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Max rarely invited her to meet at the police station, but Grace told her to stop in near the end of her shift. And when the desk sergeant informed Martin that Max had arrived, she promptly came out and extended her hand.
    “Grace Martin.” Her handshake was brief but firm. The fifty-year-old detective had short gray hair and gray eyes. She wore dark slacks with a crisp white polo shirt, a little loose on her as if she’d recently lost weight, though she was sturdy. Max always looked at shoes—she had a thing for footwear. Grace wore high-end black Nike tennis shoes. Comfortable, practical. “I reserved a conference room so we will have a bit of privacy.”
    “I appreciate your time,” Max said.
    While Max towered over the cop, she suspected Grace could take her down without much effort. She very much looked like a woman who could take care of herself. Max immediately liked her. Even though she was usually right, Max’s snap judgments about people sometimes got her in trouble. And liking the cop on sight wouldn’t benefit her if Grace decided not to help Max.
    Grace led her through the police station. The two-story building looked and smelled new. Its interior was bright and airy, with functional workstations and some private offices.
    “Didn’t you say you were bringing a colleague?”
    “He’ll meet me here. He had a personal matter to attend to. His family is from Mill Valley and his daughter lives in Larkspur.”
    “Local boy.”
    “Um-hmm.” Max didn’t say more. When David called her to say he’d meet her at the station, he didn’t say anything about his meeting with Brittney. David rarely showed his emotions, but he sounded more than a little irritable on the phone.
    Grace had a cubicle in the far back corner of the building. While she spoke to another officer in a low voice, Max casually looked around her space. It was devoid of clutter, with files neatly labeled. The only photos were framed—a young man and woman with two young kids. It appeared that Grace was a grandmother. It also looked like she wasn’t married—she wore no ring and had no photos of a spouse. Divorced? Possibly.
    “I’m on call,” Grace said when the cop walked away, “so if I have to leave, I have to leave.”
    “Of course.”
    Grace led Max upstairs to a small windowed room. A clean whiteboard covered one wall and a round table could comfortably seat four. She motioned for Max to take a seat. “Coffee? Water?”
    “I’m good, thank you,” she said.
    Grace walked over to a small minifridge in the corner and pulled out a Diet Coke. She sat across from Max, opened the soda, and sipped.
    “I won’t take too much of your time,” Max said. She slid over one of her business cards even though she’d e-mailed Grace all her contact information. “The information you sent me helped tremendously. I have only a few follow-up questions.”
    Grace glanced at the card but didn’t pick it up. “I need to make this clear—you may not quote me without written permission from my chief.”
    “You made that clear in your e-mail.”
    “He wasn’t too keen on granting you any access, or even letting me talk to you, but I can be persuasive.”
    “I appreciate that.” Max eyed the detective. “Not all law enforcement officers are so accommodating.” She was hoping to prompt Grace to explain her motives, but she continued as if Max hadn’t spoken.
    “The second issue relates to the computer archives for the victim. The county prosecutor didn’t want to grant you access to the information, but as I pointed out, the information we have was all public at one point in time. There are Internet archives that also contain the same information—as you mentioned when we first spoke. Corte Madera is a small community and this case is especially sensitive. Because of our proximity to San Francisco, outsiders think we’re a suburb of the city, but we have a long-standing community. Basically, everyone knows everyone. The victim’s