Murder on Olympus (7 page)

16

Monday morning, I was editing the footage of Collin in my office when Hermes made another impromptu appearance.

“Good morning, Mr. Jones.”

“What do you want now?”

“You should know the answer to that by now.” Hermes sat down and crossed his legs. “I told Zeus about your involvement in last weekend’s investigation.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. He was pleased. He strongly insists that you reconsider helping us.”

I closed my laptop. “Is everyone on Olympus hard of hearing? I am not—I repeat—am not investigating the murders.”

“I think you will,” Hermes said with a straight face.

“Zeus pays you to think now?” I said. “You do everything your daddy tells you to do?”

Hermes returned a humorless laugh and stood up. He removed his sunglasses and slipped them into his pocket. “At first I found your impertinence to be quite amusing. But now you’re starting to piss me off.”

I shrugged. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Hermes reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves. He slid one onto his hand. I felt a twinge of fear in my gut. Inconspicuously, I opened my desk drawer, where I kept my gun.

“You are, as they say, a tough nut to crack.” Hermes tugged the other glove onto his hand. “Zeus suggested that I come up with more . . . creative forms of persuasion.”

Every muscle in my body tightened. The pulse in my neck throbbed. My hand was poised above the open drawer.

“You think that by roughing me up, I’ll agree to help you?” I asked.

“Some individuals only seem to respond to violence.”

“I thought you didn’t like fighting.”

Hermes smiled darkly. “This won’t be a fight, Mr. Jones.”

We stared at each other for an interval. Motes of dust floated through the sunlight, the only movement in the room. Then I blinked and he was gone.

Terror flooded me. I grabbed my gun and glanced around the office for something to aim at.

Gloved hands appeared out of nowhere and caught my arm in a crushing grip. I thrashed wildly as I was lifted into the air and thrown across the office. I slammed into the wall and crashed hard onto my side. Air burst from my lungs.

I struggled to my feet, coughing and wheezing. The next thing I knew, Hermes was pressing me against the wall. His fingers closed around my throat.

“So, Mr. Jones,” he said, still smiling. “Have you started to rethink your position?”

I pressed my gun under his chin. “Go to Hades.”

Hermes laughed.

Emilie came into the office wielding a large revolver. “I think you should leave now.”

Hermes ignored her.

My voice cracked with fear; it was embarrassing. “Let me go, before I put a bullet in you.”

Hermes smirked. “Exactly what would that do, besides make me angry?”

“It’d ruin that snazzy suit of yours,” I said.

Hermes tightened his grip on my throat. I grunted.

Emilie cocked her gun.

No one made a move. Everything was silent except the hum of the air conditioner. Should I shoot him? Could I pull the trigger before he crushed my throat? I knew he was fast. But how fast?

“I should kill you right now,” Hermes whispered.

“But you won’t,” I said. “You need me.” The words seemed to grind against the inside of my throat.

Hermes’s smile widened. He let me go and backed off slowly.

Emilie moved away from the door, her gun still trained on him. “Are you all right, sir?”

I nodded, clutching my throat. “Yeah.”

Emilie covered me as I returned to my desk and sat down. My hand shook. The Desert Eagle felt glued to my palm.

“I’ll ask you again,” Hermes said. “Have you reconsidered? Or shall I resume trying to convince you?”

“Beat me up all you’d like. Answer’s still the same.”

Hermes removed the gloves and stuffed them into his pocket. “Are you sure this is the route you wish to take?”

“Sure as I’ll be,” I said.

Hermes reached into his pocket and produced a white business card. He placed it on my desk. “If you change your mind.”

“Not gonna happen.”

He chuckled and turned to leave. He stopped near the door and glanced over his shoulder. “A word of warning, Mr. Jones. There are consequences for disrespecting the Gods. Grave ones.”

I pointed at the door.

“Have a nice day.” Hermes tipped an invisible hat and walked out.

Emilie lowered her gun and straightened. She cleared her throat. “Are you sure you’re all right, sir?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the assist.”

Emilie nodded. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, what was that all about?”

I shook my head, putting my gun back into the drawer. “Nothing. Just Gods being Gods.”

“Is there anything I can get you?”

