Murder on Olympus (12 page)

30

After lunch, Aphrodite and I stood in the restaurant lobby, waiting for her limo to arrive. A horde of paparazzi gathered at the main entrance, snapping photos of us though the glass door.

Unlike Herc, Aphrodite embraced her fame. Her image graced the covers of countless magazines and tabloids, and she held the number two spot on
People
’s “25 Most Intriguing,” just below Zeus. Big surprise there.

And speaking of the president, I wanted to question Aphrodite about him. Earlier, I had decided to put the matter aside. But my curiosity refused to die. It was trying to drive me into dangerous territory. It urged me to discover the truth, no matter the risk.

Fortunately, common sense intervened before I could open my mouth. I realized there was nothing I could’ve said, no question I could’ve asked, that wouldn’t have sounded condemning. Aphrodite seemed nice enough. But she was still an Olympian. Any questions I asked, any comments I made around her, would almost certainly reach Zeus’s ears. I couldn’t risk that happening.

“You seem anxious,” she said.

“I get nervous around photographers,” I lied.

She smiled. “They probably think you’re my new boy toy.”

“Fine by me. So long as they don’t know what’s really going on.”

She looked at me with those big sea-green eyes. I could see my reflection in them. “I want to thank you, Mr. Jones.”

“For what?”

“Picking up the check. It was very gentlemanly of you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

We were silent for a while. The shouts of the paparazzi filled the silence between us, muffled by the glass door. Aphrodite was looking toward the exit. Sporadically, I found myself glancing at her from the corner of my eye. She had a great profile.

“I understand you used to be an OBI agent,” Aphrodite said out of the blue.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Why did you quit?”

I hesitated. My history with the OBI was not something I liked to talk about, especially with people I didn’t know very well. But Aphrodite had given me a suspect in the form of Hades. The least I could do was answer her question.

“A few years back, my team and I were sent to Belgium to locate an Anti-God terrorist cell. Our orders were to capture the leader and his followers. Intelligence reports led us right to their base of operations.”

“What happened next?” Aphrodite asked.

I didn’t mention how the base of operations was a two-story house in the suburbs, or how the so-called terrorist cell leader was actually Paul Rousseau, a public access radio host, whose only crime was criticizing the government for treating mortals like second-class citizens. His alleged cohorts were his wife and two young daughters.

As Rousseau’s show gained more and more popularity, a bunch of pro-human radical groups started popping up throughout the nation. Most of them were nonviolent. But a few took their radicalism to another level, sending threatening letters to government officials and planting car bombs. Whether or not Rousseau was to blame, I’ll never know. But the bigwigs on Olympus labeled him a threat to national security, and sent OBI to bring him to justice.

But I didn’t tell any of that to Aphrodite—because I didn’t know what she’d do with that information.

“We apprehended the terrorist leader. Then we radioed HQ to report our success. We all thought the mission was over, but command told us that there had been a change of plans. We were ordered to eliminate the terrorist and his followers. Murder them in cold blood. I refused. But that didn’t matter. My teammates were more than willing to carry out the order. I tried to stop them, but I couldn’t. When we got back to New Olympia, I turned in my badge. And here I am.”

Aphrodite stared at me, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled and said, “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

I nodded. For some reason, I felt as though her opinion of me had changed. But if she thought less of me for disobeying Zeus, that was her problem. What I did in Belgium, I did for the right reason. No one could convince me otherwise.

“I have something for you.” She pulled an unmarked envelope from her handbag and gave it to me.

“What’s this?”

“A copy of a letter. It’s from my husband. I received it the week before he died. It might help in your investigation.”

“Did you show this to the OBI?”

Aphrodite nodded. “They couldn’t make sense of it. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

“Thanks.” I opened the envelope and went to pull out the letter.

Aphrodite put her hand over mine to stop me. “Not now,” she said. “Let’s try to enjoy our time together.” Her hand lingered before she pulled it away.

I slipped the letter into my coat pocket.

