Investing in Murder

By EJ Lister

Jayson L. Riley has amassed a fortune for his clients, and himself, by successfully forecasting natural disasters and predicting commodity losses and gains using his own complicated algorithms and his intuition. But trouble comes knocking when, amid the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression, one of his clients, Cincinnati Delsol, her yacht, and millions in stolen investment funds simply vanish. Suddenly, Jayson—the sole heir to the Riley dynasty—finds himself at the top of a short list of suspects in her disappearance.

As more of Jayson’s clients start to turn up dead, he quickly discovers that friends and accomplices are not who they seem to be, and in order to stay alive, the hunted must become the hunter. In Jayson's line of work, it’s all about risk and reward. Some people have died for it. Jayson isn’t ready to be one of them.

Set in both Grand Cayman Island and Chicago, this first novel in the Jayson L. Riley series sets readers on a course for action, adventure, and intrigue.

"Lister, a Vancouver business writer, has produced a perfectly competent thriller that will no doubt find an appreciative audience."

– Vancouver Sun

• Language: English
• Publisher: EJ Lister
• Release date: Oct 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9780993893629

EJ Lister

EJ Lister is the author of the Jayson L. Riley series. His work as a senior project consultant and his passion for adventure have taken him around the globe – to forty-three countries on five continents – and this extensive travel, which includes visits to some of the world’s most challenging locations, informs and is reflected in his adventure fiction. He is also a business performance specialist whose non-fiction works include Successful Change Management and Lead, Manage or Dig. When he is not travelling or on assignment, EJ calls Vancouver, BC, home.

Book preview

Prologue

George Town, Grand Cayman Island › Friday, June 6, 2008 › 11h25

Those who recognized the chic middle-aged woman gave her a wide berth as she disembarked the yacht under grumbling skies and entered a revving Mercedes sedan, staying out of her path as they would a hurricane.

As her driver raced through rain-soaked city streets, she speed-dialed her phone and wrapped it around a high cheek bone, tugging a jeweled earlobe until it hurt and the call connected. Did you make the transfer? she whispered.

Yes, a mellow voice replied, but you’ll have to wait —

She cut his words off with Latina temper. "You listen to me, pretty boy. If that money isn’t in my hands by noon tomorrow, you’ll wish you’d never met me." She snatched a pair of designer sunglasses from her face and shoved them into her burgundy hair.

"I already wish I’d never met you, puta, he screeched, like a rusty hinge. You’ll get the cash when it’s clean."

His retort sliced through her like a knife. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose and thought about the impact on her mission — they’d stopped short of nothing to acquire the wealth needed to overthrow a government, but they needed cash to get the revolution moving.

A crack of lightning jolted her back to reality. She glanced up through the tinted sunroof as heavy rain pelted down. Within seconds, the tropical downpour turned torrential, rendering the car’s wipers useless. Agitation beneath her tan skin crawled to the surface. She leaned forward and glared in the rearview. Her dark eyes transfixed her driver’s anxious expression; she screamed at him to pull over, then slumped back in her seat and cupped the phone to her ear. I’m running late, she shouted. Can you pick up our friend at the airport?

The line buzzed in her ear as she fumbled a Rothmans out of its pack and placed it between her glossy lips, awaiting a response. She pictured him seated in his custom red leather chair behind the Bridge, a circular glass-and-chrome desk where large flat-screen monitors and tv screens displayed real-time stock quotes and up-to-date news reports. He was wearing a headset; she could hear his manicured fingernails dancing across a keyboard, like a ghost.

She lit her smoke.

What flight? he finally acknowledged.

The one-twenty. American Airlines, from Chicago. She exhaled a short spiral of smoke. He’s bringing a friend. Someone just for me. You can look, she teased, but don’t touch. Residual bourbon enhanced her amusement. She laughed and coughed smoke from her lungs, sinking her phone to her chest, clamming it closed as though it were a velvet ring box.

One

Chicago › Monday, December 1, 2008 › 07h40

Jayson L. Riley entered his downtown office tower in the predawn light and marched straight past Security with a latte in one hand, the Chicago Tribune in the other, and a hunting rifle tucked under his arm.

He ducked into an empty express elevator and punched the sixty-first-floor button, crooked his arm, glanced at his chromium Insync watch.

