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Being murder police was not an easy gig, no matter where in the world. Although, I was sure Key West was a hell of a lot better than Detroit. But that's neither here nor there. What was important was Detective Meadows had not gotten to her position by being an idiot. Homicide detectives are normally the brightest and the best. And yes, I’m lumping myself into that category. I’d worked hard getting to homicide, but I had an enormous ego I filtered almost everything through.

Meadows keyed in on me saying “last night” when I’d said I didn’t kill Dan. And she wanted to know how I knew. Her question, on the surface, was reasonable. But she also knew I had arrived in Key West yesterday afternoon. Detective Meadows normally interrogated knuckleheads and knuckle-draggers, so there was some grace to be had. But when I’d been a cop, I was slow and methodical in my process. I never rushed anything. Eventually, I would show the edge of my knife, and it was sharper than the next man's. She was rushing and assuming I was a dimwitted criminal. I was also in a bad mood. I just learned my friend was dead.

“How do I know that… Miss Meadows—”

I made sure to speak slowly, so there were no misunderstandings. It was also patronizing.

“Right. The suspect, me, arrived in town yesterday at about 2:45 in the afternoon, of which I'm sure you are already aware. By four-thirty, he, me, I, was at the Oceanside Motel looking for Dan Yarnall. Of course, you are well aware of that, too. Vicki told you, which is how you ended up on my boat this morning. She was the only person I talked to about Dan.”

“I’m focused more on what happened after.”

“She also said Dan was running a charter and wouldn't be back until six. However, by six, I was working on getting cooked at the Green Parrot. Also, because I enjoyed a lustful night of unbridled passion with a barmaid and no one came looking for me, I can only surmise that the murder in question was conducted in the early morning hours, i.e., when it was dark.”

She smiled at me again and I didn’t care for it. I crossed my arms and sat straight.

“Well, we’re still waiting to hear from the county medical examiner on time of death, but I’ll make a note you said it happened early this morning.”

She wrote in her notepad.

“I’m right, though.”

I was trying to piss her off and she looked as if I had. But that’s life in the big city. Sometimes, we learn the hard way. And Detective Meadows, even if she didn’t want to admit it, had just gotten schooled by a man in a cowboy hat and a shirt with pink flamingos and sailboats on it.

“That's very good, Mr. Cutter. I appreciate the lesson. You seem like a very smart man.”

“Well, not all of us can get ahead like you.” I thought I almost saw her smile. “Except there are just a couple of issues.”

Meadows slid several photographs from the folder to me. They were of the crime scene. The first photo was from afar, blood splattered everywhere behind a body twisted up against what looked like the bulkhead of a boat. I didn't have the heart to flip through the rest, so Detective Meadows did it for me.

“Got to get pretty close for a shot like that.” She flipped to show close-ups of Dan’s face, a bullet hole through the center of his forehead. His eyes opened. “Whoever did this, knew Chief Dan and he knew his killer. And the killer looked like he knew what he was doing. You said you two were old friends?”

I didn’t like where she was going. “Pride also cometh before the fall,” as the Good Book says. And you can call me Charlie Pride. One smug son of a bitch.

“Well, that's statistics, isn't it, Mr. Cutter? And that statistic is the result of a majority. So, odds are”—she flipped to another photo of Dan’s dead body—“the margin of error is slim.”

Meadows pretended like she was trying to understand a thought in her head.

“You were in the Navy? Afghanistan?” she asked. “Not too many ships in Afghanistan. Wasn’t Chief Dan a Navy SEAL? Does that mean you were a SEAL, too?”

“What does that mean?”

“No, you weren’t a SEAL?”

“Neither one of us. We worked with special ops. Intel support.”

“But you had firearm training?”

“Yeah, it was a war.”

“You get pretty good at it?”

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

And that was what I got for being a smart-ass.

“Doesn’t take much to put a bullet in a man’s head at close range,” I said as if I was telling her something new.

“You don’t say.”

“I didn’t do this.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here to figure out. So, do you feel like going into more detail now, Mr. Cutter? Just a little bit? Because I think it would not only help you, but it would also help me find the person who killed your friend.”

She was good. But it didn’t matter. All that did matter was an old friend with the back of his head blown out. I stared at the photograph of Dan’s face, the bullet hole in the center of his forehead. There was no look of frozen horror. It’s amazing how peaceful a dead human being can look even in the bloodiest crime scenes. Dan looked like he was sleeping. And if it weren’t for the bullet hole and blood, it would be easy to imagine. But there was no doubt Dan was dead. As dead as Elvis.

“You’re wasting your time. I didn't kill him.”

I barely got it out, but I had to say it because she was right. There was no need for me to battle wits with her. My precious ego would survive the audacity of an interrogation. My friend was dead and all I was thinking about was myself. I didn’t need to sink any lower.

“I was with Stacy.” I then realized I didn't even know Stacy's last name. “She's a bartender at the Green Parrot. She'll confirm where I was.”

“I know Stacy. I’m going to have to ask you to sit tight while I check this out, though.” Detective Meadows slid the photographs back into the folder, then stood. “If she says one thing differently than you, we might have a problem. Unless you want to save me the trouble.”

I heard her, but I was still processing Dan’s murder. I knew I was innocent and soon, Meadows would know, too. I wasn’t worried about that anymore. All I wanted to know was who murdered Dan and where I could find them.