7

The Police Station

After running down about thirty-seven dimly lit side streets, I was finally able to flag a taxi. Though I could understand Greek, speaking it was another matter altogether. I mumbled through a couple of badly accented requests about the police station and helpful officers and needing the cavalry to ride down from the Acropolis and rescue us from cat-thieving maniacs.

Shane finally pulled his still-oozing head away from the ally wall where he’d been leaning and poked some buttons on his phone. Ah, he had an app. With his phone to guide me, I requested that we visit Athens’s friendly local police station.

I had a few bills sewn inside my scarf. Hey, it never hurts to be prepared.

And even with Shane’s obvious head-trauma and a dead cat in the box, the cabbie gave us a ride.

We did have to sit on a pair of towels in the back. No one likes cat hair or random taxidermy chemicals in their vehicle. I could empathize. Finally, I was able to set down the terrible box. I put it on Shane’s side and then scooted as far away from them both as possible.

We pulled up in front of the police station.

As I reached for the door, Shane put a hand on my arm.

A handsome Greek man in an immaculate business suit was shaking hands with a detective on the steps. A silver flash drew my attention to the fact that he was wearing two or three rings on each hand. Such a large quantity of adornments was pretty unique among businessmen.

Two men stood beside him. They were recently bandaged, and an attractive lady officer handed them cold sodas.

Shane pointed at the guy closest to the Greek business man. “Look at his arm.”

A distinctive tattoo greeted my gaze. The Greek goddess Athena wearing jogging shoes, with an owl on her shoulder and a fierce glower on her beautiful face. What on earth? I had been about to open my door, but when Shane pointed out that ridiculous tattoo, I yanked my hand back from the handle so fast, you guessed it, I totally shredded two fingernails in my haste.

I had called the police as soon as we’d escaped. It simply took us awhile to find the station.

Regardless of our tardiness, these men should have been in a cell. They were most definitely two of our three kidnappers.

An out-of-breath underling rushed from the station and approached the detective. The detective snatched a sketch out of the underling’s hands and handed it to the Greek gentleman. The suit looked over the sketch, obviously asked our kidnappers to peruse the paper, and then gave his nod of approval.

The men said their farewells, and the suit led our kidnappers down the long stretch of steps toward a waiting limousine.

Our cabby tapped the number on his dash that indicated our fare and reminded me that we had yet to pay.

But the suited gentleman stopped right outside my window.

I caught a glimpse of the police sketch. The page showed a slim woman in her mid-twenties. She had long hair, large eyes, and a good-sized aquiline nose. Except for the fact that I’m pretty sure my nose isn’t quite that impressive, it was the face that had been staring back at me from the mirror for the past twenty-seven years. And apparently, that sketch had only been a copy, because now several officers held their own pages with my face emblazoned across the top.

Perhaps the police station was not our best option.