The news reached her shortly after she arrived at the hotel. Her suitcases lay open on the floor and at the foot of the bed, still mostly filled with neatly bundled clothes, cosmetics, and toiletries. When she heard of what had happened in Krimson City in her short absence, the corner of Celestina's mouth tugged down in stark displeasure.

Oh, my dear photographer, she thought. What kind of mess did you get yourself into?

The brash idea of having Clyde cancel her first three shows to fly back home flashed briefly in her mind, but she dispelled it. It would be a logistical nightmare, not to mention having to sort through refunding hundreds of irate people. And Celestina didn't want to think of what it would do to La Contessa's reputation if she canceled. My poor husband has been arrested, but that wouldn't matter to them. All they care about is what they feel entitled to—that little ticket they bought.

Even then, she wasn't going to abandon Stefano. He was important to her in so many ways beyond their marriage. And luckily for him, he'd married a woman who always had her ends covered.

Celestina took her phone from the nightstand. With it in her hand, she stepped over to the window. Celestina closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she exhaled, her brow crashed down in a look of despair. She summoned a deep burning from her throat and behind her eyes. When she opened them, they were glassy with tears. Her next breath came out shuddering. Celestina turned away from the window, crying freely. She lifted her phone and dialed a saved contact.

She heard a click end the ringing, and a man's voice answered, "Celestina?"

"Doug, I just heard what happened," Celestina whimpered through her sobs. "Is he okay? Oh, my Stefano! I-I shouldn't have left!" She covered her mouth as she pulled in a ragged, shaking breath. "I'm going to t-talk to Clyde; see if I can c-catch a flight back."

"Hey, hey," Doug soothed over the phone. "Celestina, it's going to be okay. You don't need to come back—I'll take care of this."

"I can't ask you to do that. Your wife—."

"She's making a speedy recovery. And she loved those flowers. Celestina, I'm not doing this as your attorney. I'm doing this as your friend. Believe me when I tell you that there's nothing to worry about. I will do everything in my power to make sure your husband walks free."

"Doug, I-I… Thank you so much. Please, protect him."

"Yes ma'am."

Celestina hung up. Immediately, the despair vanished. She cleared her throat. With the side of her hand, she delicately wiped the tears from her face and stepped into the bathroom to fix her makeup.

One by one each document, each piece of ammunition, was placed in meticulous order inside the folder. Ledford paused between additions, mentally rehearsing the statements and questions associated with them. Everything had to go perfectly. He finally had someone in custody, and he was sure he had fallen on the right track. Sleep deprivation be damned, he was going to get what he wanted out of this questioning here and now!

Ledford walked out of his office, armed with his folder. In the hallway, Detective Hendriks stopped him. "Vankirk told me you made an arrest on the street." She eyed him, her face tainted with concern. "I know these murders have been eating at you, Jackson, but was this a little… premature?"

"I'm not doing it just for the sake of doing it," Ledford replied. "I know I'm onto something here."

"All right. Hey, I'm dying for some progress as much as you are." Hendriks glanced over her shoulder towards the direction of the interrogation rooms. "Just… go get 'em, I guess."

"Vote of confidence real appreciated." He cracked a grin and gently slapped the folder playfully against Hendriks's arm as he passed her.

Interrogation rooms were real works of art, though not in the least nice to look at, let alone be in. They were designed to be as unpleasant as possible and automatically push the interviewee into a state of discomfort. Ledford couldn't help but marvel this small bit of carefully designed psychological manipulation.

The room was small with bare, gray walls. On the wall directly across the door was the observation mirror—no doubt Lieutenant Vankirk would be behind it to observe the interrogation. There was a small, rectangular table positioned with its shorter side pushed against the wall to divide the room into uneven halves. In the larger half, closer to the mirror, were two chairs facing each other. One was up against the wall, an uncomfortable plastic one for the suspect. The other, Ledford's, was lined with thin red cushioning.

The suspect was already there when he stepped into the room. Ledford placed the folder quietly onto the table and took a seat. The detective took a few moments to survey the man across from him.

Stefano Valentini. This guy… looked like a prick. Like the kind of guy who wanted his coffee a certain, outrageous way and got pissy if it wasn't made right. And getting hitched with La Contessa probably exacerbated that inflated head problem.

He stared right back, and Ledford couldn't help but feel he was analyzing him just as closely. Carefully, the detective broke the silence.

"Mr. Valentini—."

"As you likely know," Stefano interrupted, "I have the right to refuse any request from you until my legal counsel arrives."

Ledford paused. Dammit, he was right. Before coming to the interview, Ledford had been told that a lawyer was coming to the precinct. And not just any lawyer…

There came knocking—two brief raps on the door. Ledford stood and opened it a crack. An officer stood outside. "Detective," he said. "The attorney's here."