Again, Aphrodite had surprised me. Before meeting her, I thought she was going to be a sex-crazed lunatic, obsessed with turning me into one of her thralls. But it seemed I was wrong. Maybe there was more to her than just pretty eyes and scandals.

“I may not have loved Hephaestus, but I didn’t want him to die,” she said. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. “Promise me you’ll bring his killer to justice.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Outside, a white limo pulled up.

“That’s my ride.” Aphrodite put on her hat and sunglasses. “I enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Jones, though I wish it could have been under happier circumstances.”

I smiled. “Ditto.”

“We should do this again sometime.”

“Yeah.”

She waved goodbye and left the restaurant. The sea of paparazzi made way for her. A million flashbulbs went off.

I watched her as she walked past them and got into the limo. For the Goddess of Love, Sex, and all that, Aphrodite was astonishingly reserved. Nothing like the sexual dynamo featured in the media.

She did have a nice ass though.

31

I waited until the paparazzi had dispersed before leaving the restaurant. I drove to the Ammo Crate, a store located in one of the older parts of town. Squeezed between a barbershop and a hardware store, it specialized in antique weapons. The owner, Magus, was a family friend. After my dad passed away, he assumed the role of father figure. Whenever life had me in a chokehold, I could always count on Uncle Magus to help me out.

I opened the door and went inside. Weapons filled the walls and display cases. An antique cannon sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a velvet rope. The sign next to it read, “Do Not Touch. Owner Is Not Responsible for Decapitation.” In the corner of the store, swing music crackled from an old record player.

Magus was polishing a revolver behind the counter. He was tall with dark-brown skin and a cul-de-sac of curly gray hair. He wore a white T-shirt covered in oil stains, and a pair of camouflage pants. Despite his age, the muscles in his arms were lean and sinewy and popping with veins. When he noticed me, he put down the revolver and grinned.

“Well, if it isn’t PJ.”

His deep, husky voice made whatever he said sound big and important. I once suggested he close the shop and do voiceovers for insurance commercials. He laughed and told me to get real.

“In the flesh.” I glanced at the revolver. “Nice gun.”

“Isn’t it?” Magus picked up the gun and handed it to me. “I got this baby from a collector yesterday. Former collector, actually. You see, his new wife has a gun phobia. She’s making the poor guy sell his whole collection. It wouldn’t be me. That’s for damn sure.”

I examined the weapon. Smith & Wesson Model No. 3, otherwise known as the Schofield revolver. This one was in excellent condition. Not a scratch on it. I wondered if it had ever been fired.

“They don’t make them like this anymore.” I handed the revolver back to Magus.

“That’s the truth.” He put the weapon aside.

“I need to place an order.”

“Sure. What do you want?”

“Osmium rounds. Ten boxes.”

“No problem.” Magus keyed the order into his computer. “I’ll call you when they get here.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Magus inclined forward and rested his elbows on the counter. A sign near his arm advised against leaning on the glass. But when you’re the boss, you can break the rules.

“So, what’s been going on with you, PJ?” Magus asked. “Staying out of trouble, I hope.”

I smirked. “Come on, Uncle Magus. I never look for trouble. You know that.”

“It looks for you, right?”

I winked. “Exactly.”

Magus chuckled. “I swear. You’re still the same little hell-raiser I met years ago. You just got bigger and uglier.”

“You left out hairier.”

“Thanks for reminding me. So, how’s your love life going?”

“It’s not.”

“You’re not still caught up on Alexis, are you?”

I shrugged. “Just a little.”

Magus swore. “You’ve been divorced for three years. It’s time you got out there and found a nice young woman to settle down with. Preferably one with an attractive grandmother.”

“Okay, that’s gross.”

“I’m serious, PJ.”

“So am I. Did my mom put you up to this?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Last time I saw Mom, she got onto me about finding a new girlfriend. And now you’re doing the same thing. You two are in cahoots, aren’t you? Go ahead. Admit it.”