It took four seconds to accelerate through two mezzanine levels where cafés and shops were located, another sixteen seconds until the carriage braked to a full stop. He squeezed his solid frame through the retracting doors, made a quick left, then hoofed it down a narrow hallway directly into the lens of a ceiling-mounted security camera.

He made it halfway to his corner office before someone noticed him — an eager intern whose name he’d forgotten. She stopped dead in her tracks, stuttered, Sir? He nodded and passed her by, increasing his gait.

Seconds later, he entered a common area ascetically furnished for nervous clients to pace, where flat-screen tv monitors hung from ceiling mounts at odd angles like windows to the world through 24-hour news channels. The décor, designed to reduce tension, had a Zen atmosphere to it — flowing fountains, reflective music, dried flowers, the aroma of eucalyptus. Cruel kindness, he thought. No one gave a damn about tension or stress, or heart failure. It was all about risk and reward. A price to pay for twenty-first-century materialism.

Some people died for it.

No one was dead yet. But he knew that, by the time markets opened, the hallways would be packed with people anxious to know if their retirement dreams were dead. November 2008 had not been a good time for financial advisors — worse yet, for investors — causing some overzealous individuals to keel over.

A right, then a quick left through a vacant reception area to a bulletproof security door. He clamped the rim of the latte in his teeth and rooted inside his coat for his strangling id lanyard.

His was the first office on the right, directly across from the war room. He entered, kicking the door closed behind him.

The rifle — a modified Remington — was sheathed in an army-green canvas-and-leather case. He released it from under his arm, bouncing it onto a brown leather sofa. The latte and the newspaper he set on his workstation before pulling out of his coat and tossing it on an antique barrel chair. His mind swirled with thoughts of the Caribbean and his offshore investment clients.

In the years before the market crash, he’d traveled to the Caribbean for Thanksgiving, to Dorothy’s — a four-star beach resort somewhere over the rainbow, where many of his affluent clients rendezvoused. This year, he’d reluctantly accepted his father’s invitation to go hunting at the family cabin. His father, JD, ceo of Riley Financial Investment Corp, wanted to discuss his son’s future.

He blew out a breath, combing his fingers through a mat of sand-colored hair that neither obeyed company policy nor the law of gravity.

As he swung himself around his angular workstation, his cell phone rang. He answered before the second ring.

An anxious voice whispered, Did you transfer the funds?

Jayson dropped into his leather executive chair and with the phone tucked to his ear, proceeded to power up his computer. I’m on it, he said, you gave me no warning. I was out of town. He typed his password with ten-finger efficiency, hit the enter key. You going to tell me what’s so damn urgent?

"You were right about the ghost of Transys, his caller said. Make the transfer. I’ll contact you when I know my departure plans."

Where are you?

The line crackled. Dorothy’s. At the end —

The call went dead.

Shit. He let the phone drop into his lap, wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his wool sweater.

After the usual corporate login, password verification, and security protocols executed, the screen flickered. Three icons splashed up on the screen. He clicked an icon labeled Transys, tapped the touchpad twice, checked his watch.

Three seconds passed before a secure web-based app opened with a warning: You have 15 seconds to acknowledge.

He used the first eight seconds to calculate the revolving password by adding a series of numbers to the precise time on his watch. The next four seconds he used to type the password and hit the enter key. The remaining three seconds the system used to verify the password.

Login Successful.

He tugged the neck of his sweater and took a deep breath, positioning his fingers on the keyboard. Almost immediately, a list of names and account numbers appeared on the screen.

He scrolled down the alphabetic list of records and highlighted four names from an offshore trust account on Grand Cayman Island. He quickly calculated the total in his head, then he transferred $12.7M to a bank in Panama.

Two

Chicago › Monday, December 1, 2008 › 07h57

The transfer took less than two minutes. Roughly one hundred and eight thousand virtual dollars per second, equaling billions of ones and zeros in encrypted code. He sat back, blew out a breath, pushed the serendipitous phone call to the back of his mind — the funds were secure, for now. There was nothing else he could do until his caller — an offshore investment client who, two months earlier, had contacted him about a possible investment scheme he was probing — departed Grand Cayman Island.

He sipped the lukewarm latte, wondering whether to remain at the office or return to the relative peace of the woods. Through the darkened windows cornering his office, high above an awakening city, he imagined the snow and the wind and the morning rush-hour traffic. He blew out a breath, set the latte down and divided the newspaper — business first, personal second.

He scanned the investment section until the sun came up, sipping the latte down to the last bubble. Then he read the latest news on Hurricane Paloma.

