Montecino’s dull eyes reflected a beat of personality. “Jesus, this motherfucker’s as good as caught. Adrian, put out a BOLO for a Mexican guy.”

Kraemer snickered, shaking his head.

“You don’t get it.” Luke propped both elbows on the table and linked his hands. “The party was sixty percent white and thirty-nine-percent Black. Not many Latinos. You should ask around. Check the surveillance footage.”

“Lizard’s is an old biker shithole,” Kraemer growled cynically. “Most of the cams don’t work, and the ones that do aren’t exactly high-definition. You can see that for yourself.”

He gestured at the video captures, still arranged on the table. Luke glanced at them. They were black-and-white, low-res. His and Lisa’s faces were little more than smudges.

“What else can you tell us?” Kraemer said.

Luke closed his eyes, drawing on his uncertain memory—trying to step into it and see things with a clearer mind. “He was youngish . . . early thirties, maybe. And kind of shifty-looking. Awkward. Like he’d walked into the wrong place.”

“Was he alone?” Montecino asked.

“As far as I could tell.” Luke tried to remember if he’d seen the guy earlier that night, talking to anyone else. He didn’t think so. It was as if he’d shown up just to talk to Lisa, and had left again.

“What else?”

“Tall . . . for a Mexican. Tallish. Five-eleven, maybe six-foot. He was wearing a button-down shirt. Black, I think.”

“Distinguishing features,” Montecino said, and the tone of her voice suggested she was already bored with this. She tapped her pen impatiently against her notepad. “Was he bald? Did he have facial hair? Scars, tattoos, moles, missing teeth?”

“No, I . . .” Luke closed his eyes again, recalling the familiar way Lisa had leaned in to the guy, her eyes lowered, her mouth close to his ear. Luke’s attention had been on his wife, primarily—her jealousy-inducing body language. But yes, he picked out some features. “He had wide cheekbones, but a narrow jaw. And small, close-set eyes. An ugly fucker, really. Kind of . . . bat-faced.”

“So we’re looking for a shifty, bat-faced Mexican?” Detective Montecino exhaled dramatically and pushed a hand through her elf-like hair.

“Tallish,” Kraemer added wryly.

“Okay. We’ll bring an artist in, put a sketch together. In the meantime . . .” Montecino pocketed her notepad and pen. “Let’s get back to the guy with the blood on his shirt.”

And so it continued: the questions, the doubts, the pushing and pressing. Luke took his time and tried to consider every response before speaking, but it got to where he was afraid his words might be unstitched and fashioned into something sinister. Eventually he resorted to answering every question with, “I’ve told you everything,” and, “That’s all I know.” For Detective Montecino, this wore thin quickly. The gloves came off. She got physical. Kraemer twice had to intervene.