Ronnie “Scar” Scarborough was cooling his heels in an interview room. Which made him surly as hell.

Ollie suggested it would be best if he conducted the interrogation alone. We agreed, and he set us up for remote observation.

On-screen, we watched Ollie enter a small cubicle and take a chair opposite a guy who looked like he’d been sent from central casting to play a New Jersey wise guy. He was wiry in a ferret sort of way, with acne-pocked skin, deep-set eyes, and a hooked nose that overhung a scarred upper lip. Gold neck and wrist chains. Shiny gray jacket over a tight black tee that glorified chest hair. Pointy black shoes. The only thing off was the tattoo wrapping the back and sides of his neck. It looked like a stylized bird that had escaped a totem pole.

Scar was sitting with legs outthrust, ankles crossed, right arm draping his chair back.

“How’s it hanging, Scar?”

Scar’s eyes rolled toward Ollie.

“Nice tee. Glad to see you’re secure in your own sexuality.”

“Why the fuck am I here?”

“I thought we could discuss future career options.”

“I wanna call my lawyer.”

“You’re not under arrest.”

Scar drew in his feet and rose. “Then I’m outta here.”

“Sit down.”

Scar remained standing, contempt crimping his features.

Ollie slapped a photocopy of Annaliese Ruben’s mug shot on the table, spun it to face Scar. The rodent glare remained fixed on Ollie.

“Look at it, asshole.”

Scar’s gaze flicked down, back up. He said nothing.

“Know who that is?”

“Tell your sister I ain’t dating right now.”

“Annaliese Ruben. My intel says you pimped for her.”

“I make it a point to ignore unsubstantiated rumors.”

“Project KARE has her on our list. We think maybe Ruben got herself killed.” True enough. At least at one point.

“Life can be brutal.”

“Here’s the thing, Scar. Since we’re uncertain if Ruben’s alive or dead, we’re thinking we should take a real close look at her last known associates.”

Scar performed an impressive one-shoulder shrug.

“Starting with her pimp.”

Scar shrugged again. Same shoulder.

“Starting with a warrant for his cell phone records.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can do that.” Ollie augured a finger into the printout.

Blowing out a sigh, Scar dropped into his chair and glanced at the photo. “OK. Yeah. Maybe it’s the fat kid used to hang around some.”

“Amazing how the mind works.”

“So I forgot. I been busy.”

“Altar-boy duties.”

“That’s it.”

“Or maybe you’ve been working the bus depots. Looking for young stuff, you know what I mean?”

This time the shoulder hitch seemed less cocksure.

“Maybe we should talk to your workforce. Check a few IDs. See how many candles these girls will be blowing out on their next cakes.”

“This is harassment.”

“How old was Ruben when you turned her out?”

Scar’s mouth curled up in a smarmy half-smirk. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like?”

“I tried to help her.”

“Right. You were her mentor.”