Hidden Depths(62)

So Evan was able to come to this meeting hastily arranged by Michael with a relatively clean slate—and a dogged intent to goad Stavros into something.

At the very least.

“I’m just trying to consider all the possibilities, Mr. Stavros.”

“You’ve never heard of the idea that everybody has a twin? A doppelganger?”

“I’ve heard of it but I’m not sure I believe it. The only close resemblances I’ve ever seen were between close relatives.”

Michael and his father, for one.

“And so you automatically assume this girl is Athena? Bah! That’s absurd. I identified the body myself. Athena committed suicide.”

“And you’re sure it was her?”

“Yes,” he snapped, standing up. “Although I can’t believe you have the unmitigated gall to even pose that question. To bring up the memory of my niece’s bloated, water-ridden body is sacrilege.”

“But she was recognizable?” Evan persisted, which was really kind of rude. But he didn’t buy this guy’s grief. No way. The girl’s death conveniently left Fredrico Stavros with the other half of the fortune he had reputedly married to regain.

Stavros shook his head in apparent amazement. “Your father is commonly known to be an arrogant bastard and I see he passed it on to even the lowliest of his sons. I wouldn’t take this kind of treatment from Michael Reynolds or the old man Damien himself and I most certainly won’t take it from one of his countless other punk sons.”

Evan didn’t take the bait. “Actually, there are just five of us. The sixth is a daughter and she’s even more impertinent.”

“Is that all?”

Evan remained seated. “Did your wife have any relations?”

“My people already spoke to your detectives when they were investigating this girl to begin with. We told you then. Whoever she is, she’s not a Stavros. Or a Bennett. And if she plans to make some specious claim that she is—”

“I don’t know where Andrea Prentiss is.” Well, that much was true. “But I certainly doubt a claim is what she has in mind.”

“I don’t care either way!” Stavros growled, pounding on the desk for emphasis. Fredrico Stavros was awfully upset for a man who supposedly thought this whole matter had nothing to do with him. He gestured toward the door. “We’re done here. Now get out.”

“Do you mind if I see the autopsy report?”

Stavros exploded. There was no other word for it. With one sweep of his ham-like fist he knocked everything off the desk onto the floor—papers, knickknacks, framed photos—and came around the front of it in a rage, clenching his fists. His beefy face turned five shades redder than it had been at the beginning of the conversation.

Evan straightened the pleat of his pant leg but didn’t otherwise move a muscle as the big Greek glowered down at him, standing over his chair at a proximity that was undoubtedly intended to intimidate. It didn’t intimidate Evan. But it did bother him. In fact, it left him feeling sick and furious, though he masked his reaction. He knew—he just knew that what he had suspected upon coming here was true. Andrea Prentiss was Athena Stavros, and this man was why she had disappeared, at the beginning from this Greek island paradise and then years later from Evan’s own sanctuary.

Evan stood up and smiled.

He was going to put an end to her running if he had to kill this man to do it.

And that was beginning to look as if it might be the best plan.

“Thank you for your time.”

* * * * *

His next stop was the police department. In the small Greek town adjoining Stavros’ estate, the headquarters was a modest building, whitewashed with deep-blue trimming just as were all the other buildings in town. He fervently hoped that computers had come to this town and that, as in every other town in the world, money talked.

When he went inside the building, he saw there was a front office and thankfully what looked like pretty modern Macs on the few desks therein. Being the typical American he was, Evan expected the police officers to speak English and they did, not even too heavily accented.

“What can I do for you, sir?” asked a man whose uniform identified him as the captain to even somebody with as rudimentary Greek skills as Evan had.

“I’d like to see an autopsy file from about eight years ago. Athena Stavros.”

The captain expressed absolutely no surprise, confirming that Stavros had called ahead. “I’m afraid those records are confidential, sir. What is your interest?”

“They’re here, then? Either physically or on your computer?”

“Again, sir, those records are confidential.”