schizophrenic. A few months later she was found beaten on the ward. After a thorough investigation by the police and the hospital personnel, there was no forensic evidence found and still no primary suspects, although three escapees were being sought for further questioning.
“Try to find the sexual predator in a facility filled with four hundred lunatics,” Smith said.
“Only thirty-five on the ward, not counting alternates,” Pace told him. “But her father decided it had to be one of us three, aided by Pia and Maureen Brandt. Why? Were we really the most violent?”
“Despite your circumstances, you were in under a voluntary committal. The cops had nothing on you. You attacked a couple of guards once in treatment.”
“He’d have heard about Nightjack though.”
“Sure.”
Upstairs, it sounded like baby rhinos were running around. “What can you find on Kaltzas himself?”
“Not much that matters. For one of the richest men in the world, he’s kept a pretty low profile. Alexander Limnos Kaltzas. Fifty years old. Industrialist. Shipping tycoon. Munitions dealer. Archeologist. His father, Demes, bucked the Nazis in the big one. Drove the Italian fascists out when they attacked from Albania in 1940. German troops overcame the insurgents and invaded Athens in ’41. He saw a lot of blood. The Greek government was in shambles by then. Their leaders were fleeing the country or offing themselves left and right. He could’ve run but he stuck it out. Famine followed along with intense guerilla resistance. The worse a war gets, the tougher and harder the resistance gets.”
Sam seemed to be thinking about Nam again. “The old man was a leader in the National Liberation Front. Hardcore, living in the frozen mountains for months so they could cut supply lines. Routed the Germans in ’44, and then came civil war to control what was left of the country. He started dealing with Albania, Bulgaria, Turkey, even Great Britain, making his fortune in the post-war cleanup of rebels. Made a killing in the black market when Truman came in and initiated his doctrine, offering military and relief supplies. Settled in on Pythos and never left.”
Sam Smith was good at the keyboard, his fingers moving gracefully so there was hardly any sound at all. “No mention of Kaltzas’s mother or any siblings. The old man died when Alexander was twenty, studying at the University of Athens. The fortune passed down to him, but he didn’t return to the island until he finished interning at the Byzantine Museum and the Acropolis.”
“Old school,” Pace said, “ancient school. His daughter studying abstract expressionism must’ve pissed him off.”
“Yeah. Met his wife, Catherine, also a trained archeologist, at the university. She died during an excavation on Pythos ten years ago, when Cassandra was ten. Part of a tomb wall collapsed. Cassandra was there and saw it.”
“The start of her fracture,” Pace said.
“Maybe. After her breakdown in New York and the troubles at Garden Falls, Kaltzas pulled her back to the island. He was already pretty much a recluse. Very little media coverage, and nobody gets on the island without his say so. He’s got a private army protecting him. After she came home, he really fell out of sight. There hasn’t been a word printed about him.”
“And now he beckons us to his home.”
“He wants to make sure he’s getting the right person,” Sam said. “He’s deliberate and careful. Sounds dangerous and dramatic too, but I bet when he aims at a target, he’s accurate. Probably comes from living with those relics, all that stone. His old man would’ve just used a howitzer and killed a hundred people to make sure he got the right one. This Kaltzas, he’s got a flair for the flamboyant but he’s incisive. You been practicing the moves I taught you, yeah?”
“Yes,” Pace said, because he, or someone else, had been. Pacella had once thought a man had to be highly trained to efficiently
“Try to find the sexual predator in a facility filled with four hundred lunatics,” Smith said.
“Only thirty-five on the ward, not counting alternates,” Pace told him. “But her father decided it had to be one of us three, aided by Pia and Maureen Brandt. Why? Were we really the most violent?”
“Despite your circumstances, you were in under a voluntary committal. The cops had nothing on you. You attacked a couple of guards once in treatment.”
“He’d have heard about Nightjack though.”
“Sure.”
Upstairs, it sounded like baby rhinos were running around. “What can you find on Kaltzas himself?”
“Not much that matters. For one of the richest men in the world, he’s kept a pretty low profile. Alexander Limnos Kaltzas. Fifty years old. Industrialist. Shipping tycoon. Munitions dealer. Archeologist. His father, Demes, bucked the Nazis in the big one. Drove the Italian fascists out when they attacked from Albania in 1940. German troops overcame the insurgents and invaded Athens in ’41. He saw a lot of blood. The Greek government was in shambles by then. Their leaders were fleeing the country or offing themselves left and right. He could’ve run but he stuck it out. Famine followed along with intense guerilla resistance. The worse a war gets, the tougher and harder the resistance gets.”
Sam seemed to be thinking about Nam again. “The old man was a leader in the National Liberation Front. Hardcore, living in the frozen mountains for months so they could cut supply lines. Routed the Germans in ’44, and then came civil war to control what was left of the country. He started dealing with Albania, Bulgaria, Turkey, even Great Britain, making his fortune in the post-war cleanup of rebels. Made a killing in the black market when Truman came in and initiated his doctrine, offering military and relief supplies. Settled in on Pythos and never left.”
Sam Smith was good at the keyboard, his fingers moving gracefully so there was hardly any sound at all. “No mention of Kaltzas’s mother or any siblings. The old man died when Alexander was twenty, studying at the University of Athens. The fortune passed down to him, but he didn’t return to the island until he finished interning at the Byzantine Museum and the Acropolis.”
“Old school,” Pace said, “ancient school. His daughter studying abstract expressionism must’ve pissed him off.”
“Yeah. Met his wife, Catherine, also a trained archeologist, at the university. She died during an excavation on Pythos ten years ago, when Cassandra was ten. Part of a tomb wall collapsed. Cassandra was there and saw it.”
“The start of her fracture,” Pace said.
“Maybe. After her breakdown in New York and the troubles at Garden Falls, Kaltzas pulled her back to the island. He was already pretty much a recluse. Very little media coverage, and nobody gets on the island without his say so. He’s got a private army protecting him. After she came home, he really fell out of sight. There hasn’t been a word printed about him.”
“And now he beckons us to his home.”
“He wants to make sure he’s getting the right person,” Sam said. “He’s deliberate and careful. Sounds dangerous and dramatic too, but I bet when he aims at a target, he’s accurate. Probably comes from living with those relics, all that stone. His old man would’ve just used a howitzer and killed a hundred people to make sure he got the right one. This Kaltzas, he’s got a flair for the flamboyant but he’s incisive. You been practicing the moves I taught you, yeah?”
“Yes,” Pace said, because he, or someone else, had been. Pacella had once thought a man had to be highly trained to efficiently
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