The reports had weakened as rapidly as Paloma itself had after passing over Cuba. It stalled out over the Atlantic on November 28. A brief report finalized the cost of the damage, both in the Cayman Islands and in Cuba, clearly demonstrating that the affluent stood a better chance of surviving a hurricane than those less well-off. Disaster relief efforts were underway, with limited funding.

He shook his head.

As an investment strategy, tracking storms was a relatively low-risk, high-return method of predicting financial losses and gains on the commodities market — Paloma had destroyed eighty percent of the sugarcane industry in Cuba. The Riley financial dynasty and its clients made millions from Paloma.

After scanning the weather forecast and reading Leo’s weekly horoscope, he set the paper aside and reached for the mail overflowing its tray. A Caribbean vacation brochure caught his attention; it was addressed to him directly. Whoever had sent it knew his middle name, a name he wasn’t especially fond of. Intrigued, he flipped through pages containing glossy photos of five-star hotels, diving destinations, seafood restaurants owned by world-renowned chefs. He laughed when he read an article highlighting offshore banking strategies to avoid taxes. But not jail, he thought.

He flipped the brochure over, instantly recognizing the colorful photo on the back cover.

His heart skipped a beat.

A photo of the Grand Hotel George Town covered the entire back page — the same hotel where his friend-slash-lawyer had introduced him to a woman named Cynthia Nadia Delsol (a.k.a. Cincinnati), who in turn introduced him to her associates.

For the past six months, Cincinnati’s whereabouts had remained a mystery, casting a long shadow over Jayson and the Riley dynasty. He sighed and sailed the brochure into the trash

Before Cincinnati disappeared, he’d maintained a professional relationship with her, centered on a wicked investment strategy designed to help her acquire the wealth and status she’d needed to pursue an enigmatic mission in her native country, Venezuela. The missing-person file on Cincinnati contained three pages of his vague account of the events leading up to their final meeting and the forty-eight hours they’d spent together before disembarking her yacht in George Town the night of June 8. The local police were unable to solve the mystery of Cincinnati’s disappearance after she’d set sail the following morning. Jayson remained a key person of interest — the last one to see her alive — in what the police described as a suspicious disappearance.

His intercom buzzed and shook him back to reality. He punched the speaker button. Yes, Lisa.

A lively female voice responded. "JD said you’d returned. I thought you were staying out at the cabin this week?"

Auh — he sounded, pausing to think of an excuse, wondering what his father was thinking about his early departure from the woods. Something came up, he said, glancing at the rifle, which was pointed right at him.

Well, sorry to hear. I’m sure you’d much rather be traipsing through the bush, Lisa said, like she was stalling. Do you have time to see Mr. Baker? He’s in reception.

Shit.

The contents of the latte bubbled up in his stomach and made his insides sour. He swallowed hard as he stared at the empty space in the open Day-Timer on his desk. He sighed. I’ll be right there, he said, wishing he’d headed back to the solitude of the cabin after all.

The reception area was year-end busy with insatiable investors and their upper-class clients, and all the suits looked the same. Jayson surveyed the room across sagging shoulders until he zoomed in on a partial of Henry Baker’s baby face: back against the wall, eyes down, seated under an original oil painting of a dead relative. He took a step in Henry’s direction, indifferent to the faux pas his attire created.

The crowd opened up like a zipper as he crossed the floor to greet Henry.

Hello, Henry, Jayson said coolly.

Henry jumped to his feet, holstered his BlackBerry. A strained expression creased his forehead under locks of honey-colored hair. He looked older than his thirty-eight years. Henry shook Jayson’s hand with a lawyerly grip.

Jayson analyzed Henry’s body language, while cognizant of his own. I thought you were in New York? he said.

Henry coughed into his elbow. I just returned, he said, tugging at the cuff of his trench coat.

Jayson smirked, gesturing to his friend’s face. It must have been hot. Nice tan.

Henry blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl.

Jayson released his grip on Henry’s sweaty hand and tipped his head toward his office. Come in, he said. You’re lucky; I wasn’t supposed to be in today.

Henry took a seat in a leather armchair in front of Jayson’s desk, made small talk about the early winter, shared his opinion on the state of the economy. Then, as if he’d only just noticed, he commented on Jayson’s attire, suggesting perhaps he should have chosen a sage-colored sweater with leather elbow pads, to go with the camouflage-color hunting pants, as if deer were fashion-conscious.