"Just in time," Ledford muttered. He opened the door wider and jerked his head. "Let him in."

A man with dark, graying hair slicked neatly back was ushered in a few moments later. His black suit had been finely tailored, and a matching black tie secured the starched collar to his neck. He walked past Ledford and extended a hand towards Stefano.

"Mr. Valentini, Douglas Newell, criminal defense attorney. I'm here as your legal counsel and representative in court."

"Your timing is impeccable, Mr. Newell," Stefano replied coolly, returning the handshake without rising. The attorney turned back to Ledford.

"Detective, I'd like to speak with my client in private before we continue this questioning."

"Sure," Ledford agreed. He left the interrogation room with his folder, closing the door gently behind him. He knew Vankirk would have to leave the observation window as well. Lowering his head, Ledford pinched the bridge of his nose.

Douglas Newell of Newell & Orbach, LLP was legendary—when he didn't get his clients off the hook, he lessened their sentences considerably. And that level of skill didn't come cheap. Newell was famously picky when accepting clients. Ledford had hardly seen him in any of his criminal cases. The last time he and Newell had appeared on the same case was when…

Ledford's eyes grew distant as the memory bubbled up. The last time he had seen Newell was when he defended a woman in a very cut-and-dry self-defense case. And that woman had been…

Small world, Ledford mused. No doubt she was behind Newell's appearance here—she'd sent him to defend her dearest.

Looking down, Ledford began perusing his folder again. The evidence he had here, documents and photographs to show, escalated in gravity further down. He only hoped he wouldn't have to present the ones at the very end of the folder.

It took about another half an hour until Ledford was called back in to continue the interrogation. The suspect was still in his chair, and Newell had taken a seat on the other side of the table from him.

This time, as Ledford passed it, he dropped the folder heavily onto the table. "All right, Mr. Valentini. Where were we?"

"I believe you were at the cusp of getting your first question out, Detective."

Ledford hated that casual, uppity tone.

Newell looked at Stefano. "Remember that, at any point, you can stop answering the detective's questions."

"Oh, I'm well aware," Stefano said, resting the calf of one leg over the knee of the other. "But I'll answer them nonetheless—just to let the detective know how fickle his suspicions of me are."

He hadn't even gotten his first question out, and Ledford already hated the both of them. "So," he began, keeping his voice formal. "Mr. Valentini, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a photographer," Stefano answered, lacing his fingers together and resting them on his lap. "I capture the essence of finesse and beauty with my lens."

Okay, you can cut it with the poetic bullshit. "I see. And what about your latest works? What were they like?" He gave a haphazard shrug and added, "You'll have to forgive me. I'm not really an artsy person."

"I can see that," Stefano replied. Ledford's foot twitched. "My latest? Well, let's see…" He saw Stefano's eye flick to the side as he recollected. "Commissions, mostly. Portraits, fashion shoots. I did a few for my Celestina recently to promote her tour."

Vague answers, Ledford noted. Though he couldn't tell if the suspect was simply not choosing to delve too deeply into a casual subject, or was hiding something. And Ledford wasn't a rookie at interrogations—he knew if he tried prying, good ol'Newell would interrupt with the claim that the questions were out of scope of the case.

"Sounds… interesting."

In response, Stefano's lips twitched up in a polite, emotionless smile before quickly dropping.

"Now, Mr. Valentini," Ledford said, leaning forward to rest his elbows onto his knees. "Why don't you tell me about your connection with Emily Lewis?"

He saw it there—flashing like lightning in the suspect's eyes. A brief glimpse of vulnerability triggered by surprise. Ledford kept his face stoic as his eyes remained trained on Stefano's face.

"Ah," Stefano said quietly. "Her death shook me to the core. She was a beautiful, talented woman. I'm just glad I had the privilege of knowing her before she was stolen away."

"You didn't answer my question, Mr. Valentini. I didn't ask for a eulogy."

"I was arrested as a suspect for the Janine Sawyer murder, Detective. Why are you bringing Emily up?"

"Her death has relevance in this case as well," Ledford answered, crossing his arms and squaring his shoulders. "That's all you need to know.

"Emily and I were long-time friends. In fact, I can hardly remember a time when I didn't know her. When she started applying to modeling agencies, I took the photos she submitted with her applications. Naturally, she caught eyes. As the both of us became more serious in our work, our paths began diverging a little. But we never lost contact. Then I didn't hear back from her for a while, and later I found out Emily was gone forever. Now all I've left are the photographs."

Trying to turn it back into a sob story, are you? "So you're telling me that there was a gap between when you last saw her and her death?"

"Well, yes."

I swear that's a lie. And there's probably some evidence to that once I start digging. "Good," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I'm going to ask the question again—this time I want you to answer with respect to Amanda Cabera."

