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looked ill at ease in her gray business suit. Her hair was brown and short, and she wore thick glasses with uncompromising black frames. Her handshake was firm and to the point. “Sylvia Plotzske,” she said.
    “Jake Denney.”
    Sylvia looked down and saw Mandy. For a moment she seemed confused and a bit annoyed.
    “My daughter,” I said. “We drove up from L.A.”
    “Oh,” said Sylvia with as much warmth as a clam. “You sure you want her here?”
    “You going to shoot me or something?” I said with a smile.
    Sylvia Plotzske did not smile. “We are going to discuss the details of a heinous crime, Mr. Denney. I don’t feel comfortable having her here.”
    Mandy grabbed my leg tighter.
    “Let’s just see what we can do,” I said, sitting in the only other chair in the office. Mandy crawled up on my lap immediately, just like a puppy.
    “All right then,” Sylvia said. “You’re representing Panino.”
    “Patino,” I said.
    “Right, right.” She sat again behind her desk and looked at her file. “How’d you get connected?”
    “His parents.”
    “You ever try any cases in Hinton?”
    “Never. Had one in Ventura once.”
    Without looking at it, Sylvia Plotzske picked up a rubber band from the desk with her left hand and absently wrapped it around her fingers. “We’re a little more laid-back here,” she said. “No reason we can’t wrap this thing up nice and easy.”
    Even for a laid-back office, this was a little fast for a plea offer. Sylvia snapped the rubber band with her thumb and said, “We’re charging murder in the first, of course.”
    “Based on what?” I asked.
    “The evidence.”
    I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. “What evidence?”
    “Let’s start with twenty-five stab wounds.”
    That was one little detail I didn’t know about. It hadn’t been mentioned in the story from the Hinton Valley News. It only reported that the victim died of stab wounds. What the prosecutor was describing was butchery.
    “Howie was stabbed too,” I said.
    “Self-inflicted.”
    “That’s your theory?”
    “That’s the fact.”
    Mandy squirmed in my lap and pulled my head down toward her. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she whispered.
    With the watchful and bespectacled eyes of Sylvia Plotzske on me, I whispered back to Mandy, “Can you wait a couple of minutes?”
    “I’ll try,” she said with a pained look.
    “Problem?” said Sylvia Plotzske.
    “What about a plea to involuntary manslaughter?”
    She shook her head. “You’re not going to get that, not with twenty-five stab wounds. We might consider second-degree murder.”
    “And I might consider voluntary manslaughter.”
    “I don’t see that happening.”
    “Have you considered his mental state?”
    “You talking heat of passion?”
    “Maybe.”
    Sylvia Plotzske shook her head again. She was good at that. “I don’t see that.”
    “Of course you don’t,” I snapped. “Why don’t you take it up with Tolletson?”
    Her eyes widened behind her glasses. “You know him?”
    “Just the name. Run it by him.”
    “I’ll have to get back to you.”
    “Howie’s not a bad guy. He’s not your America’s Most Wanted. This isn’t the case to take to the mat.”
    “Well, that won’t be entirely my call. I’ll let you know.”
    I lifted Mandy off my lap, set her on the floor, and stood up. I shook the hand of Sylvia Plotzske and said, “Just one more thing, if I may.”
    “Yes?”
    “Where’s the bathroom?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

    FINALLY WE MADE it back home.
    Before heading to the apartment, we nabbed dinner at Chipper’s, which Mandy loved. For some odd reason she liked the liver and onions. That must have come from her mother’s side. I can’t stand liver, and onions make me sweat.
    After dinner I took Mandy to 31 Flavors and got her a scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. I was number one on her hit parade.
    Then we stopped at Blockbuster, and she picked out a tape from the children’s