“All in good time,” D.D. assured him, polite, but remaining in control. Down the table from her, Miller started twirling his pen around his finger, drawing Maxwell’s attention.

“When was the last time you spoke with your daughter, Sandra Jones?” D.D. asked.

Maxwell blinked at her, looking momentarily distracted. “Um, oh, years. Sandra wasn’t the kind to pick up the phone.”

“You didn’t call her in all that time?”

“Well, if you must know, we had a falling-out right before she left town. My daughter was only eighteen years old, much too young for hanging out with the likes of Jason, and I told her so.” Black sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, Sandy always was a headstrong girl. She ran out in the middle of the night. Eloped, I imagined. I’ve been waiting for a phone call or at least a postcard ever since.”

“You file a missing persons report after your daughter left?”

“No ma’am. I didn’t consider her missing. I knew she’d run off with that boy. That’s the kind of thing Sandy would do.”

“Really? She ran off before?”

Black flushed. “It is a parent’s job to know his child’s weaknesses,” he stated primly. “My daughter—well, Sandy took the death of her mother hard. Went through a rebellious spell, and all that. Drinking, staying out all night. Being … well, an active teenage girl.”

“You mean sexually active,” D.D. clarified.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How’d you know?”

“Child made no bones about it. Would come in at the crack of dawn reeking of cigarettes and booze and sex. I was a teenager once myself, Sergeant. I know what kids do.”

“How long did this go on?”

“Her mother died when she was fifteen.”

“How’d she die?”

“Heart attack,” Black said, then seemed to catch himself. He looked at her, then at Miller, who was still twirling his pen, then switched his attention back to D.D. again. “Actually, it was not a heart attack. That’s a story we’ve been telling for so long it seems to have become the truth in the way lies sometimes do. But you might as well know: My wife, Sandra’s mom, she committed suicide. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Sandra was the one who found the body in our garage.”

“Your wife killed herself at home?”

“In her own Cadillac.”

“Did your wife have a history of depression?”

That almost imperceptible hesitation again. “My wife probably drank more than what would be considered medicinal, Sergeant. I have a very demanding job, you understand. I guess the loneliness took its toll on her.”

“Your wife have a good relationship with Sandra?”

“My wife may not have been a perfect mother, but she tried hard.”

“And you?”

“As I said, I was probably gone more than I should have been, but I love my daughter, too.”