Murder on Olympus (13 page)

34

When I got back to my apartment, the acrid smell of cat urine greeted me. I hit the lights and glimpsed a flash of orange fur vanishing through the window. Hair covered the couch, and there was a wet spot on the carpet, near the fireplace.
One day
, I thought,
one day, I’m going to catch you. Then your furry ass is history
.

I went through my usual routine of pouring peroxide on the wet spot and covering it with a towel. Then I rolled my vacuum cleaner out of the hall closet, attached the upholstery tool, and vacuumed the couch. Once that was done, I decided to check on Alexis. The Gods had promised not to harm her so long as I danced to their tune. But I wasn’t convinced. The Gods had made lying into an art form. A promise from them was about as genuine as a battery-operated Rolex.

I took out my cell phone and dialed Alexis’s number. The person who answered said nothing, but I could hear them breathing.

“Alexis?” I said.

Still nothing. Fear seeped into my heart. Had the Gods gotten to her?

“Hello?”

There was a sigh on the other end. Then Alexis said, “You’re a creep, you know that?”

Relief washed over me. I had to sit down. “Okay, what did I do this time?”

“It’s not about what you
did
. It’s about what you
didn’t
do. Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Seeing someone? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb. It’s all over the tabloids. Aphrodite and her new boyfriend share a romantic lunch. I didn’t know Goddesses were your type.”

That instant, confusion gave way to flattery. A grin touched my face. She actually thought that Aphrodite, a Goddess accustomed to dating actors and pro athletes, was interested in a regular Joe like me. And she was angry about it. An evil little voice in my head urged me to play along, but I ignored it. She was already about to give me an earful. No need to add fuel to the fire.

“It’s not what you think,” I said.

“I’m so sure! The article says she shut down Arturo’s for the entire afternoon, so the two of you could have some privacy.”

“Okay, that part is true. But the rest of it is a lie.”

“You’re trying to one-up me, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“You’re jealous of what Calais and I have.”

I chuckled, but not at the silliness of the accusation, because the accusation actually held some degree of truth. What got to me was the fact that she felt I was in a better place—relationship-wise—than she was. It made me feel like a little kid at show-and-tell—the kid who had brought the best toy to class.

“You’re not listening,” I said. “Aphrodite and I are not dating. We’re just friends.”

“Yeah right. I’ve heard stories about Aphrodite and her
friends
.”

“Those stories have nothing to do with me. My relationship with her is strictly platonic. And even if it wasn’t, what does it have to do with you?”

“Nothing.” Alexis’s tone went abruptly casual. “I don’t care who you screw.”

“Then why are you so mad?”

She gave a scornful laugh. “I’m not mad.”

“Okay.”

Agreeing with her somehow made her angrier.

“I don’t need this right now,” she said. “I have enough on my mind with the wedding. We’ll continue this discussion later.”

“Sure,” I said. “Stay safe.”

Alexis mumbled something under her breath and hung up. I closed my cell phone and smiled.

35

Dionysus. I had seen him on the news and in numerous business publications, but I had never met him in real life. Contrary to his title, the God of Wine and Ecstasy’s public image was one of a stiff, no-nonsense businessman. He’d never been featured in the tabloids, never been implicated in any scandals, and frequently donated to charity. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone with a cleaner reputation.

The same couldn’t be said about the people his businesses catered to. He owned three successful nightclubs, one in New Olympia, one in Miami, and one in Tokyo. Drunken celebrities were regularly seen stumbling out of them.

I looked for Dionysus’s home address in the phonebook and online, but it was unlisted. I then called the records office on Mount Olympus. The information they provided led me downtown to N.0.1, the tallest residential tower in the nation. The clear blue sky reflected off the building’s mirrored façade.

Dionysus lived in a penthouse. Considering that there were 103 floors, I doubted he ever took the stairs. A long corridor stretched to his apartment. The door was made of opaque glass, and there was an intercom beside it. I rang the doorbell.

After a moment, the glass turned clear—it was smart glass, the kind that turns from opaque to clear with the push of a button. A little old woman stood on the other side of the door, wearing a powder-blue maid’s uniform. A net covered her steel-gray hair. I could tell she used to be a looker back in her day.

The woman’s voice issued from the intercom.

“May I help you?” she asked, her eyes narrow.

