He doesn’t flinch at the sight of the dead woman. “So that’s what this is about. The chick who got herself killed.”

“What did you two talk about?”

“I don’t recall.”

“You think a trip to the police department would help your memory?”

His gaze darts to the door. “Hey, man—”

“I’m not a man,” I snap. “I’m a police officer, so stop being a dipshit and answer my questions.”

“Okay.” He raises his hands. “Look, I hit on her. We flirted. I swear, that’s all.”

I’m aware of Glock moving around the garage, looking in the trash barrel, opening a toolbox. I’m thankful I have him here to back me up. I don’t like Scott Brower. I don’t trust him. And I’ll bet behind that baby-face façade he’s a nasty son of a bitch.

“You got a temper, Scotty?”

His gaze goes wary. “Sometimes. If someone fucks with me.”

“Did Amanda fuck with you?”

“No.”

“Did your boss at Agri-Flo fuck with you?”

His face darkens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You threatened to cut her throat. Ring a bell?”

“I didn’t do that, man.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

His grimace is more like a snarl. The baby face is breaking down, giving way to the real deal. He’s getting agitated. That’s exactly where I want him. “What do you want with me?” he asks.

“What time did you leave the Brass Rail Saturday night?”

“I don’t know. Midnight. Maybe one A.M.”

“Do you own a knife?”

He looks around, a fox about to be mauled by hounds. “I think so.”

“What do you mean you think so? You don’t know? You don’t remember? How can you not be sure if you own a knife?”

Glock passes close behind him. “You might try some of that gingko shit, buddy. I hear it’s good for the memory.”

Brower sneers. “Look, I just . . . ain’t seen it in a while.”

“Did you lose it? Maybe you disposed of it.”

“Look, it’s probably layin’ around my house somewhere.”

I glance Glock’s way. “Sounds like we might need a warrant.”

“I think so,” he responds.

Brower looks from me to Glock and back to me. “Why are you guys fuckin’ with me like this?”

“Because I can. Because you smell bad. Because I think you’re a lying piece of shit. All of the above.”

He stares at me, his face turning a deep shade of red. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

I glance over my shoulder at Glock. “Did you hear me say anything inappropriate?”

“Maybe he’s sensitive, Chief.”

“Fuck you,” Brower spits in Glock’s direction. “Goddamn nigger cop.”

Glock laughs outright.

My temper ignites. There’s nothing I hate more than a bigot. Even if this man is innocent of murdering Amanda Horner, he’s a rude pig. I’m going to ruin his day. His week. His entire month if I can manage. “You got any weapons on you, Scotty?”

“No.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.