Murder on Olympus (2 page)

3

At first glance, the Gods of Olympus are as different from one another as salt is from sugar. But if you take a closer look, you’ll begin to realize that despite their bickering, they’re essentially of a single mind. They share a universal bond, a thread of commonality that unites them as one: they’re all jerks.

Hermes was no exception. He barged into my office wearing a white pinstripe suit. His long white hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He looked like a catalog model that had gotten lost on his way to a photo shoot. But the same could be said about most of the Gods. He was thousands of years old but looked around the same age as me—thirty-five. Lucky bastard. Seeing him—or any other God—usually made me take stock of my own appearance.

Some women found me attractive. I didn’t see it. Growing up, some kids were skinny with big teeth. Others had giant ears. I had the unique privilege of having all three traits, a veritable trifecta of awkwardness. In elementary school, they called me the amazing rat boy, able to cut through steel cable with a single bite. Not a day went by that someone didn’t pluck my ears or stuff me in a locker. But that changed once I reached high school, and had grown into my features. By senior year, I had lost my virginity and was dating a majorette. Not bad for an ugly duckling.

Hermes was the official messenger of Olympus—basically a glorified errand boy. But he was still a God, so dealing with him required a certain level of finesse. Unfortunately, grace wasn’t my strong suit.

Hermes took a seat in front of my desk and laced his fingers. A humorless grin stretched across his face. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” I mumbled, my cheeks stuffed with food.

“I sat in your waiting room for over an hour. Your secretary told me you were in a meeting with clients.”

I plastered a shocked expression on my face. I put down the roast beef sandwich I had been eating, dialed Emilie’s extension, and turned on the speakerphone.

“Yes, sir?” she answered.

I spoke in an overly calm tone, the kind people use when they’re pissed off but still want to seem professional. “Emilie, did you tell Hermes that I was in a meeting with clients?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re fired.”

“Yes, sir.”

I ended the call and offered Hermes an apologetic smile. His light-blue eyes betrayed a hint of annoyance. My little ploy had failed. He shook his head and I dropped the act.

I called the front desk again. “Emilie?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Sorry about before,” I said. “You’re not fired.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I ended the call.

Hermes’s smile had fallen by then. “Why do you insist on wasting my time?”

“If time is a priority, then maybe you should have called and set up an appointment before showing up at my office.”

“I did call. Repeatedly, in fact. You were always conveniently unavailable. Either out of the office or speaking with clients.”

Hermes plucked a piece of peppermint from the candy dish. He let the wrapper fall to the floor.

I wanted to ask him to pick it up and put it in the wastebasket. Not because I wanted to keep my office clean, but because I knew it would irritate him. With effort, I managed to suppress the urge. I had already antagonized him more than I probably should have. Best not to press my luck. Besides, the sooner I found out what he wanted, the sooner he’d leave.

“How can I help you?” I asked.

“The Gods are in need of your services.”

“Why would the Gods need a private investigator? Did someone on Olympus lose a sock?”

For a moment, Hermes didn’t answer. He crunched loudly into his peppermint. “Eileithyia was found dead in her home this morning.”

This had to be a bad joke. I searched Hermes expression, waiting for the punch line. It never came.

I leaned back in my chair, my mind blown. “A Goddess? Dead? Is that even possible?”

“Apparently so,” Hermes said. “We want you on the investigation.”

I shook my head. “No way. You guys have your own private task force. They should be the ones looking into this. Not me.”

“They’re already on it. But we need you.”

“And why is that?”

“Because some would say you were our best agent. Your methods were . . . unorthodox to say the least, but you got the job done.”

“Was that a compliment from a God?” I narrowed my eyes, incredulous. “Are you feeling alright, Hermes?”

His brows gathered into a scowl.

“Come to think of it, you are looking paler than usual. Did you eat something that didn’t agree with you?” I reached for my speakerphone. “Just sit tight. I’ll have Emilie bring you a glass of ginger ale and a handful of saltines.”

“Damn it, Jones!” Hermes shot upright and slammed his fist on the desk. The wood cracked down the middle. “Do you think this is some kind of game?”

Fear stabbed my gut. It had been so long; I had forgotten how strong the Gods were. If he hadn’t held back, Hermes could have broken my desk in half.

He dusted off his hands and sat back down. “Tell me. How is this little private investigation venture going for you?”

“It’s coming along.”