I dredged up my friendliest smile. “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Plato Jones. I’m a private investigator.” I showed her my badge. “I’m looking for Dionysus.”

“Mr. Dionysus isn’t here right now.”

I cursed silently, but my smile didn’t falter. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

The woman shook her head.

“Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

“I don’t,” she replied. “Would you like to leave a message?”

Now it was my turn to shake my head. “That won’t be necessary. Thanks for your time.”

The woman pressed a button on the wall beside the door. The glass turned opaque again.

Well, that was a waste of time.

I left the tower and headed down the street to Elysium, one of Dionysus’s clubs, in hopes of catching him there. The building bore a futuristic design, similar to Zeus’s and Hermes’s estates: a white exterior with black windows and rounded edges. A neon sign on the roof spelled out the club’s name. At this time of day, the lights were off.

I entered the parking lot and pulled into a space near the main entrance. There were only three other cars in the lot—an Audi and two BMWs. They probably belonged to the employees. Next to them, my ride stuck out like a sore thumb. I missed my Lotus, now more than ever.

I got out of my car and checked the front door. Locked. I knocked on it. No answer. Another bust.

As I returned to my car, I heard voices. I followed them to the side of the building, where two men leaned against the wall, talking and smoking cigarettes. The taller of the pair was skinny, with brown hair and a scraggly beard. The shorter one was stocky, with sandy-blond hair and a goatee. Both men wore black polos and khakis.

“Excuse me,” I said.

The men stopped chatting and looked at me.

“You guys work here?” I asked.

The short man nodded. “Yeah.”

“My name is Plato Jones. I’m a private investigator.” I showed them my PI badge.

They barely glanced at it.

“I’m investigating a recent string of robberies that have been committed against the Gods. I think Dionysus might be next. I’d like to speak with him if possible.”

The short man puffed his cigarette. “He’s not here.”

“Do you know when he’ll be in?”

“Nope.”

“Do you have an idea of where I might find him?” I asked.

The short man took another drag. He blew the smoke from his nostrils. “Sorry.”

This was going well. “When was the last time he came in?”

“About a month ago.”

I raised an eyebrow. “He’s been missing for a month?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he say anything before he left?” I asked.

“Just that he had some business to take care of.”

Two Gods murdered in the past month, and Dionysus was nowhere to be found. It was too convenient to be a coincidence. I needed to find him. Fast.

The short man took a long pull from his cigarette and flicked the butt away. “You want us to give him a message or something?”

“Nah.” I shook my head. “I’ll just come back another day.”

“Whatever,” the short man said, and he and his coworker resumed their conversation.

36

When I arrived at work the next day, a thick document waited for me on my desk. A sticky note on the first page informed me that it was a copy of Hermes’s schedule for the past month. I flipped it open to a random page. Included in the information was a lengthy list of alibis. This was going to take some time.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and got to work. It was a little after 8:00 a.m. when I started. By the time I finished, it was close to 10:00 p.m. My eyes burned, and I had a throbbing headache. I pushed aside the stack of papers and leaned back in my chair.

As far as I could tell, Hermes was innocent of any wrongdoing. His schedule was meticulously detailed, and backed by a slew of eyewitness reports. I called each witness. They all checked out. Considering the evidence, I had no choice but to temporarily eliminate him as a suspect. Imagine my enthusiasm.

With Hermes out of the picture—for now—I had two suspects left: Dionysus and Hades. I decided to go after the latter for now, since I couldn’t find Dionysus.

With Dionysus’s money and resources, he could have been anywhere in the world. But I wasn’t too worried. I had a feeling he’d show up in New Olympia sooner or later, if he was the guilty party. For some reason, criminals can’t resist returning to the scene of the crime.

Before going after Hades, I decided to get a little R&R. This case was beating me into the ground. My mind was overworked, tired. A small respite was just what I needed to recharge the ol’ batteries.

That night, I threw on some gray sweats and went to karate class. Classes were held once a week at the Warrington Recreation Center, on the north side of town. When I quit the OBI, I knew that if I didn’t keep active, I’d end up looking like a manatee. Weightlifting was never really my thing. Neither was basketball or football—I’m better at watching them than playing them. But martial arts were right up my alley.

