Medina picked up the file he had brought into the room with him, opened it, and pulled out a photograph of Amy Ong. It was the same image as the one used to illustrate the missing person posters. He spun the photo around on the table so that it faced Sherman. “What can you tell us about your relationship with Amy Ong?” he asked.

Sherman didn’t look at the picture. He stared at a spot on the gray concrete wall over the detective’s shoulder. “Never heard of her.”

“You’ve never heard of Amy Ong?” Medina asked. “Her name and picture have been all over the newspapers and television for days.”

“Uh, yeah, maybe I saw something on the news about a missing girl. What I meant was I don’t know her. I never met her.”

“Please, take a look at the picture, Mr. Sherman.”

Medina pushed the photo another inch closer to Sherman and tapped it with his fingernail.

Sherman reluctantly dragged his eyes away from the wall and glanced down quickly at the eight-by-ten image of the college student. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down above the tight collar. He shook his head.

“I told you I don’t know her.”

Medina sighed. “Mr. Sherman, we have an eyewitness who says a man matching your description checked into the Dreamz Motel on La Brea last Saturday night with Amy Ong.”

“Yeah? Well, this eyewitness must be mistaken. Must be plenty of guys out there who look like me. I was at home last Saturday night. All night.”

“Anyone who can verify that was the case?”

Sherman hesitated. “Yeah, my wife.”

Medina raised his eyebrows. “Your wife? Is Mrs. Sherman in the habit of covering for you when you’re out meeting with prostitutes?”

Sherman glared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” He lifted the plastic cup in front of him, which had been filled with water. Realizing it was now empty, he scrunched the cup in his fist. Neither Pryce nor Medina offered to get him a refill.

“Do you use prostitutes regularly, Mr. Sherman?” Pryce asked.

Sherman’s little eyes blinked furiously, and his double chin wobbled like a plate of Jell-O. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I’d like to leave now.” He started to rise with some difficulty from the plastic seat he was wedged into.

“Sit back down, Mr. Sherman,” Pryce said firmly. “We’re not done yet.”

Sherman sat back down.

Pryce continued. “You were arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol after being pulled over during a routine traffic stop in Hollywood three years ago. Is that correct?”

Sherman nodded.