Queens Noir (27 page)

Tom McCurdy finished a phone call, sighed, and then
nearly dumped the contents of his coffee cup over the files
covering his desk as he reached for a pen.

"Looks like you've got your hands full," I remarked.

"That ain't the half of it. That goddamn blackout has us
backlogged two weeks. We're investigating every death until
we can rule out those that were heat-related." He fingered
through one pile, then began on another, pulling out the file
on Abramopoulos. "I thought you might be by for this. Ugly
case, this one. Steak knife to the neck. Real mess."

I'd known Mike had been stabbed. Only I hadn t known where or with what. "You wouldn't happen to have handy the list
of the vouchered evidence and crime scene photos, would you?"

"Probably. But you know I can't let you see them."

I crossed my arms over my brown tie and grinned. "I don't
think I have to remind you that you owe me."

Tom frowned, plainly remembering the hit on a prominent
Greek politician I'd helped him thwart a year ago. "I think you
just did." He squinted at me. "The widow hire you?"

I indicated she had.

He swiveled in his chair and pulled out another file. The
evidence itself had been collected by the Crime Scene Unit
and was probably at the NYPD lab waiting to be tested. After
that, it would be sent to the prosecutor's office, once a suspect was named. I looked over the list Tom handed me and
the photos. One shot was of a steak knife, the blade coated
with blood. Another showed a short-sleeved blue shirt stained
with blood in a pattern I guessed was consistent with a neck
wound. I squinted at the third shot.

"The knife was still in the side of his neck." Tom tapped a
spot near his left carotid artery.

"Any idea if the attacker approached from the front or the
back?"

"Nah. Still waiting on the M.E. for that. But this guy was a
fighter. Scooted at least ten feet toward the telephone on the
wall before he blacked out. Hit the left carotid head on. There
ain't no bigger bleeder in the body."

I nodded, my gaze catching on a small, blood-caked item
featured in the third shot. A dime had been placed next to it
to indicate scale.

"Dori t know what in the hell that is yet," Tom said. "Maybe
after the guys scrape the blood off we'll get a better clue."

I already had a good idea what it was.

"What's your take on who did it?" I asked.

"Cash register emptied, hour late. Robbery gone bad, is
my best guess."

"That's what I figured you'd say."

I again looked through the photos that had been printed
out on regular paper. Not very good detail. But with digital
cameras and computers nowadays, there was very little need
for hard photos, unless you wanted to make a point with a
jury. Needed to know something? You used a computer to
zoom in on it.

While originally I had been reluctant to add the new technology to my inventory, in the past few years I'd become quite
proficient, updating my software every year and a half or so to
make sure I had the latest.

I held up a photo. "Prints on the knife?"

"Only those of the victim. Probably he tried to take it out.
Made a real mess of things. Which is why he bled out."

"How about footprints in the blood?"

"Only those of the victim."

"Was the knife clean or dirty?"

Tom grimaced. "Do you mean, did someone use it to cut
a steak or something before burying it in Abramopoulos's
neck?" He shrugged. "I don't know."

I eyed a shot of the entire diner and then handed him
back the photos. "Thanks."

"That's it?"

"I'll be in touch," I said over my shoulder, heading for the
door.

I sat back in my office chair, staring at the notes I'd made. Was
Tom right? The killing the product of a robbery gone bad?
Mike was the kind to resist.

Hermioni had provided me with a list of the staff-names
and Social Security numbers; I'd checked them out. Nothing
but minor traffic violations. Hermioni had also told me about
a customer Mike had argued with the morning before he was
killed, but she didn't have a name, so I'd have to ask around if
I was to pursue that lead.

I personally knew of other strange regulars who kept to
themselves. But to spotlight them was like shining an unflattering light on myself.

Was Mike the victim of some psycho agitated by soaring
temperatures and the blackout? No, I didn't think so. The
problem with that as the scenario was that while Astoria-the
entire city of New York, for that matter-hadn't always been
safe, now it was a nice place to raise a family, the Manhattan
skyline near enough to appreciate across the East River, but
far enough away to escape the problems of too many people
crammed into small spaces.