I was four when my dad enrolled me in my first karate class at the neighborhood community center. The classes were free, but that didn’t mean the training was subpar. My shidoshi—teacher—was a master of Shotokan, Judo, and Jiujutsu. I trained under him until I went off to military college. He had taught me to follow orders, so adjusting to life in the military was an easy transition.

There were ten other students in class tonight. All men, ranging in age from eighteen to fifty. We were all pretty well acquainted, but I wouldn’t exactly call us friends. When we talked, we kept it general. Conversation rarely went beyond sports and women, which was fine with me. I didn’t take the classes to make friends.

The rec center had been built back in the ’50s. The building was brownstone and shaped like a wedge. A giant mural hanging over the entrance depicted two old-timey boxers with handlebar mustaches, squaring off against each other.

As I pulled up to the curb, I saw my instructor, Caesar Bowden, unloading a duffel bag from the bed of his truck, which was parked a few spaces down from me. His gi—uniform—and belt were worn and tattered—the sign of a seasoned martial artist. He spotted me as I got out of my car and came over, carrying the bag on his shoulder. His six-one, heavyset frame and bald head might be intimidating to someone who didn’t know him. He spoke with a heavy Dutch accent. “Mr. Jones, how are you this evening?”

“I can’t complain.” I gestured for him to give me the duffel bag.

“Thanks.” Caesar handed the bag to me. “I’m glad to see you showed up. You missed our last two classes. Me and the other guys were starting to worry.”

Somehow I doubted that.

“Sorry,” I said, hefting the bag onto my shoulder. “I’ve been kind of busy lately.”

Caesar shook his head as if to say don’t worry about it. “All that matters is that you’re here now.”

“So, you got anything special planned for us tonight?”

“As a matter of fact I do. I’m going to show you guys some special techniques. I may need your help demonstrating them.”

“Sounds good.”

“Great.” Caesar opened the door for me, and we took the stairs to the second floor.

The floors of the dojo were hardwood, and a mirror covered the wall at the head of the room. In the back of the room, an arsenal of Asian weapons sat in wooden racks.

Besides Caesar and me, four other guys had shown up to class that day. Marco was a tall man with red hair and one of the worst suntans I had ever seen. Jim was almost sixty, but you couldn’t tell. He was six-one with brown hair and too-white veneers. He had a muscular build, the kind you get from doing hard work in the sun. Paul, the youngest in the class, was a college sophomore. He wore his hair in a short ponytail, a hipster style that suited him. His long arms had hardly any muscle mass. He didn’t really have the aptitude for karate. Still, he did the best he could.

And then there was Donovan, the one-upper of the group. One of those guys who always had to outdo everyone around him. The prototypical meathead, he was muscle-bound, with a large head and small features. Judging by his orange skin and rampant acne, I guessed his physique wasn’t completely natural. He was always asking me what I thought of his various muscles. Any kind of criticism pissed him off. He probably juiced up when he got home. I made a point to give him only positive feedback. I didn’t want him overdosing on steroids because I said his delts needed work.

When I walked in, everyone turned toward me. They were unusually happy to see me, welcoming me with smiles and nods. Even Marco, who rarely showed any kind of emotion, wore a big grin on his face. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. Maybe they had seen pictures of my rendezvous with Aphrodite.

I dropped the duffel bag in the right front corner of the room and went to the center of the floor for lineup.

The first thirty minutes of class went as usual. We started off with stretches, followed by punching and kicking drills. Then Caesar called me to the front of the class, to help him demonstrate the new techniques he’d mentioned. That’s when things got weird.

“Come on up here, Jones,” he said, motioning for me to hurry up. He grabbed an empty plastic water gun from his duffel bag, tossed it to me, and then turned toward the class. “Alright, guys. Tonight I’m going to teach you how to disarm an opponent with a firearm. Now before we get started, know this. In a situation where you’re being held at gunpoint, it’s best to just do what your attacker says. Only attack if you know, without a doubt, that the attacker’s going to pull the trigger. Understood?”

“Sir,” the class answered in unison.

Caesar nodded. “Okay, Jones. Point the gun at me.”

I did as he asked.

“The first thing you need to do is raise your hands,” Caesar said. “The second step is to try to reason with your attacker. Beg for your life. Tell him you have a family. Hell, cry like a little girl if you think it’ll help. If that doesn’t reach him, and he still wants to kill you, it’s time to act.”

