'Did you call?' Andreas kept his voice firm but pleasant. He didn't have to say about what; either he'd know or he wasn't the right guy.

'Yes, sir.'

'What's your name?'

'Alex.'

He didn't need his last name for now. 'Where are you from?'

'Ano Mera.'

That was the other town on Mykonos, located in the middle of the island. But that wasn't what Andreas meant by his question. He let it pass. The man had to know Andreas knew he was from Albania, if only from his heavily accented Greek.

'So, Alex, why don't you tell us what you're doing up here.'

'I was working here today.'

'Doing what?'

'Fixing stone walls.'

'Where?'

He turned and pointed two hundred yards up the steep hillside. 'By the church.'

Andreas looked where the man was pointing. All he saw were many muted shades of brown dirt, brown bushes, and brown rocks – though when he looked closer he saw the rocks were more gray and reddish than brown. The only church he saw was on a different hillside far off to the left. 'Do you mean there?' He pointed to the distant traditional, whitewashed, blue-doored, Mykonian family church with its distinctive terra-cotta-colored, horizontal half-cylinder shaped roof. They were all over the island, some no bigger than a hundred square feet.

'No, there.' The man pointed to where he'd pointed before.

Andreas walked over and sighted down the man's arm as if it were a rifle. Out of the brown he could just make out rocks forming a wall, and behind the wall a structure of some sort – also made out of rocks – part way up the hill. He'd never seen an unpainted stone church on Mykonos.

'Who do you work for?'

The man gave the name of a well-known contractor on the island and said he was told to come here today to start rebuilding the walls around the church. As far as he knew, he was the first one to work here. Someone was supposed to help him but hadn't shown up. In fact, he hadn't seen anyone else around all day, except for an SUV or two that drove by while he was waiting for the police.