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OCEAN STREET,
CORONADO
3:36 PM PDT
BIVO PAPACOSTAS ADMIRED HIMSELF in the tailor’s mirror, adjusting the gold Elvis shades and the white cape, made a couple classic Elvis gestures, then looked at Pope’s reflection in the mirror.
“Special Agent Mister Pope, I am sorry, but I grow weary of these questions. All day long, since my first coffee, I tell people that I know nothing about Mij Andropov being killed, I was at the club, playing the dominoes with my cousins. There were people there, they see us, they got the alibi.” He smiled. “Those ones—” nodding toward Sergeant Neil Finnerty and another detective “— ask the same questions. I tell them, you police, maybe you ask each other silly questions and leave Bivo Papacostas alone.”
Across the room, Detective Sergeant Finnerty chewed on a toothpick and glowered. Beside him hulked a detective named Buttkowski, a cop built like a condominium on steroids. Ten minutes later — and out of earshot — Al dubbed them Belligerent and The Beast.
“Agent Pope, my client is right,” Bivo’s attorney— Lawrence Ashmead III, Esq., on the business card— stated. “So, unless you plan on arresting him, I advise that both you and San Diego PD cease this fruitless harassment— as you can see, Mr. Papacostas is preparing for a very important engagement.”
Pope said, “Big karaoke night?”
Bivo brightened. “The American PopStar western sub-regional finals at the Tickled Trout.” Then, adopting an Elvis Presley power-lunge while holding an imaginary microphone, he said, “Thank you very much.” A passable Elvis-impersonation followed by a slap on the head of the tailor crouched at his feet. “No, I tell you, no, the crotch, is still too tight!”
“Sorry, Mr. Papacostas.” The tailor was visibly frustrated, “But you did say you wanted a noticeable bulge.”
“Of course.” Bivo smiled at Pope. “Is for the lady judges.” Then sternly informed the harried tailor, “My balls hang to the left and that is clearly cut for a right hang. You fix the hang, you give me comfort and the bulge. And for that, you get a nice tip.”
The tailor looked like he just wanted to get out of Dodge, maybe wash his hands. “If you’ll remove your pants, Mr. Papacostas . . .”
Bivo removed his white bell-bottoms and handed them to the tailor, standing now in red bikini briefs and a white cape. Nestled amid his chest hairs was a Greek Orthodox cross. “Special Agent Mister Pope,” he said, “like my attorney say, I have important business to attend to. What else you want me to do? I already ordered flowers for Mij.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Pope caught the expression on Al’s face — a curious blend of bemusement and hostility— and on Detectives Finnerty’s and Buttkowski’s— just open hostility there— before saying, “Mr Papacostas . . . Why don’t we talk in private.”
Bivo stared at Pope a moment, with an expression like he was adding up numbers . . . “Tell me, Special Agent Mister Pope, have you ever had Spanokopita? No? Then you are in for a treat: Priscilla, she make it just this morning and I swear to you, is the very best Spanokopita in all of San Diego . . .”
“National security?” FINNERY HAD SAID when Pope took him aside to request privacy during Bivo’s interview. “That’s the card you’re playing, National security? With all the shit going on up there at Norcestor & Imperial, you’re playing national fucking security. Hell, if Francisco weren’t such a scumbag, I’d figure you guys really were playing cover-up on Ducroix and his kid for the game-bang they pulled on that Chambers’ broad.” Finnerty stuck a thick, nicotine-stained finger in Pope’s face. “Well let me tell you something you right now: if America’s security in any way depends on that homicidal ass-monkey in there, then we are even worse off than I thought— fucking guy’d sell this country out for a chance at that American PopStar bullshit. He’d kill his mother to win it.”
To which Al said unhelpfully, “How’d you like to be the judge that votes the miscreant off national TV?”
“That happens,” Finnerty replied, “50/50 the judge wakes up with a horse head in his bed.”
“And,” Detective Buttkowski added, “if the judge cracks a joke while he’s booting Bivo off the show, that judge is gonna wake up with his head in the bed.”
Finnerty glared at the over-sized detective, before saying, “Point is, Special Agent Mister Pope—” smirking “— Bivo Papacostas is a homicidal maniac and if you Feds’re playing games that let him off for killing scumbags like Mij, that homeless fuck or anybody else— games like hijacking that body outta the morgue— then that death is on you my friend.”
OUT BY THE POOL, Pope and Al sat on one side of the table, Bivo and his attorney on the other, inside the house, Detective Sergeant Finnerty and his hulking sidekick stood at the kitchen window, glaring, and even through a quarter-inch of tempered glass, Pope could feel the detective’s malevolent gaze.
Bibo gestured at an object on the plate that looked to Pope like a tart.
