A Winsome Murder by James DeVita Page B

I’m kind of a straightforward guy in my work, because, you know, it just saves a hell of a lot of time.” Mangan opened the case file and placed it on the desk. “And, tell you the truth, I got a friggin’ blivittimes three here that I’m trying to clean up. You know what that is, a blivit?”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œTen pounds o’ shit in a five-pound bag. My shop teacher told me that in seventh grade. Mr. Manfrey. Never forgot it.” Mangan sorted through his notes. “So, help me out here if you could, Mr. Lachlan. Oh, and one more thing,” he added in as pleasant a voice as he could muster, “don’t bullshit me, okay? Because I might not catch it right now, you know? But I will, eventually. And then that’s just not good for anybody. Because then I gotta get you back in here, and then I’m not so personable, and it’s just, you know, it’s just no fun all the way around. All right?”
    â€œExcuse me, did I do something wrong here?”
    â€œI don’t know, did you?”
    â€œWhat kind of a question is that?”
    â€œIt’s just a question. I’m a detective. I ask questions.”
    â€œLook, I found a hand in my apartment. I called you .”
    â€œI understand that, Mr. Lachlan, and I’m very sorry for the trauma, the obvious emotional trauma which I’m sensing this has caused you. I apologize. You’re right. You’re very right. I was assuming. I was projecting . Bad habit of mine. And I think maybe I was doing that because I was starting to sense a kind of, I don’t know, a kind of hesitancy in your demeanor. And I’m probably completely wrong about that. So, I apologize. Please, let me start again.” Mangan took out a sheet of notes from one of the files on his desk. “And you understand, of course, that you don’t have to answer anything, right? I just thought I’d try and get you in here early to talk, because there might be some things about this case—and there I go assuming again, so please correct me if I’m wrong— there might be some things that you’d prefer to maybe keep out of the newspapers.” Mangan waited for a response. Lachlan’s silence told him all he needed to know. “I’m nothing if not discreet,” he said, skimming the preliminary reports. “So, this young woman, Mr. Lachlan. Who was she?”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œThe woman who left your apartment at approximately six twenty-five that morning, jeans, T-shirt, midtwenties, long black hair, very attractive. You didn’t mention her in your statement to the police.”Mangan paused a moment. “I’m assuming she wasn’t your wife. Or your daughter.”
    Lachlan twisted the cap back onto his water bottle. “No.”
    â€œWhat’s her name?”
    â€œâ€¦ Fenyana.”
    â€œWhat’s that, like Cher, Prince, or something? Just Fenyana?”
    â€œI don’t know her last name.”
    Mangan jotted the name down in a small notebook. “A professional, yes? The Slovak social club? Where’s the tochka you picked her up at?”
    â€œI didn’t pick her up. She comes—I know her through a friend.”
    â€œThis friend got a name?”
    Lachlan hesitated. “I think I’d like to call my lawyer now.”
    Mangan stopped taking notes. He put his pen down.
    â€œMr. Lachlan,” he said, “did you read the sign over my door when you came in? It says Violent Crimes. That’s me. That’s what I wake up for. You really think I care about some little baruxa-bun you’re banging up in your apartment? No, the answer to that is no. Now when I talk to the press—which I’m going to have to do eventually—I really wouldn’t want to slip and maybe mention something that I shouldn’t, which unfortunately happens to me at times when lawyers get involved. They make me