“An icepack would be nice. And some of those little chocolate cookies. The ones with peanut butter in the middle.”

“Yes, sir.” Emilie left my office.

I let out a long sigh and rubbed the nape of my neck. The adrenaline coursing through my body began to die away, and I suddenly felt tired. My back and throat felt like they were on fire. They’d feel worse tomorrow morning. But none of that bothered me. Physical pain was something I could deal with. What did bother me was the fact that I had gotten roughed up by a guy with plucked eyebrows and manicured hands.

17

After I finished editing the footage of Collin, I swung by the Stone residence to review it with Bellanca. She and I sat in the living room across from the big-screen TV. Sunlight poured through the skylight.

Bellanca watched the recording as if in a trance. As bad as I felt for her, I couldn’t help cracking a smile during the part where Collin ran out of Enyo’s house in his tighty-whities.

When the recording ended, Bellanca said nothing.

“It looks like you were right,” I said.

Bellanca continued to stare blankly at the television screen. When she finally spoke, her voice emerged as little more than a whisper. “He cheated on me.” There was no emotion in her tone. No sadness or shock or anger. Nothing. “I asked him if he was cheating on me,” she continued, “and he said no.”

We were sitting next to each other on the red sectional, about a foot apart. I looked at her. She looked back. Her lips parted, as though she wanted to tell me something but couldn’t get the words out.

“You okay?” I asked.

Bellanca gave a partial nod. A few seconds passed. Then she started crying. She bent forward and covered her face. Tears squeezed between her fingers, dripping onto the checkered tile. Being a PI, I had seen this type of thing dozens of times, and it always made me feel awkward.

I patted her on the back. It was the only thing I could think to do. She looked up at me. Her face was flushed and mascara ran down her cheeks.

“I loved him,” she sobbed. “How could he do this?”

I wanted to say, “Your husband’s a selfish asshole, and you should get a divorce ASAP.” But I didn’t. My job was to give people the truth. What they did with it was up to them.

“I’m sorry,” I said, truthfully.

Bellanca threw her arms around me and buried her face in the crook of my neck. I stiffened. Her hair smelled like fresh coconut. A knot of desire formed in my belly.

“He told me he loved me,” Bellanca said, her voice muffled.

I rubbed her back. She gave a shuddering sigh as her tears dampened the collar of my shirt. Comforting clients wasn’t in my job description, but today I made an exception. I liked Bellanca. I liked being this close to her. She was a beautiful woman in a vulnerable position. But she was also a customer. And Plato Jones, PI, is all about customer service.

Bellanca stopped crying after a while. But she continued to embrace me. Her lips brushed the side of my neck. At first, I dismissed it as an accident. But then it happened again, and this time it was more than a brush.

Bellanca tightened her hold on me and started kissing my neck. My heart raced, and I suddenly felt light-headed. Feeling her warm body against mine, I found it hard not to close my eyes and go with it. But I knew I had to put a stop to this. Hugging a client was fine, if not ethical. But having sex with one, especially a married one, was a line I refused to cross.

“Bellanca,” I whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t you think you should stop now?”

She ignored the question and kissed me again. Her soft lips searched the bare flesh on my neck. I fought the impulse to her kiss back.

“This has to stop,” I said, my voice coming out huskier than I intended.

“No. Not yet.” Bellanca leaned forward and tried to kiss me on the mouth. I turned my head. Her lips pressed against my cheek.

“Stop.” I pried her arms away and stood up.

Bellanca stared at me, her brown eyes large and dark, her lips flushed. Then she blinked and her sanity seemed to return. She gasped and shot upright. “I am so sorry!”

I shook my head, still light-headed. “Don’t worry about it.”

Bellanca started crying again. She covered her face and turned away from me.

“I think I should go now,” I said.

She didn’t respond.

I saw myself out and got into my car. I started the engine, cranked the air conditioner on high, and drove off.
The excitement never stops
, I thought. In less than eight hours, I had been beaten up by a God and molested by a client. I didn’t know whether I needed a hot bath or a cold shower.

18

After my divorce, my mom reclaimed the title of most important woman in my life. I paid her a visit at least once a month. She was the nurturing type. Generous, kind, willing to bend over backward for family. She was protective too. Fortunately she never got too crazy with it.