Magus laughed. “You’re crazy. Me and Eleanor haven’t spoken in months.”

I narrowed my eyes. “So you both claim.”

Magus gave me an annoyed look. “PJ . . .” He shook his head instead of finishing the sentence.

I sighed and held up my hands. “Alright. You win. I’ll take your advice. I’ll find a nice girl.”

“Now that’s what I want to hear.”

“A college girl—with huge breasts, a tiny waist, and flexible morals . . . among other things.”

Magus laughed “That’s the spirit!”

32

That night, a violent storm raged over the city. It had appeared out of nowhere, without warning. The TV weathermen called it a phenomenon and pretended to be baffled. But everyone in New Olympia knew the truth—that somewhere out there, Vice President Poseidon, the mighty God of the Sea, was having a temper tantrum.

Rain pounded against my living room window as I sat at the kitchen table, reading the letter Hephaestus had sent to Aphrodite.

My dearest Aphrodite,

I know you hate me. I know it well. But I need to talk to someone. I’ve done something terrible. Unforgivable. I despise myself for it. Despite the fact that I was capable of it. But I’m going to make things right. I’m going to redeem myself. I’m going to confess what I’ve done. Confess to everyone. Starting with you. But I won’t do it in this letter. I want to tell you face to face. See the hurt in your eyes. Hear you call me all the terrible things I know I am. I need to see you very soon. Until then, I just want you to know that I’m sorry for everything.

Your husband,

Hephaestus

For a God, Hephaestus had sloppy handwriting. They say that a person’s handwriting is a reflection of his character. If that was true, I wondered what the Smith God’s handwriting said about him. Now, I’m no graphologist, but if you asked me, I’d say he was a God in motion. Always in a rush. Probably had a million things happening in his head at any given time.

I read the letter once more, and then put it back in the envelope. No wonder the OBI couldn’t get anything out of this. The information—being as vague as it was—could have been interpreted a thousand different ways. I needed something more specific.

I swallowed the last of my beer, got another from the fridge, and plopped down on the couch. Outside the window, a flash of lightning illuminated the sky. A second later, a crash of thunder caused my entire apartment to tremble. Poseidon must have been pretty pissed off.

I sipped the beer, my thoughts going back to the letter. What did Hephaestus do that was so awful? Did it have something to do with his secret projects? Was it connected to his and Eileithyia’s murders? I was leaning toward yes, to both questions. Problem was I couldn’t prove it.

On the plus side, I finally had new suspects to interrogate. Hades was one. Aphrodite’s lovers were the others. I’d start with the lovers. To question them all would have taken years, so I narrowed the list down to the big three: Ares, Hermes, and Dionysus. The next step was to decide who to go after first.

Ares passed his time living as a rock star. He had been on tour with his band, Inheritor, when the murders occurred, so I ruled him out as a suspect. That left Hermes and Dionysus. Might as well start with Hermes, since I already had his number. I took out my cell phone and scrolled through my contacts list until I found his number, stored as “Jackass.”

I hit send. He picked up on the fourth ring.

“Mr. Jones.” Hermes sounded annoyed, as if I had interrupted him in the middle of something. He was probably scrubbing toilets at Zeus’s estate. Or sharpening Hera’s cheekbones.

“Hello, sunshine,” I said.

Hermes sighed. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to have a chat with you ASAP.”

“Regarding?”

“The case you insisted I investigate.”

Silence stretched across the phone line. Then Hermes said, “My schedule for this week is extremely tight, but I suppose I could spare a few minutes. Be at my office at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

“Oh, and Mr. Jones,” Hermes said. “Try to be punctual.”

33

Hermes lived in an estate on Mount Olympus. It looked similar to Zeus’s place, only smaller and with fewer windows.

Granite double doors opened into his office. Carved into the stone was an image of Hermes, naked and wearing his famous winged sandals. Seeing that jerk in his birthday suit made me grateful I had skipped breakfast.

