“So?”

“Then you won’t mind if we record this conversation?”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“Then we’re good and great in the legal department. Unlike your stepdaughter, you have nothing to complain about.”

“The hell I don’t. Look at me.”

“You’ll mend,” Fred said quietly.

The emphasis concerning his young victim’s fate hung in the air.

“Lieutenant Houston and I,” Joe told him, “are here for two different reasons.” Joe nodded at Fred. “He’s the man taking apart your electronics to wrap you up neat and tight for a long-term federal rap for underage sex trafficking.”

“That’s bullshit,” Buttner tried interrupting.

Joe leaned closer to continue. “And it has nothing to do with why I’m here.”

He paused long enough for his suspect to absorb that.

“My specialty is homicide.”

Buttner’s voice climbed a notch. “I didn’t kill nobody.”

Joe showed him the photo of Kalfus they were all now carrying around. “You know who this is?”

The image was given a long scrutiny. Too much by half. “Never seen him.”

Joe displayed his best paternal expression. “Trevor, I understand you’ve had experience with being questioned by the police. Is that fair to say?”

Buttner let slip a crooked grin, revealing the teeth of a seventy-year-old. “I’ve had a few conversations with you guys.”

“Good. Just what I figured. Then you know that most of the time, we ask questions we already know the answers to. Why do you think we do that?”

Buttner scowled. “This a trick?” he asked as Fred Houston snorted softly without comment. “How the fuck do I know?”

“It’s our way of finding out if you’re telling the truth. ’Cause if you are, then we and the prosecutor, and later the judge and jury, will see that you’re really working to make amends.”

“Versus being caught out as a lying sack of shit,” Fred added in a friendly aside.

“Okay.”

“So,” Joe went on, wiggling the picture he was still holding in the air. “Do you really want to tell us you don’t know who this is?”

“Yeah. I mean no. I don’t know him.”

Joe looked disappointed, straightening and pushing his lips out sadly. “You do realize the apartment building you live in has closed-circuit TV? That’s part of it being low-income housing. To protect people like you from undesirable elements.”

Buttner kept his mouth shut.

Joe revealed a second print he’d secured from the housing authority. “This is another picture of the same gentleman. Do you recognize the front door he’s entering? See the number on the wall?”

Buttner swallowed hard. “There are other apartments in my building.”

“We’ve interviewed Melissa and Angie,” Fred cautioned him, which was partially true.

It proved to be enough.

“Okay,” Buttner said. “So what if I know him?”

“By what name, Trevor?” Joe pressed him.

“Don Kalfus.”

Joe smiled broadly. “There you go. Nice. Now, how and why do you know him?”

They could both see the effort Buttner was putting into getting this right. It was like watching a kid tying his shoes for the first time.