well, if this . . . Marcus . . . ?”

  “Marcus Todorovich.”

  “Was known as a kind of predator—”

  “Was your son gay, Mr. Pearson?”

  “Gay? No. I mean—”

  “Marcus Todorovich preyed on gay men, Mr. Pearson. If your son was not gay, then I am afraid there is nothing else that I can do for you.”

  He set his big hands on the desktop, pushed himself up, sighing heavily, and stood looking down at Dalton, his face now hard. Dalton stood up, and they faced each other across the desk. The air in the room seemed to be slightly charged with a vague threat.

  “Well,” said Dalton, gathering his photographs and slipping them into his case, “I want to thank you for your time.”

  “Certainly.”

  Sofouli pressed a button on his desk. Sergeant Keraklis appeared in the doorway. “Sergeant Keraklis will drive you back to your hotel, if you wish.”

  “Not at all,” said Da
lton, looking over his shoulder at Keraklis, whose face now wore a kind of chilly official blankness. “I would like to walk the town a bit. My wife is a little under the weather.”

  Sofouli said nothing, and did not offer his hand as Dalton turned to leave. Dalton was at the door when Sofouli said, “What is your subject?”

  “My ‘subject’?”

  “You are a teacher. What do you teach?”

  Dalton was stuck with what William Pearson actually taught.

  “My field is cultural anthropology. I lecture on the effects of Christianity on pre-Columbian Mesoamerican cultures.”

  “And what was the effect?”

  “Oh, terrible,” said Dalton, feeling like a complete horse’s ass and wondering if he was really going to be allowed to leave. “Their culture was wiped out. Disease and war and pillage—the usual European imperialism—”

  “Did these natives not cut the hearts out of living men?”

  “Well, that formed a very small part—”

  “I am Greek Orthodox, Mr. Pearson. What are you?”

  “I guess you could say I am an . . . agnostic.”

  “Agnostic? So you are ‘undecided’?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “So you are undecided about the cutting out of hearts?”

  “Well, from a cultural perspective, we have to avoid . . .”

  Sofouli nodded dismissively at Keraklis and sat down again.

  “I am not undecided, Mr. Pearson. Not at all. Good-bye.”

  UNLESS THEY WERE very good, no one followed Dalton back through the narrow, tangled streets of Fira to the hotel. Night was coming down on the little town, and the streetlamps glowed pale blue in the mist. The wind had died away while he was talking with Sofouli and, with it, the bone-cracking chill. He could smell the tang of ouzo and Turkish tobacco in the air as he passed by an open taverna. The tinny Grecian music had a Moorish feel, the wild, insistent rhythm and the clashing of brass on brass pouring out into the stony streets.

  He felt a chill running up and down his spine, and his chest was tight. He wished for a weapon, and wondered what quality it was that Sofouli possessed that made an interview with him seem so dangerous.

  Mandy was awake, showered, and dressed in tan slacks and a crisp white shirt, seeming much recovered. She was sitting on the couch, her normal glow back, with a hot, thick coffee on the table in front of her. The windows were open to the sea, and the scent of salt and seaweed was strong. In the distant west, a faint glimmer of golden aura flickered on the curved knife-edge of the island of Thirasia, and the whole bay was filled with a soft violet light.

  Mandy had something Moorish and sensual playing on the hotel’s CD system. She had also ordered food, an elaborate room-service feast of grilled lamb in a red wine sauce, seasoned rice-filled cabbage rolls smelling of lemon and eggs, various salads and side dishes, and a large bottle of Vinsanto, apparently a Santorini invention. The food smelled of garlic and wine and lemon and spices, and Dalton realized he was starving.

  “How are you?” he asked, filling a small plate and settling in.

  “I live,” she said, smiling. “Where life is, hope there also dwells.”

  “You had airsickness, Mandy. It hardly ever kills.”

  “Perhaps it should. Have some wine. You look peaked.”

  Dalton accepted a glass of Vinsanto, tasted it, made a face.

  “God, I didn’t see a cat around.”

  “I grant it’s a little strident,” said Mandy, leaning back into the cushions with a cup of coffee and a phyllo pastry. She watched Dalton tuck in with an indulgent smile, happy to see some flesh coming back onto his sharp-planed, almost haggard face. He looked . . . younger, and not so hunted.

  “Tell me, Micah,” she said after some hesitation, “do you still run into Porter now and then?”

  Dalton paused with a tomato fritter halfway to his lips, gave Mandy a sidelong look, which she held well. He set the domatokeftedhes back down and considered her pearl-pink skin and large hazel eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “Saw him a few days ago, in the Piazza San Marco.”

  She smiled the kind of smile that isn’t reflected in the eyes.

  “What did he have to say for himself?”

  Dalton shrugged.

  “The usual Porter line. He was wearing emerald green socks with a tobacco-brown tweed suit. Seemed in good form. Called me a ‘whiner.’ ”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He thought I was trying to get myself killed.”

