A strange voice said, "Mrs. Reynolds?"
She started to say no, then remembered how Kirk had registered them. "Yes. This is Mrs. Reynolds."
"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Your husband has been in a skiing accident."
"Oh, no! Is it...is it serious?"
"I'm afraid it is."
"I'll come right away. Where...?"
"I'm sorry to tell you he's...he's dead, Mrs. Reynolds. He was skiing the Lagalp and broke his neck."
Chapter Sixteen
Tony Rizzoli watched her come out of the bathroom naked, and thought, Why do Greek women have such big asses?
She slid into bed beside him, put her arms around him, and whispered, "I'm so glad you chose me, poulaki. I wanted you from the first moment I saw you."
It was all Tony Rizzoli could do to keep from laughing out loud. The bitch had seen too many B movies.
"Sure," he said. "I feel the same way, baby."
He had picked her up at The New Yorker, a sleazy nightclub on Kallari Street, where she worked as a singer. She was what the Greeks contemptuously called a gavyeezee skilo, a barking dog. None of the girls who worked at the club had talent - not in their throats, anyway - but for a price, they were all available to be taken home. This one, Helena, was moderately attractive, with dark eyes, a sensuous face, and a full, ripe body. She was twenty-four, a little old for Rizzoli's taste, but he did not know any ladies in Athens, and he could not afford to be choosy.
"Do you like me?" Helena asked coyly.
"Yeah. I'm pazzo about you."
He began to stroke her breasts, and felt her nipples get hard, and squeezed.
"Ouch!"
"Move your head down, baby."
She shook her head. "I don't do that."
Rizzoli stared at her. "Really?"
The next instant, he grabbed her hair and pulled.
Helena screamed. "Parakalo!"
Rizzoli slapped her hard across the face. "Make one more sound and I'll break your neck."
Rizzoli dragged her face down between his legs. "There he is, baby. Make him happy."
"Let me go," she whimpered. "You're hurting me."
Rizzoli tightened his grip on her hair. "Hey - you're crazy about me - remember?"
He let go of her hair, and she looked up at him, her eyes blazing.
"You can go..."
The look on his face stopped her. There was something terribly wrong with this man. Why hadn't she seen it sooner?
"There's no reason for us to fight," she said placatingly. "You and me..."
His fingers dug into her neck. "I'm not paying you for conversation." His fist smashed into her cheek. "Shut up and go to work."
"Of course, sweetheart," Helena whimpered. "Of course."
Rizzoli was insatiable, and by the time he was satisfied, Helena was exhausted. She lay at his side until she was sure he was asleep, and then she quietly slipped out of bed and got dressed. She was in pain. Rizzoli had not paid her yet, and ordinarily Helena would have taken the money from his wallet, plus a handsome tip for herself. But some instinct made her decide to leave without taking any money.
An hour later, Tony Rizzoli was awakened by a pounding on the door. He sat up and peered at his wristwatch. It was four o'clock in the morning. He looked around. The girl had gone.
"Who is it?" he called.
"It's your neighbor." The voice was angry. "There's a telephone call for you."
Rizzoli rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I'm coming."
He put on a robe and walked across the room to where his trousers were draped on the back of a chair. He checked his wallet. His money was all there. So, the bitch wasn't stupid. He extracted a hundred-dollar bill, walked over to the door, and opened it.
His neighbor was standing in the hallway in a robe and slippers. "Do you know what time it is?" he asked indignantly. "You told me..."
Rizzoli handed him the hundred-dollar bill. "I'm terribly sorry," he said apologetically. "I won't be long."
The man swallowed, his indignation gone. "That's all right. It must be important for someone to wake people up at four o'clock in the morning."
Rizzoli walked into the room across the hall and picked up the phone. "Rizzoli."
A voice said, "You have a problem, Mr. Rizzoli."
"Who is this?"
"Spyros Lambrou asked me to call you."
"Oh." He felt a sudden sense of alarm. "What's the problem?"
"It concerns Constantin Demiris."
"What about him?"
"One of his tankers, the Thele, is in Marseilles. It's tied up at the pier in the Bassin de la Grande Joliette."
"So?"
"We've learned that Mr. Demiris has ordered the ship diverted to Athens. It will be docking there Sunday morning, and sailing Sunday night. Constantin Demiris plans to be on it when it sails."
"What?"
"He's running."
"But he and I have a..."
"Mr. Lambrou said to tell you that Demiris is planning to hide out in the United States until he can find a way to get rid of you."
The sneaky son of a bitch! "I see. Thank Mr. Lambrou for me. Tell him thanks very much."
"It's his pleasure."
Rizzoli replaced the receiver.
"Is everything all right, Mr. Rizzoli?"
"What? Yeah. Everything is great." And it was.
The more Rizzoli thought about the phone call, the more pleased he was. He had Constantin Demiris running scared. That would make it a lot easier to handle him. Sunday. He had two days in which to lay his plans. Rizzoli knew he had to be careful. He was being followed wherever he went. Fucking Keystone Kops, Rizzoli thought contemptuously. When the time comes, I'll dump them.