“Is Spanokopita, Special Agent Mister Pope. A Greek specialty filled with spinach and other wonderful things.”
“Mr. Papacostas, I’m not here for dinner or coffee. I’m here for information that helps us regarding Christian Ducroix’s situation that is a matter of the gravest national security.”
“Yes,” Bivo reasoned, “but everybody got to eat. Try it. I swear you will love it.”
Instead, Pope said, “Mr. Papacostas, shortly before three in the morning, men employed by you were seen pursuing Mij Andropov on foot outside the Norcestor Arms. We have witnesses to this. Two hours later, later, Andropov was found dead in an avocado grove showing signs of torture consistent with evidence found at the apartment of Molo Balcotez.”
Bivo’s lawyer leaned in to whisper in his ear.
Bivo saying, then, “I was playing dominoes at the Olympic with Mick Smithidopolous, Nicki Nikkidallous a salesman from the liquor company, Bob, I don’t know his last name, you have to ask Mick. You can call, ask them if we there all night. Besides, why would I want to kill Mij? He runs a nice karaoke.”
Al leaned forward. “Hey, Elvis? Man’s talking to you nicely, you don’t insult him with your bullshit. Keep it up, I’ll haul your ass down to Gitmo tonight, where we can talk in a cage while this American PopStar thingy goes on without you.”
Bivo’s expression was unreadable behind gold Elvis shades.
Clearing his throat, Bivo’s attorney said, “Agent Pope, I will not allow my client to be exposed to the kind of hostility being displayed by Agent Fitzgerald. This discussion is effectively over.”
Pope glanced at Al—
The vein on Al’s forehead pulsed like the heart of a thick blue worm.
— and back at Bivo’s attorney. “Mr. Greenstein, as stated earlier, it’s imperative that we locate Dr. Ducroix as quickly as possible. At the moment, this subsumes any crimes Mr. Papacostas or those at him employ may have committed. In return for effecting this, I’ve been authorized—”
Ordered.
“—to grant your client total immunity from prosecution for the events of last night on ground of national security.”
To offer a get out of jail free card for this little thug.
The little thug’s attorney studied Pope a long moment. “Not saying that this is in any way germaine to the discussion, but Agent Pope, murder is not a federal crime. Hypothetically speaking, how can you immunize my client against that on the local level?”
Pope pulled from his briefcase the document AD Burns had given him. “That,” he said, “is a writ from Attorney General Bell stating that if your client comes clean now for what happened last night, he’s permanently immunized across all levels of American justice and will never be charged in any court in this country.”
Greenstein studied the document. “This is a form letter. Fill in the blanks?”
Pope exchanged glances with Al, before saying, “The offer includes Mr. Papacostas’ associates, but is only valid today only— after that, I turn San Diego PD loose.”
Greenstein leaned in to whisper in Bivo’s ear— Pope thought this was perhaps the absolute lowest point of his life, giving a man like Bivo Papacostas a complete pass for, potentially, murder— before Bivo whispered something back.
Greenstein looked to Pope. “My client wants it to cover events related to last night but which happened prior.”
“No, no sandbagging.”
After a moment’s consideration, Greenstein nodded at Bivo.
Bivo saying then, “First of all, who killed Mij, I don’t know. Last time we see Mij alive, he driving away in an old Mustang, fighting with some woman. That’s when the other car started firing, the Cadillac. They the ones shot the homeless.”
“You were there?”
“No,” Bivo said, “this I am told by my men. They got the immunity, too, yes?”
Pope nodded.
“You see, when Rony and Dmitri go outside to make the call, say how things going, that’s when Mij head-butted Molo, that stupid wetback, and knock him out. Before Molo wakes up, Mij untie the ropes and gets out of the apartment, sneak down the stairs.”
Al said, “You trying to tell me Mij Andropov went down four flights of stairs in the Norcestor Arms wearing just his underwear?”
“He took Molo’s axe. Very sharp.”
Al grunted. “Yeah, I suppose an axe could get you out of even the Norcestor Arms.”
Pope said, “What happened then, Mr. Papacostas?”
“Spiro find Mij missing, they chase after him, but by the time they get to the street, Mij already has the Mustang and he is driving away. That’s when the Cadillac and the Hummer come by. Cadillac shoots at the Hummer, Rony say they try and shoot the tires, but they miss and hit the homeless.”
“Was there someone else in the car?”
Bivo nodded. “Yes, the woman. They say Mij driving away, she fighting him. They said the man Mij pull out of the car, he a boy, wearing some funny costume.” Bivo made a look. “That one, very foolish, very young. Only a dummy would go into the Norcestor any time, let alone to do so at night. I can tell you,” Bivo said, “someone like that could never work for me. You sure you
don’t want any spanokopita? I assure you, is very good.”
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