But we both knew the truth. I had hit a dry spell. More like a drought. My last high-profile case was nearly two years ago. Since then I had worked a number of small assignments. I couldn’t brag about the money. In fact, it was barely enough to pay the bills.

“Have you ever considered begging Zeus for your old job back?” Hermes asked.

“Just the other night, actually. The next day I woke up with a hangover.”

Hermes laughed. “Joke all you like, but I know you miss your old life. The security. The money.”

“The money wasn’t that great.”

Hermes’s eyes narrowed. “Do you realize how fortunate you were? You were a government agent, chosen by Zeus himself. Few mortals ever get such an opportunity.”

He was right about that. Zeus had founded the Olympic World Council after defeating the Titans. For centuries, only Gods were allowed membership. Then fifty years ago, he offered government jobs to a handful of mortals. It was Zeus’s way of throwing mankind a bone.

After that, all sorts of arguments surfaced. Would Zeus ever step down as president? Could a human become president? Could a human become a God? Questions like those always seemed to get lost on the way to Mount Olympus. Big surprise.

I tried to come up with a rejoinder, but couldn’t. What could I say? Hermes had made a valid point. Most mortals idolized the Gods and would have killed for the chance to work alongside them. There was a time when even I admired them. That was before I started working with them, before I saw them without their makeup, so to speak. I found out what was behind all the glitz and glamour, and I wasn’t impressed. I’m still not.

“I have to admit,” I said, “seeing you here, pleading for help, it warms my heart. But the answer’s still no.”

Hermes frowned. “And why is that?”

“I have my reasons.”

“If money is your concern, I can assure you that you’ll be well compensated.”

“Money isn’t the issue.”

“Then tell me, Mr. Jones.” Hermes leaned forward slightly. “Exactly what is the issue?”

“If this killer of yours is powerful enough to slay a Goddess, what chance would I have against him?”

“Slim to none, I’d say.” Hermes helped himself to another piece of candy. An Atomic Fireball. He pursed his lips the instant he popped it into his mouth. He spit the candy back into its wrapper and returned it to the dish.

I grabbed the candy dish and emptied it into the wastebasket.

“But it doesn’t matter what I think,” Hermes continued. “Zeus has faith in your abilities. His opinion is the only one that matters.”

“Spoken like a true lackey.”

“He knew you’d play hard to get.”

“Who’s playing?”

“Let’s be reasonable,” Hermes said calmly, as if speaking to a child. “This business of yours is slowly going under. A government contract could put it back on track. Find out who’s behind the murder, and I promise we’ll make it worth your while.”

The desperation in his voice tinkled like music to my ears. The smug bastard had never been fond of me, and the feeling was mutual. Most Gods believed that mortals, humans in particular, were inferior to them. Hermes’s ideology went beyond that. He’d just as soon enslave humanity as coexist with it. Fortunately, Zeus was around to keep him, and others like him, in line. That he was being forced to play nice almost brought a smile to my face. Almost. I’m a professional, after all.

“There’s nothing you can offer that would change my mind.” I stood up and strode toward the door. “Tell Zeus he can find someone else to do his dirty work. Now, if you don’t mind, I have another client to meet with.”

Hermes clenched his jaw. He looked like he wanted to strangle me.

I knew he wouldn’t. Despite his power and hatred toward mankind, Hermes was too much of a pretty boy to get his hands dirty. I crossed my arms and waited for him to leave.

“You’re a stubborn one,” he said.

“That’s what they say.”

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

I opened the office door.

Hermes got up and smoothed the wrinkles in his jacket. “Zeus will not be pleased.”

“What a shame.”

“This isn’t over.” Hermes plucked a pair of designer sunglasses from his coat pocket and put them on. He crossed the office to stand in front of me. We were nearly touching. He stared at me. Behind the dark lenses, his eyes flickered with anger.

I stared right back. God or not, he wasn’t going to bully me in my own office. I jerked my head toward the open door.

“When this little business of yours fails, you’ll be back on Olympus, throwing yourself at Zeus’s feet,” Hermes spat.

I smiled politely. “Thank you for thinking of the Plato Jones Detective Agency.”

Hermes took a step back. “You’re making a mistake.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

He slowly shook his head. “It’s not wise to insult the Gods. We could make your life a lot harder than it already is.”

I laughed. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Jones,” Hermes said. “I’ll be in touch.” He straightened his tie and left.

