Already, D.D. felt uneasy. Guy hasn’t seen his daughter in five years, learns she’s gone missing, so he catches a flight to Boston to smile for the cameras and press flesh with the local news personalities?

Judge seemed pretty relaxed about it, too. Wearing a dapper light blue suit with a pastel pink tie and coordinating pink silk kerchief, very Southern gentleman. Then, of course, there was that drawl that sounded so honey smooth in the land of dropped R’s and guttural A’s.

As they neared the news vans, Miller hung back, giving her the lead. D.D. waded into the fray.

“Detective, detective,” the hordes began.

“Sergeant,” D.D. snapped back, because they could at least grant her that much.

“Any news on Sandy’s whereabouts?”

“Are you going to arrest Jason?”

“How is little Ree holding up? Her preschool teacher says she hasn’t been to school since Wednesday.”

“Is it true Jason wouldn’t let Sandy talk to her own father?”

D.D. shot Maxwell Black a look. Clearly, they had the good judge to thank for that tidbit. She ignored the reporters, placing her hand firmly on Maxwell’s shoulder and leading him away from the sudden forest of microphones and camera lenses.

“Sergeant D.D. Warren, with Detective Brian Miller. If you don’t mind, sir, we’d like a word.”

The judge didn’t protest. Merely nodded his head elegantly while waving goodbye to his newfound media playmates. Man must be a lot of fun in his own courtroom, D.D. thought with irritation. Like the grand master of a three-ring circus.

She got him over to Miller and they walked him to their car, the reporters trailing behind greedily in a last-ditch attempt to catch a snippet of conversation, a juicy revelation. That Sandra was dead. That they were arresting the husband. Or perhaps the police wanted to question Sandy’s father as a fresh person of interest. Either way, the reporters’ wheels would be spinning for a bit, the attention ramping up exponentially.

Maxwell ducked into the back seat of D.D.’s car and they pulled away, D.D. laying on the horn and doing her best Britney Spears imitation as she aimed for the nearest photographer’s foot. The cameramen immediately cleared, and she managed to drive down the street without incident. She felt vaguely disappointed.

“You’re the detectives in charge of my daughter’s case,” Maxwell drawled from the back seat.

“Yes sir.”

“Excellent. I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you. I have some information on my son-in-law. Starting with the fact that his name is not Jason Jones.”