Jeffrey Siger_Andreas Kaldis 02 by Assassins of Athens Page B
Authors: Assassins of Athens
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crib. “Stand next to him and don’t move.” He checked the bedroom’s two closets and under the bed. Then the other rooms and anywhere else someone could hide.
He learned three things from his search. One, no one else was living in the apartment; two, the apartment was smaller than he expected because it had an outdoor deck off the living room; and three, the place was impeccably clean and tidy. Whatever else she was, Anna Panitz took care of her place.
And, now that he was relaxed, at least a bit, he could tell she took damn good care of herself, too. Even in dim light, she was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Probably in her early twenties, about five-foot-eight, with a thin but full-breasted, absolutely stunning figure; one he kept seeing more of each time she moved, more like flowed, around the living room. She wore a man’s light-blue cotton shirt, buttoned only to her navel. He could see her breasts and that her nipples were pink, for she wore no bra. Then she turned and bent to pick up a rattle and he saw everything else, for she wore no panties. His holster suddenly was quite uncomfortable, almost painful. But he didn’t tell her to button up.
He gestured for her to sit on the couch. He sat directly across from her on one of the chairs. He had to regain his focus. She started rocking back and forth, as if trying to hold back tears, opening and closing her legs as she rocked. Andreas moved his chair so that he saw her only from the side. He’d seen a lot of naked women in his life, certainly during his time on Mykonos. Some were as stunning as this one, but there are certain women who, for reasons a man can never figure out, stop your heart with just a look. It wasn’t as if she were trying to seduce him. She was dressed this way when he pressured his way into her apartment, and she was crying before he got there.
He was about to ask what was bothering her when she saved him the trouble.
“That poor boy, that poor boy.” She was crying. A photograph of Sotiris Kostopoulos was on the television screen. “I knew I shouldn’t have, I knew it.”
He let her go on. Silence often made people talk more than they should. Besides, the confession was dampening his desire and making his pants a lot more comfortable. She spoke for about thirty minutes, sobbing and, at times, pacing. He stayed focused as best he could during the pacing moments.
Two guys had knocked on her door one day, just as he had. She had no idea who they were, but they were the same two who ended up with her in the club. They said she was recommended by a friend and asked if she wanted to make five hundred euros to get someone out of a club and into a parking lot. She needed the money. It was tough working three jobs without papers, and the baby didn’t make it any easier. They never said what they wanted with the mark and she never asked. They weren’t the type to answer questions or take kindly to anyone who asked. She figured he probably owed them money and at most they’d rough him up.
She had no idea who the mark was until the two pointed him out in the club. When she saw the target was a boy she said, “No way.” They told her either she went through with it, or her baby would take his place.
She started to cry, “What could I do, I had no choice.”
Andreas said nothing.
Once she got the boy out in the parking lot, Sotiris was so busy feeling her up against a car that he never saw them coming. Whatever was on the rag they held against his face knocked him right out. Real professionals. She wanted nothing more to do with them, ever. They didn’t have to tell her what would happen if she ever remembered a thing—both to her and her baby. That was the last she saw or heard from them and had no idea how to find them. They always called her and always spoke in Greek, although they weren’t Greek. Probably from the Balkans. She guessed someone from one of her day jobs gave them her address. None of her johns knew where she
He learned three things from his search. One, no one else was living in the apartment; two, the apartment was smaller than he expected because it had an outdoor deck off the living room; and three, the place was impeccably clean and tidy. Whatever else she was, Anna Panitz took care of her place.
And, now that he was relaxed, at least a bit, he could tell she took damn good care of herself, too. Even in dim light, she was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Probably in her early twenties, about five-foot-eight, with a thin but full-breasted, absolutely stunning figure; one he kept seeing more of each time she moved, more like flowed, around the living room. She wore a man’s light-blue cotton shirt, buttoned only to her navel. He could see her breasts and that her nipples were pink, for she wore no bra. Then she turned and bent to pick up a rattle and he saw everything else, for she wore no panties. His holster suddenly was quite uncomfortable, almost painful. But he didn’t tell her to button up.
He gestured for her to sit on the couch. He sat directly across from her on one of the chairs. He had to regain his focus. She started rocking back and forth, as if trying to hold back tears, opening and closing her legs as she rocked. Andreas moved his chair so that he saw her only from the side. He’d seen a lot of naked women in his life, certainly during his time on Mykonos. Some were as stunning as this one, but there are certain women who, for reasons a man can never figure out, stop your heart with just a look. It wasn’t as if she were trying to seduce him. She was dressed this way when he pressured his way into her apartment, and she was crying before he got there.
He was about to ask what was bothering her when she saved him the trouble.
“That poor boy, that poor boy.” She was crying. A photograph of Sotiris Kostopoulos was on the television screen. “I knew I shouldn’t have, I knew it.”
He let her go on. Silence often made people talk more than they should. Besides, the confession was dampening his desire and making his pants a lot more comfortable. She spoke for about thirty minutes, sobbing and, at times, pacing. He stayed focused as best he could during the pacing moments.
Two guys had knocked on her door one day, just as he had. She had no idea who they were, but they were the same two who ended up with her in the club. They said she was recommended by a friend and asked if she wanted to make five hundred euros to get someone out of a club and into a parking lot. She needed the money. It was tough working three jobs without papers, and the baby didn’t make it any easier. They never said what they wanted with the mark and she never asked. They weren’t the type to answer questions or take kindly to anyone who asked. She figured he probably owed them money and at most they’d rough him up.
She had no idea who the mark was until the two pointed him out in the club. When she saw the target was a boy she said, “No way.” They told her either she went through with it, or her baby would take his place.
She started to cry, “What could I do, I had no choice.”
Andreas said nothing.
Once she got the boy out in the parking lot, Sotiris was so busy feeling her up against a car that he never saw them coming. Whatever was on the rag they held against his face knocked him right out. Real professionals. She wanted nothing more to do with them, ever. They didn’t have to tell her what would happen if she ever remembered a thing—both to her and her baby. That was the last she saw or heard from them and had no idea how to find them. They always called her and always spoke in Greek, although they weren’t Greek. Probably from the Balkans. She guessed someone from one of her day jobs gave them her address. None of her johns knew where she
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