SevenGrand Cayman Island › Tuesday, December 2, 2008 › 12h10
The report of a brutal murder at Dorothy’s on Seven Mile Beach hit the lunch-hour am news channel before Jimmy and Sammy had arrived on the scene. Jimmy slapped the radio button with an open hand, silencing the female announcer. He huffed, glancing over at Sammy. “Why are we always the last to know?”
Sammy shrugged a silent reply. His focus was on driving. His hands and feet and all five senses were busy adhering to police protocol: with seatbelts secured, both hands on the wheel, slowing at intersections, roof lights flashing. The gyro motors whirled above their heads in perfect harmony with the wipers streaking the tinted windscreen of the white Range Rover. No siren.
Two weeks earlier, during a call to a possible floater, J
