'Yes.'

In an even more uncertain tone: 'Aren't we supposed to call Syros whenever there's a homicide?'

Central Police Headquarters for the Cyclades was on Syros, the political capital for the circle of islands spanning one hundred miles from Andros on the north to Santorini on the south. All homicide investigators and criminal forensic facilities were based there – less than an hour from Mykonos by police boat.

Andreas knew Kouros was right, but he'd be damned if he'd let Syros trample over a murder scene in his jurisdiction before he had a chance to look at it. So much for playing it cool. 'Yeah, but let's just make sure it wasn't a dead goat he found before bothering Syros.'

Kouros said nothing, simply walked with Andreas to the car, got into the driver's seat, and began driving east. Andreas liked the way the big kid knew when to keep his mouth shut.

'Sir, I understand you were with Special Homicide Investigations in Athens?'

Word got around. 'Yes.'

'How many murders have you seen?'

'Of goats? Or sheep?'

'Nice day, sir.'

'Sure is.'

The rest of their conversation was about Kouros' family back in Athens and his roots on the Ionian island of Zakynthos. It was a pleasant chat, but one that let Kouros know there would be no personal information coming from the chief for him to share with his buddies over coffee.

The twenty-minute drive took them along the road past the air force's mountaintop 'secret' radar installation – the one everyone on the island knew about. Andreas had been stationed there twelve years ago. He couldn't believe how much that part of the island had changed. Back then there was virtually nothing to see from up here but dirt roads and endless rocky, barren hillsides crisscrossed with centuries-old stone walls. Now the road was paved and elegant homes sprouted everywhere on seemingly unbuildable sites. It was amazing what people with money could do when they wanted something.