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chilly, and the bland look of Mineral Springs by daylight, did nothing to improve my mood. And the extended waiting period from dawn until business hours began and I could talk to Sam Parfrey made it worse.
    I killed an hour in a nearby coffee shop, where three cups of strong black coffee and an English muffin upset my stomach again. I hoped nobody gave me any crap today; the mood I was in, I was liable to give it right back and that was no way to begin a ticklish investigation in an already hostile environment.
    The address on Parfrey’s card was 311 Juniper Street. For once I was grateful that Kerry and Tamara had talked me into installing a GPS in the car; I’d programmed it for Mineral Springs on arrival, and it directed me to 311 Juniper at just past nine o’clock. There seemed to be a lot of construction going on in town—testimony to the high price of gold and the prosperity it had brought. But the prosperity didn’t seem to have extended to Sam Parfrey. His building was an old one in need of refurbishing, a block away from a sprawling, gray-and-white, institutional-looking structure that an American flag and a Nevada state flag identified as the Bedrock County courthouse, and his offices were on the second floor above a store that sold metal detectors and mining supplies.
    The lettering on the door was the same as on his card: S AMUEL M. P ARFREY , A TTORNEY AT L AW. Behind the door lay a cramped anteroom presided over by a middle-aged woman pecking away at a computer keyboard while a printer in distress made clacking, wheezing noises. Her smile was as pallid as her greeting, and it vanished when I gave her my name and one of my cards. She said in neutral tones, “Oh, yes, I’m sure Mr. Parfrey will want to see you right away,” took the card through a closed inner door without knocking, came back out almost immediately, and ushered me in.
    The inner office was double the size of the outer one, rimmed with law books, and as tidy as any lawyer’s private sanctum I’d ever seen. A functional metal desk was set before a window that looked out toward the highway and the dun-colored desert beyond. The man standing behind it looked to be as neat and functional as his surroundings, but not in a way to inspire much confidence in potential clients. Forty or so, short and pear-shaped, thinning reddish hair, plain features. The solemn expression he wore, if I was reading it correctly, meant or was intended to mean that he took his commitment to the practice of law with all due seriousness. But as he stepped around the desk to give my hand a strong but perfunctory shake, there was a hint of something in his pale blue eyes and downturned mouth corners that might have been disillusionment. Man gone as far as he would ever go in his profession and his narrow little world and all too aware of the fact.
    We got the introductory small talk out of the way, and then sat down and looked at each other across his desk. He seemed a little ill at ease, maybe because of the magnitude of the rape case, maybe because he wasn’t sure how to deal with a professional who operated outside his frame of reference. Pretty soon he blew out a breath and said, “I’ll be frank with you. I don’t think there’s anything you can do for Mrs. Hatcher or her son.”
    â€œMeaning you believe he’s guilty?”
    â€œMeaning the circumstantial evidence against him is strong and there may well be another piece that’s damning.”
    â€œThe DNA evidence the sheriff and the D.A. are waiting for.”
    â€œYes. Even if it turns out to be negative or inconclusive, they have enough to try Cody Hatcher and likely get a conviction no matter what kind of defense I put up.”
    â€œYou could always request a change of venue.”
    â€œIt would be denied.” He began fiddling with a turquoise and silver ring on his right hand, rotating it—another indication of his unease.