Page 58 of Sinful Memory

Vance Perry?

“Vance Perry?” Cato echoes incredulously. “Why the hell are you pulling him in?”

Archer pushes up to stand and snatches his phone, ignoring his brother completely. “I want him in interview first thing. Can you make it,” he asks his partner, “or do you need to wait for Ms. Penny to get Mia?”

“I can call Penny in early,” he sighs. “Give me half an hour, and I’ll be at the station.”

“Good. See you in a bit.”

Archer kills his call and heads toward the door. But swinging back around, he takes my coffee out of my hands, surprising me with his rough movements, and sets it on the counter before wrapping me up tight and crushing me against his chest.

“Make sure you eat breakfast.” He presses his lips to my forehead and speaks so his words are muffled. “Then I need your help. CSUs took wineglasses from Anna’s sink. Can you follow those up and pull DNA or prints? I have a feeling I just figured this shit out, but I can’t move forward without proof.”

“Um…” I stumble when he steps back, and gulp when he places my coffee back in my hands. “Sure. I’ll call the lab as soon as I’m in the office. Are you seriously thinking this was Perry?”

“No.” He strides past his brother and heads toward the door. “But I think he’s the key. I’ll be in contact.”

He swings the door open and meets my eyes, but without another word, he blows the tiniest kiss known to man so only I see it, then he pulls the door shut and disappears for the day.

Just like I knew, once that hug was over, my day would cease to be easy.

“Hmmm…” Cato saunters in my direction. “We’re alone. Finally.”

I roll my eyes and start into the hall. “Stop talking. And figure out a better plan than ‘I’ll take ECON101 and be recognized as awesome.’ That nonsense won’t pay your bills.”

ARCHER

“Vance Perry.” I stride into the interview room and toss a file onto the table.

Often, that file has nothing, or little, in it. Sometimes it has everything. But always, its presence intimidates a suspect, and results in their mouths running faster than their brains.

Today, our file actually contains a fuck-ton of damning evidence. But it paints a picture I’m not sure is entirely accurate.

“Thanks for coming down today.” I pull out a chair opposite him, and sit down with athudas Fletch does the same on my left.

Vance Perry is just twenty-five years old. He comes from a farming family in Idaho, which means his face shows signs of age beyond his twenty-five years. That’s not to say he looks forty or fifty. But certainly, a well-worn thirty-year-old.

Which is fine. I doubt he even cares or notices the lines on his face. The wrinkles that are a little premature and a lot deep.

He stands at six feet, six inches tall, and weighs an easy two hundred and forty pounds. He’s the Clydesdale of the Perry family. But I suspect his career success has probably justified the food bill of his youth.

“I don’t understand why you’ve called me down here today.” Impatient, he looks to his watch, then brings his gaze back to us. “I answered your questions yesterday at the stadium.”

“Are you in a hurry?” Fletch reclines in his chair and lifts one ankle to rest it on the opposite knee. “It’s not yet eight o’clock. Why are you rushing?”

“Because Mr. Whittaker is savage when it comes to off-season cuts,” he bites out. “Because if I miss practice, he’s gonna ride me all the way to October, then he’ll kick my ass out anyway, just because it made him feel good to do it.”

“Do you often have trouble with Richard Whittaker?” I ask. “Is he a shitty boss?”

“All bosses are shitty,” he chuckles, but the sound is without humor. “It’s always about the money, Detectives. So if I look like I’m easing off the gas and dragging my team down, it’s my ass that’ll be sitting in a sling.”

“Does Whittaker bounce his players often?” Fletch wonders.

Perry shrugs. “He tossed Prestalin because the dude had a baby on the way; brought Selene in instead. Pres hadn’t even been slacking off. His girl was taking Lamaze classes alone, or only when we had time off. They were handling it, but I guess Whittaker figured he was a future issue, so he tossed him the second he could, and brought in a younger, fitter, single man who has no family, no kids, no girl, and no outside distractions.”

“Do you have problems with Selene?” I ask. “You have beef with the guy?”

“No.” He scowls so two deep lines dent his forehead. “He’s nice enough. And a good player. I have no feelings toward him, good or bad.”

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