They took the judge down to the station. It was the kosher way of questioning someone, and Jason Jones had been giving them such a runaround on the matter, D.D. was pleased to get protocol right for at least one person. The detectives’ interrogation room was small, and the coffee terrible, but Maxwell Black maintained his charming smile even as he sat down in the hard metal folding chair wedged between the table and bone white wall. They might as well have invited him back to their country estate.

The judge bothered D.D. He was too sure of himself, too easygoing. His daughter was missing. He was at a major police station in an airless room. He should sweat a little. That’s what normal people did, even the innocent ones.

D.D. took her time sitting down, getting out a yellow legal pad, then setting up the mini-recorder in the middle of the table. Miller leaned back in his metal chair, arms folded over his chest. He looked bored. Always a nice strategy when dealing with a man who obviously liked attention as much as Judge Black did.

“So when did you get into town?” D.D. kept her voice neutral. Just making polite chitchat.

“Early yesterday afternoon. I always watch the news while taking my morning coffee. Imagine my surprise when I saw Sandy’s picture flash across the screen. I knew right then her husband had gone and done something horrible. I bolted out of my office and headed straight for the airport. Left my coffee sitting on my desk and everything.”

D.D. made a show of setting out her pens. “You mean that’s the same suit you were in yesterday?” she asked, because that didn’t jibe with what she remembered from the news clips.

“I grabbed a few items from my home,” the judge amended. “I already anticipated this would not be a short trip.”

“I see. So you saw your daughter’s image on the screen, then returned home to pack, maybe tidy up a few things—”

“I have a housekeeper who tends to all that, ma’am. I called her from the road, she put everything together for me, and here I am.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Ritz-Carlton, of course. I do so love their tea.”

D.D. blinked. Maybe she wasn’t Southern enough, because as criteria for picking a hotel, she’d never considered tea before. “What airline did you fly?”

“Delta.”

“Flight number? When did it land?”

Maxwell gave her a look, but provided the specifics. “Why do you ask?”

“Basic protocol,” she assured him. “Remember from that old TV show Dragnet: ‘Just the facts, ma’am’?”

He beamed at her. “I loved that show.”

“Well, there you go. Boston PD aims to please.”

“Are we gonna talk about my son-in-law now? Because I’m telling you, there are some things you ought to know—”