He copped only to the basic details of Tonya’s pickup—stuff they knew already—and resisted the pressure to elaborate. The room grew hot and rancid with fear as they changed the subject from Tonya to Schwinn’s comportment, in general. Picking at him like gnats, wanting to hear about Schwinn’s political views, racial attitudes, his opinions about law enforcement. Prodding, pushing, cajoling, threatening Milo subtly and not-so-subtly, until he felt as alive as chuck steak.

They returned to probing sexual details. He maintained his denial of witnessing any actual sexual encounters between Schwinn and Tonya or anyone else. Which was technically correct, he’d kept his eyes on the road, had harbored no desire to rearview peep the blow job.

When they asked about the conversation between Schwinn and Tonya, he gave them some bullshit story about not hearing because it had all been whispers.

“Whispers,” said Broussard. “You didn’t think that was unusual? Detective Schwinn whispering to a known prostitute in the backseat of your department-issue vehicle?”

“I figured it for work talk. She was an informant, and Schwinn was pressing her for info.”

Waiting for the obvious next question: “Info on what?” But it never came.

No questions at all about Janie Ingalls’s murder or any other case he and Schwinn had worked.

“You thought she was an informant,” said Poulsenn.

“That’s what Detective Schwinn said.”

“Then why the whispering?” said Broussard. “You’re Detective Schwinn’s alleged partner. Why would he keep secrets from you?”

Because he knew this would happen, asshole. Milo shrugged. “Maybe there was nothing to tell.”

“Nothing to tell?”

“Not every snitch has something to offer,” said Milo.

Broussard waved that off. “How long were Schwinn and Tonya Stumpf in the backseat of the car as you drove?”

“Not long—maybe a few minutes.”

“Quantify that.”

Knowing the car had probably been observed, Milo kept it close to the truth. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“After which Tonya Stumpf was dropped off.”

“Correct.”

“Where?”

“Eighth Street near Witmer.”

“After she left the unmarked, where did she go?”

He named the Ranch Depot Steak House, but didn’t mention Schwinn’s funding of Tonya’s dinner.

“Did money exchange hands?” said Poulsenn.

Not knowing how much they’d seen, he chanced a lie. “No.”

Long silence.

“During the entire time,” Broussard finally said, “you were driving.”

“Correct.”

“When Detective Schwinn asked you to stop to pick up Tonya Stumpf, you weren’t at all concerned about being an accessory to prostitution?”

“I never saw any evidence of prosti—”

Broussard’s hand slashed air. “Did Tonya Stumpf’s mouth make contact with Detective Schwinn’s penis?”

“Not that I—”

“If you were driving, never looked back, as you claim, how can you be so sure?”

“You asked me if I saw something. I didn’t.”

“I asked you if oral-genital contact occurred.”

“Not that I saw.”