He saw the slightest furrow in Stefano's brow before it was immediately erased. "Amanda..." he repeated slowly. "I only knew her for a short while. She reached out to me because of a referral—I did two, maybe three, shoots with her. Didn't see her again after that."

Ledford gave a nod, as though he were a teacher approving a student's recitation. "Again. With Natalie McMann."

The gloved fingers pulled apart. "Detective—."

"And once you're done with Natalie, once more with Abigail Winters." Ledford rose to his feet, stepping forward and leaning on the table with one hand. "You see where I'm going here don't you, Mr. Valentini?" Without giving the suspect a chance to answer, Ledford continued, "How many photo shoots did you do with Natalie? Abigail? And Janine?"

There was a pause, and in the lull… nothing. No nervous jitters, no fidgeting. It was as if Stefano wasn't backed into a corner, or if he was, he was perfectly comfortable there. Ledford watched him take a deep breath as he reached up and straightened the front of his blazer with both hands.

"Is this really the basis of your suspicions?" Stefano asked softly. "Exactly how much thought did you put into this, Detective? Or were you so desperate to put someone in cuffs you jumped at the nearest beck and call—whatever seemed to make sense to you?"

"If I were you, I'd reassess if using that kind of tone is going to help, Mr. Valentini," Ledford replied hotly. "You have a solid connection with each and every one of these victims—victims, might I add, who died in meticulously similar fashions as if killed by the same individual. And you've had each and every one of these women in your lens at some point in time. You are the common denominator."

Ledford waited for any kind of reaction. The suspect regarded him silently, looking almost… bemused. And whatever was underneath that hair on the side of his face—Ledford felt as though it was watching him too.

"You must be so proud of yourself."

The detective blinked. Was that… a confession? He straightened up from the table. Then, Stefano continued.

"I think, Detective, you've forgotten something—left out a big piece. And now your entire composition…" He lifted his hands, tracing the outer curves of an imaginary sphere. "… Is lacking. Brittle. Ready to be picked apart by the fallacies that have been circling above your head." He let his hands fall back into his lap.

"So tell me, then, what I'm missing."

"Well, do you mind if I answer your question with a few of my own?"

"If it tells me what I want to know, then fire away."

Atop his crossed leg, Stefano rested his interlocked hands together. "How do you think, Detective, a model transitions from a woman in living color to the image on the cover of a magazine? On a billboard? On a department store display? There's a median—me, if you've not come to realize yet. My career brings me into contact with these models. It is my job to ensure they reach their destination—that magazine, billboard, or display. I run in their circles, so why does it surprise you that my name has some association with each of them? If you're accusing me on the basis of professional proximity, then why aren't you under suspicion considering all the murders you've come into contact with?"

Stefano's eye glanced down at Ledford's hand. He didn't realize he had it clenched into a fist. Quickly, Ledford relaxed it. "We are nothing alike," he hissed in a low voice.

"There are glaring differences, yes. But maybe…" Stefano gave a nonchalant shrug. "Some underlying similarities."

"Do you really think you can compare yourself to me and think it'll pass? I'm a homicide detective! You're a photographer. And if your lot regularly comes into contact with murder victims now, then that's news to me!" Ledford jabbed a finger down onto his folder. "These women were targeted, Mr. Valentini. Don't give me that 'similar circles' bullshit."

"And you think I'm the one targeting them? I don't know if you realize, Detective, but I get my biggest commissions from these fashion shoots. I have nothing to gain—in fact I suffer, both emotionally and financially."

"I don't think money's that big of a problem for you, is it? Now that you've got your coin purse wife."

"These murders started happening long before I met my Celestina. You need to sort out your timeline." His eye flashed. "I didn't think you would sink so low as to insult my marriage."

"Detective," Newell said in a warning tone. Ledford had almost forgotten he was there. "Your accusations are starting to border on slander. Don't think I'm unwilling to cut this interrogation short if you start harassing my client like this."

Ledford turned away. "Fine," he said, walking a few paces before turning back. "Next question. Mr. Valentini, try to recall to mid-April—say the 14th, towards the evening. Where were you and what were you doing? Try not to be vague, now."

"Try not to be vague?" Newell repeated. "That was two months ago!"

"It's quite all right," Stefano assured. "April 14th? That was around the time I proposed to the love of my life, so the memory is still well preserved. Towards the evening? I was with my Celestina, of course. Doing, well, what lovers would do on a private evening." His stare almost seemed mocking as it bore into Ledford. "Well, Detective? Still too vague for you? Shall I delve into further detail?"

"It's a weak alibi," Ledford said. "Your wife's corroboration won't be accepted. She's a vested third party."

"Well that's a shame," Stefano said with a dismissive shrug. "What would you have me do then? Make love to my wife in front of an audience next time? I'm not too sure she, nor I, would be very fond of the idea. I've told you only what I can—anything else would be a lie."