First he demonstrated the move at regular speed. He stepped out of the line of fire, trapping my arm in a joint lock. Then he used leverage to disarm me. Once he had the gun, he turned it on me and told me get on the ground. I did.

The move was pretty slick, I had to admit. Caesar really knew his stuff. He helped me up and demonstrated the move again, this time in slow motion.

“Did everyone get that?” he asked.

“Sir,” the class said.

“Good.” Caesar helped me up and handed the gun back to me. “Does anyone want to come up and try?”

“I’ll give it a go,” Donovan said, and he came up to the front of the class. In the mirror I could see how much bigger he was than me. It was almost scary.

I pointed the water gun at him. Donovan glanced at the ceiling, probably replaying the steps in his head. When he was ready, he stepped out of the line of fire. Moving with all the speed of a rhino dipped in cement, he performed the disarm maneuver. But he twisted my arm a little too hard. A jolt of pain raced from my elbow to my shoulder, taking my breath away, and forcing me to my knees. I grimaced, trying not to cry out, as he tore the gun out of my hand and trained it on me.

“On the ground, scumbag!” he shouted.

I complied, my arm throbbing.

“Good job, Donovan,” Caesar said. “Anyone else want to try?”

Jim was next. Then Paul. And finally Marco. Like that lummox Donovan, they all managed to injure me in some way. Jim almost broke my finger trying to disarm me, Paul poked me in the eye with his thumb, and Marco damn near ripped my arm out of its socket. At this rate, I’d end up blind, crippled, and unconscious before the end of class. I was terrified to find out what the next technique was.

“Good job, class,” Caesar said. “Now I’m going to show you how to disarm an opponent who’s holding a gun to your back.”

He turned around. I pressed the gun to his back.

“Watch carefully.” Caesar spun toward me, capturing my wrist in the crook of his elbow, while at the same time pretending to strike me in the throat with his forearm. He followed with a fake knee to the stomach and forced the gun out of my hand. He did the move two more times, in slow motion, before calling for volunteers. I swallowed deeply.

Paul came forward, smiling. I had a feeling things were about to get ugly. He turned around. I put the gun to his back.

He whirled around and clumsily trapped my wrist. His elbow missed my throat by a mile and smashed into my nose. A burst of pain exploded in my face. My head whipped back. Paul hit me full force, and he had to have known it. But instead of stopping to check on me, he slammed his knee into my gut. The blow knocked the air out of me, and I doubled over. He awkwardly took control of the water gun and let me go. I fell to all fours, gasping for air.

“Good job, Paul,” Caesar said.

“Thank you, sensei.” Paul bowed toward Caesar.

No one helped me up. They just watched as I struggled to rise. My nose was bleeding. I pinched the bridge of my nose and tilted my head back.

“You alright?” Caesar asked me.

“I’m good.”

“Go to the bathroom and wash up. We still have a few more techniques to go over.”

I left the dojo and walked down the hall to the restroom. Inside, I washed away the blood running down my mouth and chin. Then I plugged my nostrils with rolled up bits of toilet paper. Thankfully, Paul hadn’t broken my nose. I wanted to kill him for hitting me that hard and not apologizing. What in Hades was his problem? And why did Caesar congratulate him for what he’d done? He was always preaching to us about self-control. I wondered if this was his way of punishing me for missing the past two weeks of class. I couldn’t call it. All I knew was that I was ready to go home and put some ice on my nose. I had already gone over my recommended daily allowance of ass-whooping.

After the bleeding stopped, I went back to the dojo to tell everyone I was leaving. When I stepped through the door, Marco, Paul, Donovan, and Jim were lined up across from me. Caesar stood in front of them, his arms crossed, a sly grin on his face.

“How’s your nose?” he asked me.

“Fine.”

“Glad to hear that. You ready for the next technique?”

“Yeah, about that. Sorry but I gotta run. Something just came up. Maybe next time.”

No one said anything.

“Alright then, see you guys later.” I turned and opened the door. No sooner had I stepped through than a pair of large hands grabbed me from behind and threw me back into the dojo. I landed rolling, and scrambled back to my feet as Donovan shut the door and locked it.

I turned to Caesar. “What’s going on?”

“I think we’ll skip the next technique and go straight to sparring,” Caesar said. “Full contact.”

He nodded and all four students came at me.