The Neighbor

worth donors.

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.”

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-”

“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.”