I slammed the door behind him. The conversation had left me feeling drained. Interacting with the Gods usually had that effect on me. I was ready to go home and relax. But before that, I had to meet with a client.

I grabbed a few items from my desk: my cell phone, my reading glasses, and my Desert Eagle. The gun was a souvenir from my days as an OBI agent—the Olympic Bureau of Investigation. I had been one of thirty highly trained special agents. Handpicked by Zeus, we answered only to him, executing his orders without question or prejudice. That was the theory anyway.

I was the first human to join the OBI—which had mostly included Demigods, satyrs, and minotaurs. Before that, I was an army officer. I enlisted just a year out of high school. My family couldn’t afford to send me to college, so I figured the army was the answer. After I graduated from college on a military scholarship, an OBI recruiter approached me. He asked if I’d be interested in better serving my nation. I told him I was already doing a pretty good job. Then he mentioned a boatload of money. Needless to say, I was sold.

I checked the gun. The clip held eight osmium rounds, with one more in the chamber. Osmium is effective against most nonhuman creatures—hydras, vampires, and such. A well-placed shot can even slow down a God. Though no amount of bullets, osmium or otherwise, can kill one. Nothing could. At least that’s what I’d thought, until today.

I flipped off the lights and walked out of my office. Emilie sat at her desk, filing her nails. She glanced at me over the rims of her bifocals.

“Going out, sir?”

“Meeting with a client,” I said. “After that I’ll be heading home. Lock up before you leave.”

“Have a nice evening, sir.”

“You too, Emilie.”

4

I cruised down a street in the Gales, a ritzy suburb of New Olympia. Houses started at five hundred thousand a pop, and soared into the millions. Every lawn was immaculately manicured, with flowerbeds, bird fountains, and luxury cars parked in every garage. The streets looked freshly paved, and no trash littered the sidewalks or gutters. It was the ideal place to settle down and raise a family.

My ’67 Thunderbird, with its flaking cream paint, cracked windshield, and dented bumper, turned more than a few heads. Dads watering their lawns, moms planting flowers, and kids riding their bikes all stopped to look at me. The way they stared, I might as well have been riding a flying saucer, shouting “take me to your leader.”

The Stone residence—a three-story mansion behind an ornate iron gate—sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. A wall of vines, blooming with purple flowers, covered half the house. My client waited for me just outside the front door.

Looking at her made me wish I had dressed a bit nicer, though I wore my best suit. It was a gray number with a maroon button-up. I bought the outfit from a consignment shop about three years ago. Quality cost money, but spending six hundred credits for a jacket at a department store, and another four hundred for a pair of slacks, never made much sense to me. On the other hand, some people thought that buying a TV for two thousand credits didn’t make a whole lot of sense either. But hey, we all have our priorities.

Bellanca Stone’s petite hourglass figure reminded me of the kind on cartoons and in comic books. Black hair fell in thick curls down either side of her face, framing shadowed brown eyes, a slightly large but attractive nose, and full lips. Her bronze-colored skin glowed in the sunlight. To say that she was beautiful seemed an insulting understatement.

“Mr. Jones?” Bellanca said with a heavy Spanish accent.

“That’s me. You must be Mrs. Stone.”

Her skin was incredibly soft when we shook hands. I had to tell myself that she was a married woman. If I hadn’t, I’m sure the massive diamond on her finger would have reminded me.

“Please, come in.” She moved aside to let me pass. Inside the house, black and white covered almost every surface. The walls were white, the floors checkered. A black railing ran along the side of the staircase. White roses filled black vases atop white pedestals. The whole place had a disorienting effect.

Bellanca showed me to the living room. The ceiling soared high above my head. Sunlight poured through a vast skylight, reflecting off the white walls. The rug and drapes were black, but the leather sectional couch and loveseat were red. Fire engine red.
Finally
, I thought,
some color
. I sat on the sectional. A 72-inch flat-screen TV hung above the fireplace, playing the news. Bellanca grabbed the remote off the coffee table and muted the sound.

“Thanks for coming,” she said.

“Not a problem.”

“Can I get you something to drink? Water? Soda?”

I shrugged. “Soda’s good.”

As Bellanca walked into the kitchen, I resisted the urge to glance at her ass. While she was gone, I got up and took a stroll around the living room. A large display case occupied the corner, filled with snow globes and crystalline figures. Hanging on the wall behind the couch was a large cubist painting, with black, white, and gray shapes arranged to look like what I could only assume to be a man sitting on a toilet. Rich people baffled me.

