cheap, rumpled gray suit walked in, carrying a thick manila folder and a styrofoam cup of black coffee. He had dark circles under his eyes and the exhausted, cynical posture of a man who had spent 20 years listening to guilty people lie to his face.
He didn’t introduce himself.
He pulled out the chair opposite me, the metal legs screeching harshly against the linoleum floor, and sat down.
He tossed the manila folder onto the center of the table.
“I’m Detective Vance,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly
