At seven o’clock Kirk Reynolds still had not returned. The twilight had turned to a deep blackness. He can’t be skiing in the dark, Catherine thought. I’ll bet he’s in the bar downstairs having a drink.
She started for the door just as the phone rang.
Catherine smiled. I was right. He’s calling me to ask me to join him downstairs.
She lifted the receiver and said brightly, “Well, did you come across any Sherpas?”
A strange voice said, “Mrs. Reynolds?”
She started to say no, then remembered how Kirk had registered them. “Yes. This is Mrs. Reynolds.”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Your husband has been in a skiing accident.”
“Oh, no! Is it…is it serious?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“I’ll come right away. Where…?”
“I’m sorry to tell you he’s…he’s dead, Mrs. Reynolds. He was skiing the Lagalp and broke his neck.”
Chapter Sixteen
Tony Rizzoli watched her come out of the bathroom naked, and thought, Why do Greek women have such big asses?
She slid into bed beside him, put her arms around him, and whispered, “I’m so glad you chose me, poulaki. I wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”
It was all Tony Rizzoli could do to keep from laughing out loud. The bitch had seen too many B movies.
“Sure,” he said. “I feel the same way, baby.”
He had picked her up at The New Yorker, a sleazy nightclub on Kallari Street, where she worked as a singer. She was what the Greeks contemptuously called a gavyeezee skilo, a barking dog. None of the girls who worked at the club had talent—not in their throats, anyway—but for a price, they were all available to be taken home. This one, Helena, was moderately attractive, with dark eyes, a sensuous face, and a full, ripe body. She was twenty-four, a little old for Rizzoli’s taste, but he did not know any ladies in Athens, and he could not afford to be choosy.
“Do you like me?” Helena asked coyly.
“Yeah. I’m pazzo about you.”
He began to stroke her breasts, and felt her nipples get hard, and squeezed.
“Ouch!”
“Move your head down, baby.”
She shook her head. “I don’t do that.”
Rizzoli stared at her. “Really?”
The next instant, he grabbed her hair and pulled.
Helena screamed. “Parakalo!”
Rizzoli slapped her hard across the face. “Make one more sound and I’ll break your neck.”
Rizzoli dragged her face down between his legs. “There he is, baby. Make him happy.”
“Let me go,” she whimpered. “You’re hurting me.”
Rizzoli tightened his grip on her hair. “Hey—you’re crazy about me—remember?”
He let go of her hair, and she looked up at him, her eyes blazing.
“You can go…”
The look on his face stopped her. There was something terribly wrong with this man. Why hadn’t she seen it sooner?
“There’s no reason for us to fight,” she said placatingly. “You and me…”
His fingers dug into her neck. “I’m not paying you for conversation.” His fist smashed into her cheek. “Shut up and go to work.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Helena whimpered. “Of course.”
Rizzoli was insatiable, and by the time he was satisfied, Helena was exhausted. She lay at his side until she was sure he was asleep, and then she quietly slipped out of bed and got dressed. She was in pain. Rizzoli had not paid her yet, and ordinarily Helena would have taken the money from his wallet, plus a handsome tip for herself. But some instinct made her decide to leave without taking any money.
An hour later, Tony Rizzoli was awakened by a pounding on the door. He sat up and peered at his wristwatch. It was four o’clock in the morning. He looked around. The girl had gone.
“Who is it?” he called.
“It’s your neighbor.” The voice was angry. “There’s a telephone call for you.”
Rizzoli rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I’m coming.”
He put on a robe and walked across the room to where his trousers were draped on the back of a chair. He checked his wallet. His money was all there. So, the bitch wasn’t stupid. He extracted a hundred-dollar bill, walked over to the door, and opened it.