Ledford glanced to the side, his jaw clenched. Enough with this bullshit! It had been nearly two hours since the start of the interrogation, and he hadn't made any headway into breaching into this suspect's guilt. All the while, Stefano had responded to each and every one of his questions with that goddamn, better-than-thou attitude. Ledford could practically feel Lieutenant Vankirk's dwindling faith in him from behind the opaque glass.

Ledford was done playing around. "Last set of questions, Mr. Valentini. I'm going to show you a series of photographs, and I want you to respond with a simple yes or no when I ask it of you." He opened the folder, skipping past the documents until he reached the bundle at the end. Taking the first picture, Ledford set it down on the table. Stefano turned his head and lowered his eye to examine it.

The first photograph was of a woman from the torso up. She was holding a light orange chrysanthemum gently against her cheek, while more blossoms had been arranged in her golden hair to look like a bouquet.

"Is this is one of yours—yes or no, Mr. Valentini?"

"Yes."

"You often use flowers in your photo shoots, especially when the model is female—yes or no?"

"Yes."

Ledford took another photograph out and set it down on top of the first. This one was of Stefano and Celestina. A reporter had taken it after one of the singer's performances. She was looking towards the camera, having broken into a wide, dazzling smile. A bouquet of bright red roses was in her hands, and she had her body angled towards her husband as he wrapped his arm snugly around the curve of her waist.

Ledford planted a finger down onto the photograph, pointing at the roses. His finger rested just above the gold ribbon that held the flowers together. "These flowers were given to your wife by you—yes or no?"

"Yes."

Another piece of paper was slapped down over the picture of the elated-looking couple. This one was a cropped excerpt taken from the transcript of a witness interview. Certain lines were highlighted. "You were at the Blue Dahlia bar with a woman named Janine Sawyer on April 8th—yes or no?"

"We were discussing—."

"Yes or no, Mr. Valentini."

A pause. "… Yes."

As soon as the answer came out of Stefano, the last photograph was shown. This one was of Janine Sawyer when Ledford had found her. The detective himself had taken the picture.

"For the love of God!" Newell cried. "Detective Ledford, you can't—."

"If you're uncomfortable, Mr. Newell, you are more than welcomed to look away," Ledford shot back. His unbroken gaze was fixated on Stefano. "Now, Mr. Valentini, here are my last few questions. Free response this time." He pointed at the wilted flowers sprouting from the blood-caked neck. "What are these?"

The next few seconds were filled with silence as the suspect refused to answer. Ledford didn't stop there. His finger moved to the ribbon around the body's neck. "What is that?" His hand came down in a forceful slam over the picture. "And would you care to guess the name of the deceased in this photograph? Just think back to the Blue Dahlia bar, where she was six days before this happened to her, and I'm sure you'll get it."

"That's enough." Douglas Newell stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. Ledford's eyes finally snapped to him. "Detective Ledford, you have given not one, not one, piece of affirmative evidence to connect my client with these murders."

Ledford couldn't believe his ears. "Where the hell have you been during this entire interrogation?"

"I don't know if you've noticed," Newell countered, "but everything you have presented here is speculative. Your job is to prove guilt beyond reasonable doubt, not shoot off a handful of theories! My client has informed me that he met with Ms. Sawyer to discuss the shoot for her upcoming album's cover. Do you really think he'd let himself be seen in public with her if he was planning on killing her? And this." He gestured down at the picture of the body without looking at it. "Take a look around, Detective Ledford! My client is not the only one to include flowers in his compositions. And it is simply outrageous to attribute coincidental ribbon colors to him."

Well fuck. Ledford's points, as speculative as they may be, were still solid. But Newell sure could make pretty arguments. But as he listened to the attorney, something dawned on Ledford.

Upcoming album cover. "Janine Sawyer… She wasn't a model like the others. She was the black sheep—a singer," Ledford recalled. He looked back at Stefano, staring him straight in the eye. "Just like your wife. Isn't that right, Mr. Valentini?"

He saw that one eye widen for a split second. Then, his brow came crashing down angrily. "Ridiculous!" Stefano spat.

Oh? Ledford turned back to Stefano, crossing his arms. "Why the sudden change in tone, Mr. Valentini?"

"You're grasping at straws, Detective. You accuse me—fine. But now you try to bring my Celestina into this? The desperation is sickening." His eye flashed. "We're done here. I'm not answering any more of your questions."

Ledford uncrossed his arms. He took the pictures and placed them back into the folder before closing it. "If you insist. We're done… for now." Picking up the folder, Ledfored turned to face the attorney. "Mr. Newell, I'm afraid your client isn't quite off the hook. But don't worry, the precinct will take good care of him." And I've got a new lead.

For once, Ledford felt he was on top of things. Finally. Hopefully this was a good omen for the rest of the case.