Jayson listened halfheartedly while securing the rifle in a specially designed fireproof wall safe concealed behind a dark oak wall panel. In it were two other weapons, a shotgun and a semi-automatic service revolver, both belonging to his late great-grandfather, a man he admired for his adventurous life and generous demeanor, who’d given millions to help those in need. Yet the man built a financial empire during one of the most challenging decades of the twentieth century. Jayson locked the safe, turned, and said, So what’s up, Henry?

Henry cleared his throat. You’d better sit down, Jay.

Jayson stepped around his desk and slowly lowered himself into his chair. He weaved his fingers together, studied Henry’s serious expression. That sounds ominous.

Henry lowered his head. Spoke to the floor. It’s about Cincinnati.

Jayson raised his eyebrows slightly. For a brief moment, he had trouble spitting out a short reply, one he knew had two possible outcomes: alive or dead. They’ve found her?

Henry glanced up, nodded. Murdered, according to the police report.

Jayson shuddered. Blood rushed to his face and burned his cheeks. Shit. He stood and paced across a stretch of black Italian marble, stared out across the vastness of Lake Michigan. He rubbed three days of whiskers shadowing his round, dimpled chin, thinking back to the last time he’d seen her, when they’d spent the weekend together on her yacht.

Henry swiveled in his chair. The Queen’s Royals have taken over the investigation from the local police. They want you back in the Cayman Islands, asap.

A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Jayson’s neck. Shit. He tugged at his strangling collar.

"Are you sure she didn’t tell you anything, Jay?"

Jayson thought back to one particular weekend on the yacht, months before she’d disappeared, recalling Cincinnati’s conversation concerning her political agenda. He’d agreed to a scheme to invest her finances in multiple acquisitions, which she’d insisted they keep secret. It was all above-board, but she was concerned about her associates. She hadn’t elaborated, but hinted there was something not right. No names were mentioned.

He responded to Henry’s query with a simple, No, squeezing his eyes shut, massaging them with a thumb and forefinger. I told you before — He paused, refocused his vision. For a moment he felt disorientated. He sat down. The last time I saw her, we talked about investment opportunities, third world economics, politics . . . His words trailed off. He lowered his head, buried his face in his hands, spoke through his fingers. We anchored the yacht at Dagger Inlet, went diving, explored the caves.

"Dagger?"

Jayson jerked his head up. What about it?

That’s where her body surfaced.

Jayson felt his heart trying to escape his chest. "You sure about that?"

Yes, Jay. The detective . . . Chrysler something, made it very clear, emphasizing Dagger Inlet in an objective statement during our phone conversation. In italics, if you know what I mean. He shrugged. It makes sense, though.

Jimmy Chrysler. Puerto Rico. Jayson shot Henry a hard look. What makes sense?

It connects all the dots. You mentioned Dagger Inlet to the local police during the initial interview six months ago. It’s pretty thin, but the fact is you spent the weekend at the very place where her body surfaced, and no one can verify they’d seen her return to George Town. Well, anyway, like I said, it’s pretty thin.

Jayson huffed. Wafer-thin, Henry. You know as well as I do we weren’t alone on her yacht. Even her Italian chef came to say goodbye when we disembarked together in George Town.

Henry raised his eyebrows. Italian? You never said he was Italian.

Jayson combed his hair back with his fingers and spoke to the floor. What difference does it make? All I’m saying is . . . plenty of crew saw us together when I left the pier that night.

Henry reaffirmed what Jayson had been thinking. Well, he said, that’s all fine and good, except the crew disappeared with her and the yacht. And until the Royals find one of them, you really don’t have an alibi.

Jayson sat forward on the edge of his chair, staring down at his khaki-colored hiking boots. So what happens if I refuse to go?

Henry cleared his throat. They’ll come and get you.

Jayson raised his head. That’s bullshit, Henry. Unless they’ve got probable cause, proof that I committed a crime, they can’t just walk in here and extradite me back to the Cayman Islands. He stood up, rubbed the back of his neck, crooked his head.

Exactly what I told them.

Jayson levelled his line of sight onto Henry. So . . . what’d they say?

"Well . . . they didn’t give me any details, but they did say the evidence they had was incriminating."