  “Galan told me about that night. And was Porter right?”

  Dalton stared at his hands, running that night over again on the screen at the back of his skull.

  “Maybe. I don’t really know. I felt pretty good afterward. Serene, you know? Which I guess means I’m totally bats. In that vein, I have to admit I was actually happy to see him. I was in the mood for company, and he was always good company—”

  “You do know he doesn’t exist, don’t you?”

  “He’s pretty convincing, you ask me.”

  “Does he ever ask about me?”

  “All the time,” Dalton lied.

  “You’re a lying hound, aren’t you?”

  “Moi?”

  “This isn’t really all that funny, Micah. Are you coming apart at the seams? Are you up to what we’re doing? Really?”

  “Hey, you dragged me into this. I was doing just fine in Venice—”

  “Oh yes. Other than suicidal, single-handed vendettas—”

  “I don’t do well without . . . work. I just don’t like being cut off.”

  “From the Agency, you mean?”

  “That, yes, and . . . from the States. To be honest. I miss it.”

  “You wouldn’t miss it right now. The market is in ruins.”

  “Not the current events. I miss the country itself. Everything in Europe is so damned close to everything else. I was brought up in Tucumcari. Country was so flat, you could watch your dog run away for three days—”

  “My mother used to say that all the time.”

  “Yes, she was from Santa Fe, wasn’t she? How’d she end up in London?”

  “Changing the subject, are we?”

  “If it works, yes. If not, then no.”

  “Galan thought you were like a man who had jumped out of a very high window and somehow missed the ground.”

  “He say that in Italian or Yiddish? It sounds Yiddish.”

  “He said it in English. Is it true, Micah?”

  Dalton looked at her face, at the worry lines around her eyes and the tension in her neck and shoulders. She was an extraordinary women, truehearted, smart, occasionally dangerous, crazy brave, with a powerful sensuality and a fine loving heart, and her life was racing past her while she sat in this still, silent place looking at a man who had nothing left to give to anyone. He felt a fish hook tug under his ribs, and a kind of slow-burning shame. She could be loved, he realized, and she should be loved.

  “Mandy,” he said, “you need to get yourself a real man.”

  She smiled back at him, raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t want a real man, Micah, I’d rather have you.”

  “You had Porter, didn’t you?”

  “Frequently, in one sense. Not at all in some others.”

  “Then I’m the last thing you need. Can we let this go?”

  Mandy held his look for a time, long enough for the tension to build between them, long enough for him to want very much to take her to bed right now and bury himself inside her for the rest of the night. Then she broke it.

  “For now . . . Now, eat. Then I have something to show you.”

  Dalton caught her tone, poured out some more Vinsanto for both of them, and sat back on the couch.

  “I can eat later. What did we get?”

  Mandy reached into her purse and set a shell-pink BlackBerry on the table beside his plate, tapping the screen with a polished nail. Dalton gave her a look, picked the BlackBerry up, clicked
it on, and hit a series of letters and numbers that bypassed the ordinary functions of the machine and activated the high-powered radio receiver embedded in the casing.

  The receiver was tuned to the CCS Ghost Series nanotransmitter hidden inside the tube of the cheap ballpoint pen that Dalton had used to fill out the form Sofouli had handed to him. Dalton had taken three versions of it to the interview, one in a ballpoint, one embedded in a wad of rubber made to look like gum, which could be stuck to the underside of a chair, and a third hidden inside a pencil.

  The nanotransmitter could pick up voices in the next room, but it could also detect the electronic tones produced when someone dialed a phone number or the radio signals emitted by a wireless keyboard when someone typed. The ballpoint was configured for voice and phone. In a moment, he was looking at a long list of phone numbers, along with time markers. There were twenty-six numbers on the readout but only five had markers.

  Mandy, speaking as if the room was miked in the unlikely event that Dalton’s sweep had missed something, said, “I went down through the list and thought these places might appeal to you.”

  Dalton recognized the first number. It was the main desk of the Porto Fira Suites, where they were staying. Sofouli had called right after Dalton left his office. There was a VOX icon next to the number, which meant that whatever Sofouli had said on his end during the call had been recorded. Since neither Mandy nor Dalton had a useful command of Greek, and the Agency’s language-translation module was, to be honest, an utter waste of time, they were concentrating just on the numbers themselves.

  Dalton tapped the second number.

  “This place looks interesting, dear.”

  “Yes,” said Mandy, “it’s a place called Franco’s Bar, on Martiou.”

  He moved his finger to the third number, gave her a look.

  Mandy handed him a piece of hotel notepaper.

  The Tourist Police Office in Athens

  Dalton gave that some thought, tapped the fourth number, and then looked at the next note Mandy handed him.

  The Portland Oregon Police Department

  “Well, I’m not sure that appeals to me,” he said.

  “I didn’t think it would,” said Mandy, lifting an eyebrow.

  “How about this last one?”