He shook his head. “Christ, no.”

Sherman pulled at the knot on his tie until it was loose and then opened the top two buttons of the shirt. Pryce wondered if his wife ironed those shirts for him each night before work, if she helped him pick out which tie to wear to the office each morning. If Mrs. Sherman had any idea how her husband was spending his time and money.

“Let me guess?” Medina said. “Your wife doesn’t understand you, but the young girls you pay for sex do, right?”

Sherman glared at him. “Look, I like screwing hot young women, okay? It’s not a crime, is it?”

“Actually, engaging in a sexual act or lewd conduct with another person in exchange for money is a crime, Mr. Sherman.” Medina pointed to the camera. “A crime you have admitted to committing during this interview, which, as you have already been advised, is being recorded.”

Sherman’s eyes widened. “Christ, my wife doesn’t need to know about this, does she? You don’t understand—she’ll leave me for good this time. What with the drinking and the DUI—”

Pryce interrupted. “No, Mr. Sherman, you’re the one who doesn’t understand. Right now, any charges in relation to your use of prostitutes is the least of your problems.”

Pryce glanced at the other detective. “Detective Medina?”

Medina opened the file again and withdrew another photograph of Amy Ong. This one was a close-up shot taken by the police photographer after her death and showed her badly beaten face. The broken nose, bruised cheekbone, and dried blood spatter on her pale skin were all clearly visible. Sherman stared at the photograph for a long time. Then choked back a sob. He reached out a hand toward the picture, his trembling fingers hovering just above Amy Ong’s face but not quite touching the glossy paper.

“Cindy,” he whispered.

“Did you kill Amy Ong?” Pryce asked calmly.

Sherman pushed the photo away. “No! I never touched her. Not like that. I would never hurt Cindy. Never in a million years. Fuck! You’ve got to believe me.”

“So who did kill her?”

“How the hell should I know?” he yelled. “She was fine when I walked out of that room. She must’ve had another john lined up after I left. I’m telling you someone else did this to her. I’m being set up. I’m innocent.”

“Why didn’t you leave the motel room together?” Pryce asked. “Offer her a ride back to campus?”

“She said she wanted to take a shower, freshen up. She had her own car. Said she was parked near the bar on Las Palmas.”

Amy Ong’s car hadn’t yet been accounted for. Pryce would put out a BOLO for the 2004 Mini in the vicinity of Las Palmas as soon as the interview was over.

“Did you kill Amy Ong?” Pryce repeated.