Yet the real reason I rejected all the theories was because I
was pretty sure I knew what had gone down that night in the
Acropolis Diner.

I grabbed my notepad, purposely leaving my pen behind,
and decided it was time for dinner.

Mayor Bloomberg and I didn't agree on much, but our take on
Greek diners was in sync. He'd said in a recent interview in
the Times that if he had to eat at only one New York restaurant for the rest of his life, it would be a Greek diner, because
the variety of food was impressive and the ingredients fresh.

I concurred. And it wasn't just because I was Greek.
Having been single for the better part of my life, I'd come to
appreciate the range my compatriots offered up. While tonight I'd ordered only yemista-rice-stuffed tomatoes-that could rival my own mother's, since I ate at diners every day
I often mixed it up with meatloaf and fried chicken. While
none of the meals would win any awards, they were pretty
close to what Mom would make, if, indeed, Mom made these
dishes.

My mother had been living with my younger brother Pericles and his wife Thalia ever since the old man had cashed in
his lottery ticket for a big exclusive condo in the sky. She still
cooked, but rare were the times when I got to enjoy it. Call me
a coward, but I didn't like the way she looked at me across the
table even as she told me about some distant cousin or other
from the Old Country who she could fix me up with.

Of course, my life probably would have been a whole hell
of a lot simpler had I just taken her advice from the beginning.
Instead, I'd married two American women who had thought
me exciting and exotic in the beginning, plodding and boring
at the end.

The topic of marriage brought my brother Pericles's oldest
daughter, Sofie, to mind. She'd just announced her engagement to a good Greek boy, much to the family's delight. She'd
done some odd jobs for me on and off over the years whenever
she got fed up with working in my brother's restaurant or her
maternal grandfather's cafe, both on Broadway. I remember
thinking she would make a good P.I. That is, if wedding cakes,
color swatches, booking good bouzouki bands, and trying to
be a good Greek girl weren't what currently populated her list
of priorities.

Personally, I thought she could do better.

I finished my food and pushed my plate away, craving a
post-meal cigarette. But I just sat back and waited for the
waitress to take my plate and offer me coffee.

When she popped up like clockwork, I motioned toward the empty seat across from me. "Sit with me a minute, please,
Petra."

Her movements slowed and her expression was pinched.
She glanced around as if seeking an excuse to refuse my request. But I'd purposely come into the diner just before closing, so there were no other customers to be waited on, aside
from an old man at the far end of the counter who was reading
a newspaper and nursing the same cup of coffee he had been
for the past hour.

Petra reluctantly sat down.

"You know that Mrs. Abramopoulos hired me, don't
you?"

She looked down at where she had her hands tightly
clasped on the table in front of her, then nodded.

I took out my wirebound pad and pretended to consult
notes that didn't exist even as I looked in my pockets for a pen
that wasn't there.

Petra removed a pen from her apron pocket and held it
out to me with her right hand. Her wrist was not only minus
the Greek evil-eye charm that had been covered with blood in
the crime scene photo, but the bracelet that had held it too.

"Did you lose your bracelet?" I asked, taking the pen.

Her face burned bright red. She nodded again.

I took a sip of black coffee. "There were times when you
and Mike didn't get a long all that well, weren't there?"

Big green eyes looked up into mine.

"Yeah, I saw it. The old man making passes. The swats on
the ass." I shrugged. "Kind of hard to miss."

"Mr. Abramopoulos was a nice man," she said quickly.

Of course she would say that. Since I hadn't been able to
dig up much on her, I'd guess that Petra Ahmeti was illegal.
Chased from a struggling homeland like the Greeks had been a generation earlier. Mike had paid her in cash, and since she
was good worker, she took home good tips. Better than the
other two waitresses who would just as soon dump your plate
into your lap as serve you.

Maybe the night Mike was killed he had pushed things beyond an ass-swat with pretty Petra. And paid for it in spades.

A price exacted not by Petra, I was sure.

"When did you lose your bracelet, Petra?"

