Broome said nothing.

“For the first time in twenty years, I have someone sitting across from me who knows I’m telling the truth. You can’t hide that from me.”

“Wow.” Broome sat back and frowned. “How many times have you given someone that line of bull?”

But Mannion just smiled at him. “You want to play it that way? Fine. Ask me whatever you want. I’ll tell you the truth.”

Broome dived in. “When you were first questioned by the police, you said that you’d never met Ross Gunther. Was that true?”

“No.”

“So you opened with a lie?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’re joking, right? I didn’t want to give them a motive.”

“So you told a lie?”

“Yes.”

“You told the police you didn’t know Gunther, even though at least five people saw you attack him at a bar three days before his murder?”

The chains rattled as Mannion shrugged his massive shoulders. “I was young. And stupid. But I didn’t kill him. You have to believe that.”

“Mr. Mannion, this will go faster—and better for you—if you dispense with the protestations of innocence and just answer my questions, okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just a reflex, you know?”

“You’ve had a lot of time to think about this crime, right? Let’s say I believe you. How did the victim’s blood get into your house and car?”

“Simple. It was planted.”

“So someone broke into your car?”

“I don’t lock my car in my own driveway.”

“And the house?”

“The blood wasn’t found in the house. It was found by the washing machine in the garage. I left the garage door open. Lots of folks do.”

“Do you have any proof that the blood was planted?”

Mannion smiled again. “I didn’t at trial.”

“But you do now?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell everyone. That I had proof. But they said it was too late. They said it wasn’t enough.”

“What proof, Mr. Mannion?”

“My pants.”

“What about them?”

“The police found Gunther’s blood in my car, right?”

“Yes.”

“And they found a ton of blood on my shirt. I’ve seen the crime scene pics. They showed them at the trial. The killer practically sawed Gunther’s head off. There was a lot of blood.”

“Right, so?”

Mannion spread his hands. “So how come they didn’t find any blood anywhere on my pants?”

Broome considered that for a moment. “Maybe you hid them.”

“So, just so I got this straight, I somehow hid my pants—and underpants and socks and, hell, since it was cold out that night, my parka—but I left my shirt behind for the police to find? Oh, and since it was about thirty degrees out that night, why would I have just been wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt anyway? Why would the blood be on that and not on a coat or a sweater or a sweatshirt?”

Good points. Certainly not enough to overturn a conviction, but for Broome’s purposes, it made a lot of sense. Mannion looked at him now with such hope. Broome, cruel as it might seem, gave him nothing back. “What else?”

Mannion blinked. “What do you mean, what else?”

“That’s all the new proof you have?”

The big man blinked harder. He looked like a little boy about to cry. “I thought you were innocent until proven guilty.”

“But you were already proven guilty.”

“I didn’t do it. I’ll take a lie detector test, whatever.”

“Again let’s say you’re telling the truth. Who would have it in for you like that?”

“What?”

“You’re claiming you were framed, right? So who would want to see you behind bars?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about Stacy Paris?”

“Stacy?” Mannion made a face. “She loved me. She was my girlfriend.”

“And she was stepping out on you with Ross Gunther.”

“So he said.” He folded his arms. “It wasn’t true.”

Broome sighed and started to rise.

“Wait. Okay, it wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like?”

“Me and Stacy. We had an understanding.”

“What kind of understanding?”

“It was that world, you know?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Mannion. Why don’t you tell me?”

Mannion tried to raise his hands, but the shackles stopped him. “We were exclusive in our personal lives. But professionally, well, that was okay, if you know what I mean.”

“Are you saying Stacy Paris was a prostitute and you were her pimp?”

“It wasn’t like that. I cared about her. A lot.”

“But you pimped her out.”

“Not me. It was just, you know, what she did sometimes. To make ends meet. I mean, it was part of what she did.”

“What was the other part?”

“She danced.”

“Danced,” Broome repeated. “Like what, ballet at Lincoln Center?”

Mannion frowned again. “On a pole.”

“Where?”

“Place called Homewreckers.”

Broome remembered the place. The sign out front read: “Homewreckers Strip Joint—This Ain’t No Gentlemen’s Lounge.” They also advertised a “You-Ain’t-Here-for-the-Food Buffet.” The club closed down ten, fifteen years ago. “Did she dance anywhere else?”

“No.”

“How about La Crème?”

“No.”

Dead end. Or not. “It must have pissed you off.”

“What?”

“The way she, uh, made ends meet?”

He shrugged. “It did, it didn’t. Wasn’t like I wasn’t playing the field too.”

“You didn’t have a problem with it?”

“Not really.”

“So Ross Gunther was just one of the ways she, uh, made ends meet.”

“Right. Exactly.”

“And you didn’t care about what she did. You weren’t a jealous boyfriend.”

“You got it.”

Broome spread his hands. “So why did you get into an altercation with him?”

“Because,” Mannion said, “Gunther roughed Stacy up.”