Jayson returned to the window where snow swirled around the building in bursts of white eddies. Dark clouds hung low over the surrounding city. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

When he turned away from the dreariness, Henry’s thumbs were dancing around on his BlackBerry. He waited, observing Henry’s obsession with modern technology and commerce: his expensive Giorgio Armani suit accented by a gold tie clip inlaid with diamonds matching the links on the cuffs of his white Polo shirt. The Rolex belonging to a set of business and casual. His polished Gucci shoes with substantial heels to heighten his appearance. Twenty-first-century materialism.

Henry finished texting and stood up, holstering his phone. He cleared his throat as if to speak, but didn’t.

Jayson noticed a slight redness in Henry’s dark eyes. He guessed it was jetlag; Henry didn’t drink.

Henry headed for the door. Let me know when you’re prepared to go, he said. I’ll make the arrangements.

Jayson pulled his wool sweater off over his head and tossed it onto the chair. I want you to go with me, Henry.

Henry turned, smiling. He looked five years younger now. I was planning on it. I’ll book us in at Dorothy’s.

Three

Grand Cayman Island › Monday, December 1, 2008 › 09h10

Jimmy Chrysler and Samara Ohayashi (Sammy O) approached the qrcp discovery theater with thirty-seven years of combined experience in homicide investigation, separated by thirty-four years of maturity. A lone pathologist had her hands in the corpse, cutting ribs with a pneumatic grinder as Jimmy activated a pair of glass doors. He stepped into the white-ceramic-tiled autopsy room with Sammy in his shadow. The doors closed behind them with a swoosh, immediately sealing them in an atmosphere that turned up their noses: ammonia fumes and trace chemicals of death halted their advance. Jimmy pointed to the disposable mask dispenser and together they detoured toward it.

Jimmy held the papery mask against his face with fat fingers, his nose stretching its delicate fabric. When the grinding ceased, he said nasally, Hello, Terry.

Terry didn’t look up when she replied, Jimmy. Sammy. I’m not finished with her yet.

Jimmy was no stranger to the young woman, whose vocals were confident, whose words were sparse. Sorry, Terry. Sammy couldn’t wait.

Sammy secured the surgical mask over his small facial features without taking his eyes off the discovery table. He gawked with almond-shaped eyes at the decomposing corpse.

Molecules of invisible gas evaporated from the rotting tissue like the Texas heat on an asphalt two-lane. A silent exhaust fan in the ceiling filtered the fumes through a uv light and a carbon scrubber, venting them out into the atmosphere, where they would eventually mix with the scent of the Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet down the street. Sammy asked, with morbid humor, Where’s her face?

Terry looked up. Her jade-green eyes appeared magnified behind a pair of clear goggles. Her scrub cap held most of her mahogany-blond hair in place. She ignored Sammy’s query and looked over at Jimmy. The body is literally being held together by the rubber dive suit.

Jimmy gave a nod. He glanced at the lead weights on the dive belt under the table. Looks like a lot of weight for such a small woman.

Terry shook her head. Probably twice as much. If she hadn’t been hooked by the fishing trawler, she’d probably never have surfaced. She set the grinder down and gripped the exposed ribcage.

id? said Sammy.

It’s on the board . . . above the sink. We used her dental records to confirm.

Sammy squinted. Cynthia Nadia Delsol, a.k.a. Cincinnati. Age — forty-one. atd. He turned back toward Terry. What’s atd?

At Time of Death.

"What was the time of death?" Jimmy asked.

Terry gripped the sternum. She yanked hard as she spoke. I’m guessing, ugh . . . with the chemical compound data I have to work with — She paused. Wow, they usually snap right off.

Terry! Jimmy shouted. What about the time of death?

Terry picked up a towel, wiped her latex hands as she spoke. Like I said . . . with the information I have to work with, I’m saying . . . six months.

Six months what? Sammy asked.

Terry threw down the towel. She’s been dead for six months.

Sammy glanced at the floor.

Is six months an accurate time of death? Jimmy said.

Terry’s mask sucked into her face for a beat, then puffed out for a beat. Well, she said. Based on the amount of decay and the rate of decom under those conditions, and the fact that she hasn’t been seen or heard from for six months, I’d say it’s accurate enough.

Cause of death? Jimmy said.

cod? Sammy smirked.

Terry rolled her eyes. The good lung was full of water. What’s left of the other has a suspicious tear in it, which correlates with a scrape on her rib. She picked up the piece of rib, examining it closely.

Jimmy swallowed an imaginary lump in his throat. Meaning?

