himself, who wasn't a petit bourgeois. That much I understood. What I didn't know was where he placed himself, among the leftists or among the bourgeois proper, with their Armani shirts and Timberland footwear. Most probably, he was both. We used to get by with a little soup; now we feed ourselves on salads.
"If I'm to judge from what various people said," Sotiropoulos said, "she was most likely the very opposite."
"Meaning what, exactly?"
"A nympho. A slut." Then he saw that his spite had escaped its leash and he hastened to get it back under control. "But I may be doing her an injustice, because I know nothing definite. It was all just rumors."
"And what did the rumors say?"
"That she never had any steady relationships. That she went from one to the other. But she always chose men with clout. Businessmen . . . politicians ... mixed business with pleasure, as we used to say. But let's be clear, I've heard all this from others."
"Do you know if she was working on anything?"
"I can tell you, generally speaking, that she was never not investigating something. She was a ruthless little ferret. She poked around everywhere and stopped at nothing. She had a thing about bursting out with a story, so she never confided in anyone. Not even Delopoulos, who worshipped her"
"Was she a good reporter? I want your professional opinion, with no trimmings."
"Everyone disliked her, so she must have been good," he said. "A reporter's job is to be disliked. The more disliked he is, the better he is."
His definition applied as much to him as it did to Karayoryi. He succeeded in making me like him through what he'd said, which confirmed my opinion that he wasn't a good reporter. I kept staring at him in silence. He realized that I had nothing more to ask him and got to his feet.
"So what's going to happen? Will you make a statement so that we'll have something to tell the public?"
"What statement can I make when I don't have any evidence? All I know is what we found out last night. Be patient for a couple of days. Something will turn up."
As he was going out, the telephone rang. "Haritos," I said, faithful as ever to FBI protocol.
"This is Mina Antonakaki, Yanna Karayoryi's sister," said a broken voice. "When can I collect my sister's body for burial and from where?"
"In a couple of days, Mrs. Antonakaki, from the mortuary. But we have to meet first."
"Not now. I'm in no state to meet anyone."
"Mrs. Antonakaki, yesterday someone murdered your sister. We're trying to find the murderer, and we need information. I understand the state you must be in, but we do have to see you. If you'd prefer, I can come to you. But we mustn't delay."
She seemed to weigh this for a moment. "You'd better come around here. I'll be in," she said in a faint voice, and she gave me her address.
I still hadn't received any information from records, or the coroner's report, and I decided to run through the rest of the reporters so no one would depart feeling left out. No one could tell me anything more useful than Sotiropoulos had told me already. They knew nothing. Karayoryi confided in no one; she never revealed her cards.
When the last reporter had left, I tried to make sense of what I now knew. Outside, the rain was still torrential. The old woman opposite was standing at the balcony door saying something to the cat in her arms. I couldn't tell whether she was chatting with it or singing "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" to it, but the cat appeared to be enjoying it. I was so carried away by the cat's contentment that I didn't hear the door open. A discreet cough brought me back to my senses.
Standing at the door was a thirty-year-old woman, neither tall nor short, neither pretty nor plain. She was wearing boots and a beige raincoat belted tightly around the waist, perhaps in an attempt to look more sexy, but the result was lukewarm.
"Good morning, I'm Martha Kostarakou," she said with a smile.
I suddenly saw her in a different light. Kostarakou
"If I'm to judge from what various people said," Sotiropoulos said, "she was most likely the very opposite."
"Meaning what, exactly?"
"A nympho. A slut." Then he saw that his spite had escaped its leash and he hastened to get it back under control. "But I may be doing her an injustice, because I know nothing definite. It was all just rumors."
"And what did the rumors say?"
"That she never had any steady relationships. That she went from one to the other. But she always chose men with clout. Businessmen . . . politicians ... mixed business with pleasure, as we used to say. But let's be clear, I've heard all this from others."
"Do you know if she was working on anything?"
"I can tell you, generally speaking, that she was never not investigating something. She was a ruthless little ferret. She poked around everywhere and stopped at nothing. She had a thing about bursting out with a story, so she never confided in anyone. Not even Delopoulos, who worshipped her"
"Was she a good reporter? I want your professional opinion, with no trimmings."
"Everyone disliked her, so she must have been good," he said. "A reporter's job is to be disliked. The more disliked he is, the better he is."
His definition applied as much to him as it did to Karayoryi. He succeeded in making me like him through what he'd said, which confirmed my opinion that he wasn't a good reporter. I kept staring at him in silence. He realized that I had nothing more to ask him and got to his feet.
"So what's going to happen? Will you make a statement so that we'll have something to tell the public?"
"What statement can I make when I don't have any evidence? All I know is what we found out last night. Be patient for a couple of days. Something will turn up."
As he was going out, the telephone rang. "Haritos," I said, faithful as ever to FBI protocol.
"This is Mina Antonakaki, Yanna Karayoryi's sister," said a broken voice. "When can I collect my sister's body for burial and from where?"
"In a couple of days, Mrs. Antonakaki, from the mortuary. But we have to meet first."
"Not now. I'm in no state to meet anyone."
"Mrs. Antonakaki, yesterday someone murdered your sister. We're trying to find the murderer, and we need information. I understand the state you must be in, but we do have to see you. If you'd prefer, I can come to you. But we mustn't delay."
She seemed to weigh this for a moment. "You'd better come around here. I'll be in," she said in a faint voice, and she gave me her address.
I still hadn't received any information from records, or the coroner's report, and I decided to run through the rest of the reporters so no one would depart feeling left out. No one could tell me anything more useful than Sotiropoulos had told me already. They knew nothing. Karayoryi confided in no one; she never revealed her cards.
When the last reporter had left, I tried to make sense of what I now knew. Outside, the rain was still torrential. The old woman opposite was standing at the balcony door saying something to the cat in her arms. I couldn't tell whether she was chatting with it or singing "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" to it, but the cat appeared to be enjoying it. I was so carried away by the cat's contentment that I didn't hear the door open. A discreet cough brought me back to my senses.
Standing at the door was a thirty-year-old woman, neither tall nor short, neither pretty nor plain. She was wearing boots and a beige raincoat belted tightly around the waist, perhaps in an attempt to look more sexy, but the result was lukewarm.
"Good morning, I'm Martha Kostarakou," she said with a smile.
I suddenly saw her in a different light. Kostarakou
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