When the Devil's Idle Read Online Free

replaced by upscale dress shops. A group of sleepy looking
tourists were standing at the taxi stand, waiting to be ferried to
their hotels, their suitcases piled up next to them.
    Seeing the
cellphones the tourists were consulting, the iPads and God knows
what else, Patronas shook his head.
    Once people had
only needed food and water when they went on vacation, a towel to
dry themselves after they swam. Now it was every kind of electronic
device, as if sand and sunlight weren’t enough, as if the sea
itself, mother to us all, held no glory.
    The police
station was located on the top floor of a castle-like building
overlooking the harbor. Its tower with its sculpted frieze was one
of the abiding symbols of Patmos. The exterior of the building was
outlined in brightly lit bulbs, giving it a fairytale aspect, a
sense of playfulness at odds with its mission. Three police
motorcycles were parked in front. A small force, but larger than
Patronas had expected.
    In spite of the
hour, a pretty young woman in a uniform was sitting behind the
front desk. Two Pakistani men were arguing with her in broken
Greek, gesturing with their hands in an effort to be
understood.
    “ You
have to rent a room or leave the island,” she told them. “You can’t
just flop down on the beach like a pair of dogs and sleep.” She
made no effort to hide her contempt.
    Patronas had been
surprised to see her—the force on Chios was resoundingly male—and
he listened to the exchange with a sinking heart. The young female
officer was nothing special. Just one more recruit for the Golden
Dawn. She wanted the immigrants gone from her country. Women, men,
it was all the same now in Greece.
    Evangelos picked
up the Tyvek suits and booties he’d set aside for them and a box of
forensic supplies, an ancient fingerprinting kit and two spray cans
of the blood-detector, Luminol, the labels yellow with
age.
    Idly, Patronas
wondered what kind of murder book Evangelos was keeping, if he was
using a quill pen to make his entries. Modern technology like so
much else, had simply passed him by.
    Well-acquainted
with their colleague’s methods, Patronas and Tembelos had brought
their own gear from Chios, and seeing the rusting cans of Luminol,
Patronas was glad now they had.
    The police car
was located in a back alley. An elderly Jeep Cherokee, it was a
veritable tank compared to the other cars on the road, the Suzukis
and tiny Fiats.
    Patronas had
assumed Evangelos would speed up once they got underway, but he
continued on at the same steady pace, peering over the steering
wheel and taking each turn with great deliberation. Less than ten
kilometers an hour they were traveling. It was embarrassing. A
bicyclist could pass them.
    Growing more and
more impatient, he drummed his fingers on the armrest. It wasn’t a
tank he was in, it was a boat, and Evangelos was rowing it. The
corpse would be decomposed by the time they got there.
    As part of his
master plan, he’d insisted the priest sit in the front with
Evangelos, saying it would be more comfortable for him.
    Excited by the
case, Papa Michalis was all wound up and ready to go. Let Evangelos
deal with him now. Death by talking.
    As expected, Papa
Michalis started right in, discussing the victim’s German origins
and that country’s tortured political history. Then he moved on to
the strange and varied cuisine of that land, which according to him
was based largely on pig in all its unholy manifestations—head
cheese being a prime example.
    “ A
terrine of jellied meat. It’s easy to make. First you remove the
whiskers from the jowls of the pig; then you split its skull and
remove the eyeballs. It’s probably a good idea to remove the wax
from the ears, too, before you get down to boiling
it ….”
    Patronas rolled
his eyes. He’d sampled Papa Michalis’ cooking, a lengthy meal he
still regretted. From what he’d seen, pig jowls were right up his
alley.
    Next the priest
spoke eloquently of Martin Luther and the