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just go there and pick the stuff up?”
    “Because if for some reason the police are watching me, they’d nail me to the wall. This way, even if they find it, there’s a chance they won’t tie me to it.”
    He’s just confessed to a brutal murder with all the emotion that I show when I’m ordering a pizza. I am suddenly struck by a desire to pick up the intercom and say, “Edna, this is Andrew. Could you bring in a machete, a can of gasoline, and some matches? Mr. Thumbs-Up wants to show us how he decapitated and charcoal-broiled a cop last week.”
    “Why did you kill him?” I ask.
    He laughs, permanently removing any chance I would reconsider and take the case. “If you knew Dorsey, the more logical question would be, Why didn’t somebody kill him sooner?”
    “What did you do with his head?”
    He smiles, seems to consider answering, then makes his decision. “That’s something I don’t think I’ll share with you. Nor is it relevant to your taking or not taking my case.”
    He seems to think I might be doubting his truthfulness, so without prodding, he goes on to tell me the mixture of gasoline and propane that he used on Dorsey’s body. It is the same as Pete had mentioned to Laurie, but not reported in the newspapers.
    I’d like to know more, but that desire soon gives way to another, even more intense one. I want to get this guy out of my office. Now.
    I stand up. “Make sure you keep a copy of the retainer agreement. It is your protection against my revealing anything you’ve said today. I won’t be representing you.”
    He stands. If he’s disappointed, he’s an outstanding actor. “You think just because I’m guilty I don’t deserve a good defense?” he says with apparent amusement.
    I shake my head. “I think everyone is entitled to the best defense possible. The guilty generally need it the most.”
    “Then why are you turning me down? I can afford whatever you charge.”
    I decide to be straightforward. “Mr. Stynes, when I represent a client, I do everything possible within the system to win. I don’t want to be sorry if I succeed.”
    “You want me to go to jail?” he asks.
    “Not as much as I want you to leave my office. I assure you, there are plenty of competent attorneys who will take your case, if it becomes a case.”
    “Okay,” he says. “Whatever you say.”
    With that he walks out of my office, and I hear him saying a polite goodbye to Edna as he leaves. The meeting has left me a little shaken, which I can attribute to the casual, matter-of-fact manner in which he described committing such a horrible murder.
    What I can’t figure out is why I’m worried.

MONDAY NIGHT IS TIED FOR THE BEST NIGHT OF my week with Wednesday and Friday. Those are the nights that Laurie and I spend together. We don’t often go out; in fact, more often than not we stay at one of our homes and either cook dinner or order in. We each have spare clothes in the other’s house, though since Tara is at my house, that’s almost always where we sleep.
    I admit there is nothing spontaneous about this arrangement, but it works quite well for us. We are in a committed relationship, with all that entails, but we are not ready to live together. This way everything is out in the open, and there are no unmet expectations. We’ve chosen not to include Saturday night on our list because for some reason we both cherish Sunday morning solitude.
    Tonight we’re at my house, but it’s Laurie’s turn to provide dinner. While I can barely manage to order in, Laurie is an absolute master in the kitchen. Anything she finds in the refrigerator, anything at all, can become part of a terrific pasta dish.
    Laurie has planted a vegetable garden in the rear corner of my backyard, a testimony to the differences between us. She finds it rewarding to spend her time growing things that the supermarket is already filled with. She seems to believe that if she can’t make lettuce rise from the ground, then we’ll have