Terry set the bone down. Meaning . . . she may have been stabbed.

Mmm.

"There was no weapon," Sammy said.

Terry smiled with her eyes. Well, it’s possible it was a Dover dive knife.

Sammy rubbed the back of his neck. You can tell from a scratch on a dead woman’s ribcage?

Terry sighed. No, Rookie, from the Dover sheath strapped to her leg when they brought her in.

Jimmy smiled under his mask.

It’s in the evidence — She paused, as though a flash of insight locked her jaw. She eyed Jimmy narrowly. Your boss . . . he asked to have it sent to his office.

Jimmy raised his eyebrows.

After standing in the death dirt of the discovery room, Jimmy and Sammy found comfort in their supervisor’s sterile office. They stared out over the pier from his fourth-floor window, sipping bad coffee, waiting for Sergeant Eric Stanford to return from lunch.

The pier had fewer than half its berths occupied — the very pier from which Cincinnati and her crew had disappeared six months earlier.

Jimmy said, We won’t be going out to Dagger today, Sammy. Or tomorrow, by the look of it.

Abnormally unstable weather had created rough seas and dark skies across most of the Caribbean. The forecast predicted more of the same for the next forty-eight hours.

Foaming waves smashed ceaselessly over the rock wall separating the boardwalk from the beach, conjuring a memory in Jimmy’s head. He’d scheduled a fishing trip back on the eighth of June — his birthday. The trip had been canceled due to rough seas and inclement weather. The retainer was non-refundable. The following day he’d argued over the phone with the agent about a refund, then he’d hoofed it down to the pier to speak with the boat’s pilot. He recalled seeing two guards with sidearms transferring what appeared to be cash bags and file boxes aboard a luxury motor yacht from a yellow security van. They’d been doing so the entire time he’d been on the pier.

Sammy interrupted Jimmy’s thoughts. Something wrong? he asked.

Jimmy held his Styrofoam cup up to the window and pointed to the end of the pier with his pinky finger. Berth two. It’s been empty since her yacht disappeared.

Sammy stared out at the vacant slip. Yeah, it’s still registered in her name. The harbormaster said she’d paid for one year . . . in advance.

Mmm, Jimmy hummed, visualizing the 143-foot Benetti Vision, Sea-no-Evil, exaggerating the prominence of the harbor on and off for almost a year before it went missing.

The local police had enlisted the help of the Royal Navy and the United States Coast Guard in trying to locate the yacht and its crew. During the initial interview with Jayson L. Riley, they’d concluded that the yacht departed George Town on the ninth of June and either went down in a storm or slipped into a foreign port under a new name and nationality. Rumors that Jayson had pirated the yacht eventually milled out as time passed and no evidence was found to substantiate the allegations.

When did she pay? Jimmy asked.

What?

For the year. How long before she went missing did she pay for the slip?

Sammy shrugged. I don’t know, he said. He raised his cup to his mouth, took a sip, then asked, Why?

Jimmy stared out at the vacant slip. If she’d planned to disappear, I doubt she would have paid for one year. As his mind began piecing together a new theory, he removed a wad of chewing tobacco from under his lip, flicked it into his empty cup. She was up to no good, Sammy.

Sammy scrunched his face into a disgusted look. Your opinion. Or you know something I don’t?

Jimmy shrugged. Gut feel, he said. Something a rookie wouldn’t understand.

Sammy huffed. You Englishmen are so arrogant.

Don’t take it personally, Rookie. You’re going to get old one day too. He wiped his finger on the seat of his pants.

Sammy grinned. Not as old as you, I hope.

Jimmy let the comeback slide. He wasn’t as old as his iron-gray eyes and graying hair and loose skin suggested. He’d aged prematurely from his years at sea. First, during a stint in the British Navy, then as a marine detective for a Caribbean shipping company. Most of the aging process was gradual, save for the two weeks he’d spent searching for his wife and daughter after a Category 5 hurricane smashed their home in Puerto Rico in ’98. He’d buried them together before joining the Queen’s Royal Cayman Police and burying himself in a cold case file, which he’d solved in sixty-three days with help from divers from a local dive shop, who’d led an underwater search for a wealthy South African man. The killer, a Popeye for hire, had murdered the Afrikaner at Dagger Inlet before sailing the boat to Panama and selling it to Jimmy in an operation dubbed Gray Dawn.

They turned away from the window when a