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myself clear?”
    “I’ve understood every word you’ve said, Judge,” I said as I stood and, not having been knocked down, I turned and walked to the door. Blakey backed up, keeping two paces away from me, and opened the door for me.
    “See ya around the quad, Cuddly Bear,” I said I softly to Blakey as I exited past him.
    “Remember,” said Blakey, just as softly.
    In the court lobby I stopped at an enclosed pay phone. I called information, got the number I wanted, and dialed it.
    “Sturney and Perkins, good morning.”
    “Good morning. This is John Francis calling from Judge Kinnington’s court.” I never like to tell a lie. “The judge and I were just speaking about a confidential matter that one of your people is handling, but frankly, the investigator’s name has slipped my mind.”
    “Just a moment, please.” There was a click, then dead space, then another click.
    “That would be Ms. DeMarco, but I’m afraid she won’t be in until two. Can I give her a message?”
    “Gee,” I said in my best Andy Hardy voice, “that’s inconvenient for telephoning. The judge is in the next room. Hold on.” I drummed my fingers through one verse of “Eleanor Rigby” so the no-doubt harried receptionist, when I got her back on, would not want to talk very long. I resumed. “Okay, I can be there at two-thirty. Just leave a message that I’ll see her then.”
    “Fine. Thank you,” said the receptionist crisply, and hung up.
    I left the courthouse, retrieved my .38 from the trunk, and got into the Mercury. It was only 10:10. The cat being out of the bag, I decided to rattle some more local cages before driving in to see Ms. DeMarco. I crisscrossed the downtown area of Meade until I spotted the police station. I parked (no meters) and went inside.
     
     
     

     
     
    The desk sergeant blinked twice at me. “What did you say, buddy?” he asked.
    I decided against raising my voice. “I said, could I please see whoever’s in charge of Judge Kinnington’s son’s case.”
    “Sit down over there.” I sat down on a bench seat across the small anteroom. The desk sergeant made an internal call while I gave him one of my best Gaelic smiles.
    The desk sergeant clamped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. I hoped he wasn’t going to yell anything confidential to me, since you have to cover both ends of the receiver to be sure the other party on the line can’t hear what you’re saying. “What’s your name?”
    “John Francis Cuddy, Sergeant.”
    He repeated the words into the phone. The sergeant said, “Right” and hung up. “The Chief will be back to in a few minutes.”
    “Thank you, Sergeant,” I said, and waited. Sergeants in every hierarchy love it when you call them by their title.
    Five minutes later, the sergeant’s phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Yes, Chief.” Just then a young, short, and squat uniformed officer came through the front door. The sergeant hung up.
    “Hey, Dexter, show Mr. Cuddy here to the chief’s office.”
    The short, squat one stopped, nearly came to attention, and motioned to me. “Follow me, sir.”
    “Thank you, Sergeant,” I repeated as I moved into the corridor.
    “This is it, sir,” said my guide as he gestured to a newly painted door.
    “Thank you, Dexter.”
    “Yes, sir,” he beamed, pushing out his chest. I was certain that he was somebody’s nephew.
    I knocked and heard a near-human growl from behind the door. I entered the office.
    There was a nameplate on the desk that said SMOLLETT. No rank or title, just Smollett. The plate was old and wom-looking. I got the impression the chief had bought it when he first came on the force, because he was old and wom-looking too. He had a voice that sounded like a ‘47 Nash without the mufflers.
    “What do you want?” he said. I decided to sit down anyway.
    “I want to speak with whoever’s looking into Stephen Kinnington’s disappearance.”
    “It’s a missing-person case,” he said,