She began rubbing one of her thumbs hard against the
other. "I didn't. Lose it, I mean. I . . ." She appeared to be
searching for the right words, as any non-native speaker
might. But I guessed her hesitation grew more out of her
not wanting to tell me what she had to say than her limited
English.

I heard the sound of a tub of dishes being put down heavily on the table behind me.

"She gave it to me," the busboy said. "So just leave her
alone."

Bingo.

You see, Petra had never been on my radar as a suspect.
She was just too gentle. Someone had killed on her behalf.
And it was a sure bet that the guy was Greek. Because while
it wouldn't be unusual for an Albanian girl to be wearing a
Greek evil-eye charm on her bracelet, I'd gotten the impression from the way I'd seen her play with it that it had been a
gift. From a Greek guy. And since Mike hadn't been the giftgiving kind, that left one other Greek guy in the diner.

Stamatis came to stand next to my booth, his hands fisted
at his sides. "What do you want with Petra? Why are you asking her these questions?"

I kept my gaze on Petra's pretty face. "Sweetheart, why
don't you go in the back and see if you can scare up a piece of fresh baklava for me. Not the pieces that have been in the
display all day."

She briefly met my gaze and then scooted from the booth,
disappearing into the back of the diner.

"How long you been working here, Stamatis?" I asked the
kid as I peeled off a twenty from my clip.

The question was rhetorical. I already knew how long he'd
been working there. Exactly eight months. Hired on the day
after Petra, after the previous busboy had met with a hooded
mugger in a dark alley.

Now, you might say that was just a coincidence. Then I
would have to remind you of Rule #2 in the P.I. handbook:
There are no coincidences. My inquiries had revealed that Petra worked at another restaurant in Jackson Heights prior to
coming to the Acropolis. And so had Stamatis. And through
NYCIS, that the young man also had two priors, violencerelated. A name-check by my buddy McCurdy had produced
that tidbit. Of course, being illegal, Stamatis had no Social
Security number.

Enter Mike Abramopoulos, restaurant owner, husband,
father of three, and pretty much harmless, if a bit lecherous.
Being of the male persuasion myself, I knew that many of us
appreciated the value of a pretty girl. I'm not saying it's right.
I'm just saying that a man's primal desire to spread his seed is,
well, it is what it is.

As for the steak knife, it was an even bet that the forensics lab might discover that it had been used for its normal
intended purpose-even though the photos of the entire
diner post-murder had shown the tables and counter cleared
of all plates, glasses, and utensils. Stamatis may have cleared
the tables for some reason after using the steak knife to stab
Abramopoulos.

A crime of passion, and a mundane weapon ready to
hand.

Then he may have emptied the cash register to make it
look like a robbery gone bad.

I noticed that Stamatis hadn't answered my question, and
his fists were still clamped tight at his sides.

I pushed from the seat, tucking a copy of the Queens Tribune under my left arm. Stamatis had to either back off or
make good on his unspoken threat. I wasn't sure how he'd
play it. But he blinked.

I eyed the kid. A shame, really. He was all of nineteen and
had his whole life ahead of him.

A life that would now include a sojourn at Rikers before a
long stretch upstate.

"Tell Petra I changed my mind about the baklava," I said,
putting the twenty on the table and heading for the door.

A little while later, I watched from the opposite corner as Sergeant Tom McCurdy and his partner pulled up in front of the
diner and went in to arrest Stamatis. While no confessions
had yet been extracted, nor solid evidence produced, I'd suggested to Tom on the phone that a little pressure applied just
so would get him both.

The homicide detectives led the kid out in handcuffs
and nodded in my direction. I nodded back and then took
a long pull off the cigarette I'd just lit. I coughed, stared at
the burning end, let it fall from my fingers to the pavement,
and ground it out under the heel of my shoe. As I turned
to head to my car, the N train squealed to a halt on the elevated tracks a half a block up on 31st. I didn't have to hear
to know that inside the train the announcement was: Last
Stop, Ditmars.

And for Mihalis Abramopoulos, Ditmars had been his last
stop.