The insurance salesman had pleaded guilty to the offense, paid almost $2,000 in court fines, and had his license suspended for 120 days. The DUI arrest now looked like it could cost him a hell of a lot more than a couple grand and several months of inconvenience while off the road.

“The prints you provided at the time of the DUI arrest were matched to prints lifted from the motel room where Amy Ong’s body was found.”

Pryce looked at Sherman. Waited. The man took his time answering.

Finally, he said, “Uh, yeah, now that I think about it, maybe I have rented a room at that motel in the past. But definitely not Saturday night.”

“I’m talking specifically about prints lifted from a whiskey bottle that also had prints matching those of the victim. Likewise, plastic cups used to consume the liquor. We also matched a thumbprint from a twenty-dollar bill found in the victim’s wallet to the prints we have on file from your arrest. Why don’t you cut the bullshit, Mr. Sherman? What were you doing in a motel room with Amy Ong the night she was murdered?”

Sherman ran his hands through his hair and looked around the room frantically, as though searching for an escape route. “Fuck!” He banged his fists on the table, then buried his face in his hands.

Pryce and Medina waited silently.

After a couple of minutes, Sherman looked up at them, his eyes wet with tears. Beads of sweat ran down his temples; his hair was soaked. “Okay, I was with the girl last Saturday night. It was our usual agreement. We met in a bar, had a couple of drinks. Then we stopped at a liquor store for the booze and went to the motel. I paid her the cash up front, we had sex, and then I left. That’s it—I swear.”

“Your usual agreement?” Pryce asked. “This wasn’t the first time you paid Amy Ong for sex?”

Sherman shook his head. “We’ve hooked up maybe a half dozen times over the last few months.”

“How did you first meet her?”

“Online.” He gave them the name of a website specializing in call girls of Asian appearance. “She called herself Cindy. I never knew her as Amy.”

“Have you met other women through these call girl websites?” Pryce asked.

Sherman dropped his eyes. He nodded.

“All Asian?”

He shook his head. “Sometimes Latinas.” He gave them the name of another website he frequently used.

“Were you the father?”

“Come again?”

“Were you the father of Amy Ong’s baby? She was pregnant.”

Sherman shrugged. “Nothing to do with me.”

“You sure about that?” Pryce pressed.

“She always insisted on using a condom. Usually brought her own. If she got herself knocked up, it was some other guy’s problem. You don’t believe me, do some tests or whatever.”

“We will. Does your wife know you use prostitutes?”