I sat back down. Bellanca returned from the kitchen carrying a glass of ice filled with a clear, carbonated beverage.

“Here you are.” She handed me the soda. “Sprite.”

“Thanks.” I leaned back into the sofa cushions. “So, Mrs. Stone, what can I do for you?”

Bellanca sat across from me on the loveseat and crossed her legs. The bottom of her short white dress rode up, revealing a smooth expanse of thigh. I looked away to keep from staring.

“I need you to follow someone,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“My husband, Collin. I think he’s cheating on me.”

“Sounds simple enough.” I sipped my soda, put it on the coffee table, and then took out my pad and pen. “Why do you think he’s cheating on you?”

“The past few months, he’s been acting strangely. Collin used to be very affectionate. I couldn’t take three steps without him coming after me. Now he barely looks at me.”

“That is strange,” I commented, still trying not to stare at her legs.

Bellanca blushed. “That’s not the only problem. He comes home late. I’m usually in bed by the time he gets here. Whenever I ask him where he’s been, he gives me the same excuse: ‘I was at the office, finishing up a project.’”

“What does your husband do for a living?”

“He used to be a Major League pitcher, but a shoulder injury ended his career. Now he works at Minos Advertising.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A former pro athlete . . . I can see why you’re suspicious.”

“I’ve asked him a million times if he’s cheating on me. He tells me I’m being paranoid, but I know he’s lying. I just can’t prove it. Can you help me?” She crossed her arms tightly, and her breathing was shallow. I could tell she was holding back tears.

I held up my hand. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Stone, I handle this sort of thing all the time.”

“Call me Bellanca.”

“Bellanca,” I said. “Do you have a picture of Collin I could hold onto?”

She nodded and hurried out of the living room, her high heels clacking against the tile floor. This time I ditched the chivalry and took a peek at her backside. Perfect.

She came back with a wallet-size snapshot. I examined the picture. Caucasian. Mid-fifties. Graying brown hair. Brown eyes. No distinguishing features.

“The picture’s a bit old, but it’s his most recent one.” Bellanca sat back down and crossed her long legs again. “Collin’s been a little camera shy as of late.”

“Why’s that?”

She pushed a few strands of loose hair out of her face. “There was an incident several months ago. It left a scar on his right cheek.”

“What sort of incident?”

“He said he was mugged.”

Mugged. Right. I’d seen this a dozen times before. Guy cheats on wife with mistress. Mistress gets tired of being a mistress. Wants to marry guy. Tries to convince guy to leave his wife. Guy refuses. He and mistress argue. Mistress gets pissed and goes after guy with a butcher knife . . . And scene. Cut and print.

“That’s unfortunate.” I slipped the photograph into my wallet.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Bellanca asked.

“Yes. I need to know a little more about Collin. Where he works. What time he leaves for work. The names of places he likes to go. You know.”

“Of course.” She gave me the information, and I scribbled it down.

“Thanks.”

Bellanca let out a deep breath. Her hands trembled. Light reflected off her diamond ring, splintering into multicolored shards.

“You alright?” I asked.

She flashed me a nervous smile and nodded. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little nervous. That’s all.”

“Don’t be. The truth is nothing to be afraid of.”

Bellanca was quiet for a time. Then she said, “Mr. Jones . . .”

“Plato,” I corrected her.

“Plato. You said you do this all the time?”

I put the notepad and pen back into my pocket. “Yes.”

“Does it usually end badly?”

“Depends on your definition of badly.”

Bellanca’s smile died, and some of the light faded from her eyes. I should have said something, but I was terrible at cheering people up. Still, I couldn’t stand to see a woman look so sad, especially one with a pretty face, a tight bottom, and a great rack.

“Don’t worry about it too much,” I said. “This could all be a big misunderstanding. Happens all the time.”

Some of the light returned to her eyes. “Really?”

“Sure.”

She smiled at me. “I hope you’re right.”

For a long moment we sat in awkward silence, not looking at one another.

“I should probably get going,” I said.

“Of course.” Bellanca leapt to her feet.

I raised the half-full glass of Sprite. “Thanks for the soda.”

“You’re welcome.”

She walked me to the front door.

“I’ll call you when I find something,” I said, stepping across the threshold.

Bellanca nodded. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Jones.”

“Believe me, the pleasure was all mine.”