“No, I did not kill her. Get me my fucking lawyer right now. I’m not saying another word until he gets here.”

The prints on the whiskey bottle, plastic cups, and twenty-dollar bill were compelling evidence supporting the theory Sherman had been in contact with Amy Ong shortly before her death—but they didn’t necessarily put him in the motel room with her. Forensics had been unable to lift usable prints from the room itself due to multiple prints belonging to previous guests and members of staff. But Sherman had put himself in the room the night Amy Ong died, and that was good enough for Pryce.

He turned to Medina. “You want to do the honors, partner?”

“With pleasure, partner.”

Medina looked at Sherman. “Francis Sherman, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Amy Ong.”

The man’s expression changed instantly from rage to one of pure panic. His beady eyes widened. “You can’t do this. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Medina shifted in the chair and produced a small white plastic card, the size of an ATM card, from the back pocket of his jeans and began to read the Miranda warning printed on it. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .”

Pryce placed the two photos of Amy Ong back in the file and tucked it under his arm. He stood and walked to the door, leaving Medina to continue reading Sherman his rights.

He strolled slowly down the corridor toward the squad room, thinking about what Frank Sherman had told them during the interview. He knew he should be thrilled. They had just made an arrest in a high-profile murder case a little over twenty-four hours after the body had been found. It would ease the intense media pressure weighing heavily on them to find the killer and give the Ongs some hope of seeing justice served for their daughter.

But something just felt off to Pryce.

Back at his workstation, he removed the photographs from the file and returned them to a plastic wallet inside the murder book. He picked up a stack of telephone messages that had been left on his desk and rifled through them. Most were crank callers claiming to know who had killed Amy Ong or “Confessing Sams” insisting they had committed the crime themselves. A frustrating part of the job with cases with a lot of media interest, like the Amy Ong murder, and a huge drain on police resources checking them out.

Pryce looked up as Medina appeared in the squad room with a big grin on his face.

“Now, that is what you call a slam dunk.” Medina jumped in the air and mimicked dropping a shot into a basketball hoop. Then he walked over to the workstation area and raised his hand for a high five. Pryce ignored it.

“Is Sherman being booked?” he asked.