Tears of the Furies Read Free

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made the shadowy alleys of the Pláka seem deeper. Yannis Papathansiou parked
his car near Hadrian’s Arch, propping a card identifying himself as a policeman
onto the dashboard before locking it up. The heat was already oppressive, and
Yannis took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He stretched his back,
showing off his voluminous belly, and then started off.
    The Pláka was the oldest neighborhood in Athens, not far
from the agora — the market — at the base of the Acropolis, right
in the shadow of the Parthenon. It was a warren of streets so narrow the word alley was a compliment. All throughout the Pláka there were buildings with names from
ancient times and monuments, which made the little neighborhood a tourist
mecca. Yet there were still many Athenians who made their lives here and had
shops and apartments, as though the true Greeks refused to surrender this one
last little portion of their city to foreign visitors.
    Yannis could admire that. But it didn’t mean he had to like
the Pláka. It was so damned easy to get lost there, that was the biggest
problem. He had lived in Athens most of his life, had been a policeman, and now
a detective, in the city for three decades. It was embarrassing and a little
unsettling to find himself lost anywhere in his home city. He was always
careful to keep track of his path in the Pláka. And not only to avoid
embarrassment. Athens was an ancient city, and this was its ancient heart. In
his career as a policeman he had learned a great many things about what lay
hidden in the shadows of the world.
    And the alleys of the Pláka were nearly always in shadows. He
didn’t like it here.
    Yannis grumbled and wiped his forehead again, feeling the
dampness spreading beneath his arms and a trickle of sweat run down his back. He
was too old and too fat for this job, but most days he managed all right. Most
days, he didn’t leave his car and walk blocks to get to the scene of a crime. But
he didn’t like to drive into this maze. Getting lost was only one problem. There
were too many people, and some of the shopkeepers thought nothing of blocking
part of the already narrow way. If he came upon an obstacle, he would have no
way to turn around.
    He reminded himself of all of these things as he marched
along Thaloú Street. It was barely past breakfast and yet already the
restaurants were preparing for lunch. His stomach grumbled at the scents of
souvlaki and loukanika cooking. Yannis began to plan his own afternoon repast,
musing lovingly over thoughts of dolmodakia and a tyropitta as a small after
lunch snack. A little cheese pie never hurt anyone. He smiled at the thought.
    His smile was erased the moment he turned on to Pittakoú
Street. The sun did not reach this far. The tops of the buildings hid the place
away. Though the sky was blue and clear as the Aegean, down along this short
road it was as gray as the black heart of a thunderstorm. Nothing but shadow. The
scents of the food seemed to disappear. He could still see the faces of the
tourists passing by, and the smiles of shopkeepers as they tried to draw people
into their stores. It was the Likavitos Festival in Athens, now. A time of
jubilant celebration, of music and wine, drawing families from all over Europe.
    Bad luck , he thought. Bad luck and bad timing .
Not that there was ever a good time for horror to slip from the darkness and
taint the world of daylight. Murder was never good for business. Athens had
more than its share of crime, mostly theft. But the murder of tourists was very
bad for business. By lunchtime he would have his captain breathing down his
neck. By the end of the day, the mayor would be laying it on Yannis as though
he himself were the murderer. The newspapers would be starved for crumbs of
information. But that was nothing to what he would face if the international
press became involved.
    CNN , he thought grimly. Sewer rats .
    Yannis paused to push wispy strands of gray hair away from
his