Free Sketch Me If You Can by Sharon Pape

finally found a kindred soul in him, someone with whom he was willing to share his purloined residence?
    It did briefly occur to her that Drummond might have caused Mac’s heart attack, but she quickly dismissed the idea. After all, what could he have done to scare Mac to death after they’d been living together for five years? In any case, since title searches don’t provide information on the health or well-being of the people who sell their homes or default on their mortgages, she added that question to the growing list of questions she intended to put to the marshal.
     
     
    W alking into the squad room Monday morning, Rory nearly collided with Leah, who was busy punching a number into her cell phone as she sprinted for the door. Her curly brown hair was pulling loose from its clip as she ran, the square line of her jaw clenched with purpose.
    “It can’t be lunchtime yet,” Rory said, laughing and doing a quick dodge to the side just in time. Leah was always the first one out the door at lunch, although no one had ever actually caught her eating anything. She spent the time running the continuous loop of errands that came with being a wife and mother. When she and Rory wanted to spend some girl time together, Rory had to eat whatever she could grab on the run as she tagged along to the cleaners, the supermarket, the pharmacy, the post office or whatever destinations would satisfy the needs of the Russell family on that particular day.
    “Good, you’re here,” Leah said over her shoulder as she dashed by. “Grab your laptop and meet me outside.”
    “What’s going on?”
    Leah, who was already halfway down the hall, just gave her a “hurry up” wave.
    “Three alarms in Riverhead,” another detective said, pausing in his own rush to the door. “Arson. At least one confirmed dead. They’re a bunch of eyewitnesses who saw it go down. We need you there to put a face on this bastard.”
    Rory pulled the laptop out of her desk drawer, adrenalin pumping through her veins with a stronger kick than a double shot of espresso. This could be the break they’d been waiting for—an identity for the arsonist who’d set half a dozen fires across Suffolk County in the past six months. The casualty count now stood at five, including one young fireman who’d died when the roof of a Lloyd Harbor mansion collapsed on him. There had never been any witnesses before. And the fires had always been at night. The arsonist was getting sloppy. Or craving more attention. Rory intended to see that he got just that.
    Outside Leah was waiting at the curb in an unmarked car. Rory slid into the passenger seat, trying hard to tamp down the feeling of buoyancy that this unexpected break from her routine was producing. Arson and homicide should never elicit the same response as having a substitute teacher did when she was a child. Yet, truth be told, it did feel a tiny bit the same.
    As soon as Rory pulled the door closed, they were off and running. They made the trip to Riverhead in less than fifteen minutes, courtesy of the bubble light and siren on the roof and Leah’s heavy foot on the accelerator. Since they weren’t driving an ambulance and the Riverhead police were already swarming all over the area, Rory didn’t think the situation required such reckless speed on their part. But not wishing to distract Leah, she kept her thoughts to herself, relying instead on a few silent prayers as they zipped around the other cars on the expressway.
    Before they reached their exit, they could see the gray-white smoke hanging over the treetops like poorly laundered clouds set out to dry. Leah grudgingly eased off the gas as they made their way through the suburban streets between the exit and the house. As soon as she turned onto the block where the fire was raging, she was forced to stop. Two police cruisers were turned sideways to create an outer perimeter that would stop any nonessential vehicles from getting closer to the fire. A