The person waiting for us in Interrogation Room Number Three looked familiar, but I couldn't initially attach a name to the face. He had a kind of round face, looked like he had a lot of Hispanic blood in his background. Graying temples, large brown eyes, slightly crooked smile.

Milt gave me a grin and then held the door for me. I entered and took a standing position in the corner, still trying to attach a name to that face. Milton closed the door behind him, sat on the chair opposite our “guest” and said: “Tell me I am ‘cuhrayzee’ Vincent.”

And then it clicked in from all those late-night ads - Vincent Dacosta of Dacosta New and Used Motors - “How can I charge such low, low prices? I am CUHRAYZEE!” I almost laughed, and did permit a smile to creep onto my lips as I realized this.

“Hey man,” he replied, “you probably are crazy, but I don't know what I’m in here for this time. I sell your wife a lemon?”

“If you did it would be buried with her, as she left us eight years ago. Then again, selling to the dead may be one of your games. Rookie, make a note to look into that, Okay?”

I took out a notepad and dutifully scribbled something into it.

“I know nothing about that. Nor about why your guys dragged me in here.”

“Getting to it, friend. But first, what’s up with your hand there?”

I kicked myself for not noticing this sooner - Vincent Dacosta’s right hand was wrapped in thick bandages. He glanced at it, shrugged, and said: “I slipped while working on a new arrival and burned the…” here he used a word that I admit I have used more times than I like but have no desire to put into print. Feel free to assume he used it, and various Spanish or Portuguese variations of it with increasing frequency over the rest of this discussion. “...out of it. Have the doctor’s notes in my pocket if you wanna see. They folded it up nice and neat for me when I left the clinic.”

“Rookie, check his pocket, would you?” Milt said without looking away from Dacosta. I walked over, patted two pockets before I found one with something in it, and took out a folded piece of paper. I held on to it.

“So where were you between ten PM and two AM last night?”

“How should I know? Went out drinking with some buddies around eight. Have vague memories of losing a bundle in a card game, woke up with a hangover, made it into work and ruined my hand on a new acquisition. Anyone who could confirm this was as blotto as I was.”. He did not actually say ‘blotto’ but something a hair more vulgar; I believe this gets the same point across.

“So, no verifiable alibi?”

“Yeah. If I knew I needed one, I would have gone to places that keep their cameras on. I mean, I can prove I was at ‘My Cousin’s Place’ until about ten, but I think we left then and have no clue exactly where we went until I woke up at home.”

I had idly opened the paper I had taken from him and my eyes noticed something. I tapped Milt on the shoulder and pointed to the name of the person listed for billing purposes.

He cocked an eyebrow at this and waved me back to the corner. “So, can you at least give me the names of the other degenerates you hung out with so I can see if any are sober enough to make a statement?”

“Pretty sure ‘Tiny’ Carmichael was there. And Danny Perone. Maybe Carlos Franco; he was with us for part of the night, at least. The rest is a blur, man.”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

I knew Nathaniel ‘Tiny’ Carmichael - he was a very short, very fat man who allegedly had a hand in every illegal gambling operation in the city. And Danny Perone worked at the restaurant - very interesting.

“And how exactly do you know one Morgan Price?” Milt then asked him.

Vincent blinked at this. “What does that have to do with … anything?”

“A simple question: how do you know him?”

He hesitated, and then answered: “I ran into a spot of financial trouble last year. He bailed me out and has owned half of the dealership for the last six, seven months,” he replied, apparently embarrassed to admit this.

“And he’s paying your medical bills?”

“We’ve been negotiating with insurance companies. Until we get something hammered out, he loans us the money for any treatments we need. We should have something in place by next month.”

“So, he paid to have burns on your thumb treated?” Milt continued.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Only this says you have a severed index finger,” was my reply, reading the note.

“Yeah, that is what I meant.”

“An index finger found at a murder scene this morning,” Milt tossed in.

The room fell silent. You could have heard a pin drop. I think. Would have tested it just to be sure if I’d possessed a pin at the time. And then, after taking a deep breath, Vincent Dacosta said: “Okay. I cannot say anything more without my lawyer present. His name is Daniel…”

“Daniel Foreman?” I offered, pulling out the card I had pocketed earlier.

“Uh, yeah, how’d you know?” Vinnie asked.

“Just a hunch. He seems to be tied into this case somehow.” I replied.

“Well, this is just a friendly chat so far,” Milt replied. “Yeah, I can call your lawyer, but then I might have to arrest you. Should I arrest you?”

Vincent looked frightened. “I can't talk about no murder. If you want to go there, I need my lawyer.”

“You got the number there, Jack, right? Go make the call,” Milt said to me. Then he turned his attention back to our “guest:” “You want something to drink while we wait, Vin? Water? Coffee?”

“Nah I… well a water sounds okay, or a soda if you have one.”

I opened the door, stepped out of Interrogation Three, and almost collided with Daniel Foreman. “Speak of the Devil,” I said. “You looking for Vincent Dacosta or are you here for another client?”

He blinked in surprise, and then said: “Vinnie.”

“In there,” I said, pointing to the room I’d just left. He nodded and went inside. Milt joined me in the hallway a few seconds later. “No, that timing is not suspicious at all,” he said.

“This is beginning to stink like the fish market in August,”” I replied.

“Eh, that is just Foreman’s cologne,” Milt replied.

“He does seem to marinade in it,” I observed.

“I was heading out to get our guest a soda. You want anything?”

“Only if the break room has Scotch or bourbon,” I replied. Milt handed me a flask and wandered off. I opened the flask, took a whiff, grinned like a kid at Christmas, and took a swig. It was cheap but it was strong; I coughed as it went down, recapped the flask, and pocketed it quickly to slip back to Milt when he returned.

Then I jumped as someone tapped me on the shoulder and I spun around to come face to face with Patrolman Patrick Cline. We had spent some time together in a radio car back when I was on patrol “Hey Pat,” I said, trying to hide my surprise.

“Hoped that was you, Jack,” he said, “You have a visitor. She asked for some privacy, so she is waiting in Interrogation One. Quite a looker, too.”

“Thanks - you gotta be somewhere soon?” I asked him.

“Not really,” he replied.

“Good, then could you do me a solid and wait here. When my partner Milt gets back, let him know where I went?” I asked.

Pat nodded. “Oh yeah, sure Jack. Hey, if she is single or has a sister, keep me in mind,” he added with a quick grin. Pat always had a thing for the ladies - probably why he didn’t do well enough on the detective exam to move up out of patrol with me, he got a bit too distracted by the training officer administering the test. Anyway, I headed off to Interrogation One, blissfully unaware of how complicated things were about to get.