I knocked on one of the doors. The sound reverberated throughout the hallway. Both panels slowly swung open. Hermes, in a navy blue suit with a pink tie, sat behind a desk at the head of the room, staring at a laptop.

“Come in,” he said, without looking up from his work.

I stepped inside, and the doors closed behind me as if by remote. The office was stylish. But it was the type of stylish that seemed too deliberate to be properly admired.

The walls had been painted black, surrounding a gray hardwood floor. The furniture, with its white leather cushions and stainless steel legs, was as cold and angular as Hermes himself. A fully stocked bar occupied the far left corner of the room, and a giant aquarium was built into the wall behind Hermes’s desk. Sharks and other exotic fish glided through the glowing blue water.

“You’re three minutes late.” Hermes’s eyes remained glued to the laptop.

“Not according to my watch.” I sat in a chair in front his desk. It was as uncomfortable as it looked, forcing me into perfect posture. Mom would have liked it. She was always getting on me about slouching.

“You said you wanted to talk about the case,” Hermes said.

I nodded. “I did.”

“So talk.”

I glanced at the minibar. “Mind if I have a drink first?”

“If you must.”

I got up and went to the bar. I suddenly felt like a kid in a candy store. Top-shelf liquors and wines filled the bar. Some of the vintages were hundreds of years old. A few of them I had never even heard of. I poured myself a glass of two-hundred-year-old scotch and sat back down. I took a sip. Its rich, mellow flavor went down easy.

“Mmm.” I pointed at the glass. “This is good.”

Hermes raised an eyebrow. “I’m a very busy God, Mr. Jones.”

“Sorry.” I leaned back and crossed my legs. “I have some questions, if that’s okay. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes of your time.”

“What would you like to know?”

“I want to know about your relationship with Aphrodite.”

Hermes looked up from his laptop. His blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Aphrodite and I are friends.”

“Friends with benefits?”

Hermes smiled. “Yes.”

“Did you ever want to be more than friends?”

“Long ago,” Hermes admitted, with a hint of longing in his voice. “But I’ve since gotten past those feelings.”

I nodded and took another sip of scotch. The second taste was better than the first—the flavor seemed to build upon itself.

“Were you ever jealous of Hephaestus?” I asked.

Hermes burst into laughter. He finally looked up from his computer and into my face to see if I was joking. When he realized I wasn’t, he laughed again, louder.

“Jealous? Of that freak?”

“That
freak
was married to Aphrodite,” I reminded him. “The Goddess you were in love with.”

Hermes’s laughter dwindled to silence, but he continued to smile. He closed his laptop and pushed it aside. Then he laced his fingers and put both hands on his desk. “Mr. Jones, if you’re attempting to implicate me in the murders, you’re wasting your time.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. Were you jealous of Hephaestus?”

“No, Mr. Jones, I was not.”

“Why not?”

“Hephaestus’s marriage to Aphrodite was a joke. He couldn’t please her in bed. He wasn’t even
potent
enough to give her a child. Why would I be jealous of someone like that?”

I sat silent for an interval, trying to come up with a reason why Hermes might by jealous, while swirling the scotch in my glass. Light reflected off the amber liquid. “I don’t know.”

Hermes grinned victoriously. “Is there something else I can help you with, Mr. Jones?”

I drank some more scotch. “One more thing. I’d like to know where you were the day of the murder.”

Hermes answered at once. “I was here in my office, filing reports, when the OBI contacted me with news of the murder.”

“I assume there’s some evidence to back up your claim?”

He nodded. “I maintain detailed records of all my schedules.”

“The records for this month, I’d like copies of them if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. I’ll fax them to you as soon as possible.”

I gave him a thumbs-up. “Great.”

“Anything else?” Hermes asked. He opened his laptop again and pulled it toward him.

I thought about it and shook my head. “No, I think I’m good.”

“Then I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

The office doors opened.

I finished the rest of my scotch in one gulp. “Thanks for the drink.”