Early Saturday morning, I drove to the docks and took a ferry to Skiathos, an island northwest of Athens. It was a popular tourist spot, with lots of resorts and restaurants. My mom lived in a beachside villa on the southwestern part of the island. I bought her the house after my second year with the OBI. A white one-story with reddish-brown shingles, it was plain as plain could be. I wanted to get her something fancier, but she wouldn’t have it. She said I had already spent more than enough money on little ol’ her.

I knocked on the door. A minute later, my mom answered, out of breath and wearing a red-and-black salsa dress. Her long gray hair was pulled back in a bun. When she saw me, her brown eyes lit up.

“Hi, Mom.” I smiled when I saw her.

“PJ!” She wrapped her arms around me like I was soldier coming home from war. She felt smaller than I remembered. More fragile. I had to be careful not to hug too hard for fear of breaking her.

Mom released me and poked me in the stomach. “You’ve put on weight.”

I looked myself over. “Maybe a little.”

“You’d better be careful,” she warned me. “Once you get too much on, it’s almost impossible to get off.”

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

“Famous last words.”

I laughed. “So, what’s with the getup?”

“What, this?” She glanced down at her dress. “James is teaching me to salsa dance.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Who’s James?”

“My new friend. Didn’t I tell you about him last time we talked?”

“No. You neglected to mention him.”

“Well, come on in and meet him,” Mom said, pulling me through the door.

I didn’t like this. Didn’t like it at all. In the past six years, my mom had gone through four boyfriends. The first three were alright. But the fourth was a real ass. A smooth talker with a nice car and lots of cash. He had this cheese-eating grin that grated on my nerves. One time he took my mom skydiving. Another time, the two of them went bungee jumping. When I caught wind of their little escapades, I was royally pissed—so pissed, in fact, that Alexis had to talk me out of going after the guy. What my mom saw in that loser I’ll never know.

She led me into the living room. The space had a tropical theme going on. The furniture was wicker, with bright floral cushions. The fan blades were shaped like banana leaves. The patio window looked out onto the Aegean. Salsa music played on an old record player that had belonged to my dad.

James danced by himself near the fireplace. He was tall and dark, with curly gray hair, a thin mustache, and a bad suntan. His build was impressive, for an old guy. He had on a black button-up with long puffy sleeves and a pair of tight black pants. Beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt, his chest looked like it had a family of chinchillas glued to it. The only thing he was missing was a rose clenched between his teeth.

“Eleanor, is this your little boy?” His voice was smooth, but not in a good way. It was that cheesy kind of smooth. The kind that screamed used car salesman.

“Sure is,” Mom said, her face bright.

James salsa-danced up to me and shook my hand. He smelled of cologne and aftershave. The combination made my nostrils burn.

“James Hodges,” he said.

I offered him a fake smile. “Plato Jones. Good to meet you, Mr. Hodges.”

“Please, call me James.”

“Sure.”

“Your mom has told me a lot about you.”

I wish I could say the same
. “Nothing too incriminating, I hope.”

James grinned. His veneers were too big and too white for his mouth. They reminded me of piano keys.

“You hungry, PJ?” Mom asked.

“Starving.”

“Come to the kitchen. I’ll fix you something.” She glanced at James. “Would you turn off the music, dear?”

Dear? Gods, how serious were they?

“Of course.” James walked over to the old record player and turned it off. I felt a thump in my chest. I didn’t like the idea of another man touching my dad’s stuff. He was dead and couldn’t care less, but still.

“Come on, slowpoke.” Mom tugged my arm.

Like the living room, the kitchen also had a tropical theme. But with white floors, blue walls, and lime-green cabinets, it more closely resembled something out of
Pee-wee’s Playhouse
. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my mom to death, but an interior designer she is not.

I sat down at the kitchen table.

“Is there anything in particular you want?” Mom asked.

“Nah, just whatever you got.”

While Mom rummaged through the fridge, I looked around the kitchen. A picture of me and Socrates sat on the bakers rack. I was eleven and he was thirteen. We had our arms around each other’s shoulders, like we were best friends or something. That was as far from the truth as you could get. In reality, I couldn’t stand my brother. Just hearing his name made me angry.

