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me.”
    “Mr. Altman, yes, I do. It’s about Olivia.”
    “Of course. My office is upstairs. Shall we talk there?”
    Chris trailed behind Altman, who was a compact, efficient engine. The county attorney was easily sixty years old, but he marched up the courthouse steps like a soldier, without losing a breath. On the second floor, he guided Chris to an office on the south corner of the building and closed the door when they were both inside. The office looked out toward the river.
    Altman removed his trench coat and hung it on a hook behind the door. He wore a solid navy suit, not expensive but perfectly pressed, with a starched white dress shirt and paisley tie. His dress shoes weren’t new, but they had a shiny polish. The county attorney pointed to the chair in front of the desk, and Chris sat down. The older man slid a handkerchief from his pocket, which he used to dry his wet glasses. He repositioned them on his face, then sat, checked his watch, and folded his hands together. His desk was empty of clutter.
    “You haven’t asked for my advice, Mr. Hawk,” Altman began, “but do you mind if I offer you some?”
    “Not at all.”
    “I did my homework on you. You’re smart. Smart enough to realize you don’t belong anywhere near this case. My advice is that you hire a good lawyer from the Twin Cities and let him or her do the heavy lifting.”
    “I appreciate your candor.”
    “I’m a father, like you. Four girls. If it was one of my daughters, I know that I couldn’t separate my emotions from my legal judgment. Neither can you. You are not a defense attorney, and even if you were, you’d be making a mistake representing your own daughter. Frankly, if you persist in representation, I may ask the judge to have you removed as counsel.”
    “I understand your concerns, Mr. Altman,” Chris replied. “I haven’t made any decisions about outside counsel yet. Right now, I’m just trying to figure out what happened on Friday night.”
    “Unfortunately, the chain of events is pretty clear,” Altman said.
    “I’m not so sure.”
    Altman swiveled in his leather chair. He pinched his gray beard. “You’re a negotiator, Mr. Hawk. I’ve learned that much about you. Are you looking for some kind of deal here? Are you already thinking about a plea agreement?”
    “No.”
    “Then what are you saying?”
    “I’m saying that you and the sheriff’s department already have your minds made up about Ashlynn’s death, but I think you’re wrong. My daughter says she’s innocent.”
    “Innocent?”
    “She didn’t pull the trigger. She didn’t shoot Ashlynn Steele.”
    Altman’s head snapped back and forth in a sharp dismissal. “Your client is lying to you. I don’t need to tell you that defendants lie all the time, do I? Clients lie to attorneys, and daughters most certainly lie to fathers.”
    “I believe her.”
    “Of course you do, which is another reason to bring in counsel with no emotional attachment to the accused. Look, Mr. Hawk, any attorney you hire will do a dance about your daughter’s age, and her consumption of alcohol, and her emotional state, and about whether a game of Russian roulette—if in fact there was any such game, rather than a cold-blooded execution—demonstrates a depraved mind. Fair enough. Those are questions for a judge and jury. But if you don’t believe we have overwhelming evidence that Olivia Hawk caused the death of Ashlynn Steele, then you are fooling yourself.”
    “No one saw her pull the trigger,” Chris pointed out, “and you didn’t find the murder weapon at the scene.”
    “Your daughter tested positive for gunpowder residue.”
    “Tanya Swenson saw Olivia fire a gun, but she fired into a tree, not at Ashlynn.”
    “Tanya saw your daughter take out a gun and threaten to kill Ashlynn Steele in a deserted location not two hours before her body was found in that same location. We have a self-professed motive for the crime based on her antipathy toward the