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schoolgirl, half a head shorter than Elsie, with a heart-­shaped freckled face and carrot red hair pulled back into a ponytail.
    â€œHold it,” the girl said in a no-­nonsense tone. She blocked their procession with her slight frame.
    Ashlock paused, but Elsie stuck out her hand.
    â€œI’m Elsie Arnold, from the Prosecutor’s Office,” she said briskly.
    â€œLisa Peters, deputy juvenile officer,” the woman said. Peters ignored Elsie’s overture; her hands stayed at her sides. Smothering a smartass remark, Elsie withdrew her hand. The juvenile officer had a definite attitude problem, she thought.
    Chuck gaped at Lisa. “Jesus, how old are you? You look like a kid out of school.”
    â€œMissouri State U, class of 2013,” Peters said. “You want to come on back?”
    As they followed, Elsie said in a conversational tone, “Hey Lisa, I went to summer school at Missouri State.”
    â€œA hundred years ago,” Harris quipped, earning Elsie’s evil eye. Her thirty-­second birthday was fast approaching, and she was sensitive to old maid jokes.
    â€œWe’ll have to meet down in the rec room,” Lisa said, ignoring the small talk. “We don’t have an office big enough to hold five ­people. I didn’t know you all were going to dog-­pile the poor kid.”
    â€œThat’s not our intention,” Elsie began, as they followed Lisa single file down a narrow stairway.
    â€œWhatever. Two lawyers and a detective going up against a fifteen-­year-­old boy. Call it what you want.”
    â€œAshlock will be doing the interrogation; Chuck and I are just here to make sure everything goes smoothly. We don’t want any legal issues. I’ve done all the research; I’m on top of this.”
    â€œWow. Impressive,” Lisa said in a voice that implied the opposite.
    Laughing, Chuck asked, “What was your major? ROTC?”
    â€œSocial work,” Lisa said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. Pointing into the rec hall, she said, “Make yourself at home.”
    Elsie peered through an open doorway into the dank basement room, dimly lit by a few overhead bulbs covered in chicken wire. No windows provided natural light. A sputtering box fan moved the hot air in the room. The only furnishings were a black vinyl sofa flanked by two matching chairs.
    Elsie said, “Detective Ashlock will read him his Miranda rights. I read State v. Seibert , so I think I’m on top of this stuff.”
    Lisa dropped onto the black sofa and sat cross-­legged, pulling her sneakers under her on the couch. “Yeah? Well, his parents aren’t here. I don’t even think you can question him without a parent present. Never heard of a case where the cops tried to do such a thing.”
    Chuck Harris stood over the juvenile officer, frowning. He demanded, “Why didn’t the juvenile office cover that? Can you get the parents here?”
    The juvenile officer shook her head. “I don’t know where they are.”
    Ashlock asked, “How about a conference call?”
    â€œI should’ve said: We don’t even know who they are. No contact info. Tanner didn’t provide any family information during intake.”
    Elsie wiped a sheen of sweat that beaded on her forehead. It was hot as hell in juvenile detention. “Lisa, does he have a GAL?”
    â€œA what?” asked Harris.
    â€œA guardian ad litem. Surely the juvenile judge appointed one if he’s got no parents around.”
    Lisa said, “The judge appointed Maureen Mason. She handles a lot of juvenile cases.”
    Ashlock nodded. “I know Maureen. Let’s see if we can get her over here.”
    â€œCall her,” Chuck barked at Lisa, with a kingly wave of his hand. “Now.”
    Lisa blinked, but made no other movement. “I don’t take orders from you,” she said matter-­of-­factly.
    â€œI’m just