Our dad died of prostate cancer when I was fourteen. A few days after the funeral, Socrates took off without saying a word. No goodbye note. No nothing. He abandoned me and Mom when we needed him the most.

I heard from him two years ago, and not a word since. He called me out of the blue to “check up” on me. The conversation quickly turned to money. He’d lost his shirt in some failed business venture. If I lent him a couple thousand credits, he’d pay me back twofold. I hung up when he was midsentence.

As far as I was concerned, I had no brother.

My mom didn’t mention Socrates much. Not because she was mad at him, but because he’d hurt her with what he’d done. Knowing she was sad because of him made me want to hunt him down and kick the crap out of him.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asked, slicing a tomato.

I shook my head and smiled. “Nothing.”

“You should know by now that you can’t hide anything from me.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“No, you’re not. Your troubles are written all over your face.”

I didn’t like where this was going. It was time to change the subject. “I saw Uncle Magus not too long ago.”

“Oh! How is he?”

“He’s doing fine. Still running the shop.”

“That’s good. Tell him if he doesn’t call me more often, he’s going to be in big trouble.”

I gave a thumbs-up. “Will do.”

James sauntered into the kitchen and sat across from me. He had ditched the salsa clothes for a white, V-neck T-shirt and pair of cream leisure pants.

“Your mom tells me you’re a private eye,” he said to me.

“That’s right.”

“How’s that going for you?”

“Business is good.”

Mom sighed as she opened a jar of mayo. “I still don’t know why you gave up that nice government job to go play detective.”

“It wasn’t for me.”

She shook her head and spread some of the mayo on a slice of bread.

Mom knew I used to work for the OBI. Alexis knew too. What they didn’t know was that I was a field agent, involved in covert ops. As far as they were concerned, I used to be a pencil-pusher with a corner office at OBI headquarters. I didn’t like lying to them, but telling the truth was too dangerous.

Keeping your workplace identity a secret is the first rule of being an OBI agent. The second is to never share classified information with civilians. Agents who break those rules tend to disappear.

“Working on any interesting cases?” James asked me.

“Nothing special. Say, Jim, what exactly do you do for a living?”

Mom answered for him. “James owns a successful toilet paper company.”

James smiled broadly.

“How fitting,” I said.

Mom brought me a roast beef sandwich with all the trimmings, a humongous slice of baklava, and a tall glass of tea. I bit into the sandwich. The taste hadn’t changed since I was a kid. Delicious.

Mom started making sandwiches for her and James—sliced cucumber and eggplant between slices of tofu. I was pretty sure Mom didn’t come up with the recipe. She’d never been much of a health nut.

“Have you talked to Alexis lately?” she asked.

“More often than I’d like to,” I answered, my mouth full.

“How is she?”

“She’s still the same old Alexis. Annoying. Argumentative. Constantly telling me how I should live my life.”

“It sounds like she still cares about you.”

“Maybe. But I’ve moved on.”

Mom’s eyes widened. “Does that mean you’ve found someone else?”

I shook my head.

She sighed. “Oh, PJ.”

“I just haven’t found the right woman yet.”

“Well, you’d better hurry up and find her. I want to know what it’s like to be a grandmother before I kick the bucket.”

“Mom!”

“I’m just saying.” Mom finished making the sandwiches and brought them to the table.

The three of us ate and chatted. Mom and James kept making eyes at each other. I could sense that they were playing footsie under the table. I wanted to say, “Do you two mind? I’m trying to eat.” But I couldn’t find it in myself to give them a hard time. After everything Mom had been through—with Dad dying and Socrates running off—she deserved to be happy.

I wasn’t too fond of Jim. I didn’t like his stupid mustache. Or his super-smooth voice. But if he made Mom happy, I’d make an effort to tolerate him.

“Are you sure you can’t stay the night?” Mom asked. “You can stay in the guest room.”

I shook my head, smiling. “Sorry, but duty calls.”

We said our goodbyes. A hug and kiss for Mom, and a handshake for Jim. As I walked out of the house, I felt lighter despite all the food in my stomach. Seeing Mom always made me feel like a kid again. A big, woman-chasing, booze-pounding kid.