Sketch Me If You Can (8 page)

Okay, that was it! She slammed her palm on the steering wheel. No more fence sitting! She was going to move into the house. With one caveat—Drummond would have to agree to some ground rules. And if it didn’t work out, she could always play her trump card and put the house up for sale.

With the decision made, Rory spent the rest of the trip home writing a mental list of what she needed to do next. She wanted to look at the title search that Lou Friedlander had given her along with the rest of the papers concerning the house. That should name all the people who had owned the property prior to Mac, as well as the amount of time they’d owned it. She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt the need for that information, but she suspected that it might prove helpful in her negotiations with Drummond.

Then she was going to confront Marshal Drummond with her list of nonnegotiable terms. Of course, she wasn’t sure how to go about summoning him. It occurred to her with an unpleasant jolt that she might not even know if he were standing right next to her. Too bad Mac hadn’t left her some kind of handbook. She was fairly certain that the local bookstores didn’t stock guides like
Living with Ghosts for Dummies
or
Chicken Soup for the Haunted House Owner
. At any other time she might have found that thought amusing, but now it only served as an unsettling reminder that she was about to set sail on a vast, uncharted sea.

T
he title search proved interesting. In the hundred and thirty-nine years since Winston Samuels took title to the house that had been built for him, it had known over thirty other owners before Mac. What’s more, many of the owners had chosen to default to the bank that held their mortgages rather than stay in the bank that held their mortgages rather than stay in the house until they could sell it, certainly not a prudent fiscal decision. In many instances the banks held on to the property for years before they were even able to sell it at auction. Apparently gossip had always traveled quickly along the suburban grapevine.

Rory also found it noteworthy that Samuels had lived in the house until 1878, the same year that Drummond was shot to death there, according to Mac’s letter. Of the subsequent owners, none stayed longer than two years and most were gone in a matter of months. At five years, Mac had actually been there longer than anyone except Samuels himself. And all of it made perfect sense if you factored in Ezekiel Drummond.

On one hand Rory was pleased with this reassurance that she and Mac were not suffering from some
folie a deux
, but on the other hand, she wondered just how Drummond had managed to scare away the other thirty-three people. Had Mac simply proven unscareable? Or had Drummond 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 uniformed cop was sitting behind the wheel of one of them. A second cop came up to Leah’s side of the car. She opened her window and held her shield out to him. Satisfied that she was a comrade in arms, he gave his partner a thumbs-up to let them through.

The police had evacuated the residents from the houses in closest proximity to the fire and were keeping them and their neighbors behind a second perimeter of yellow tape, well back from the dozen or so fire trucks, emergency vehicles and police cars that crowded the street. The residents stood in knots on lawns and sidewalks, watching the drama unfold, exchanging theories about what had happened and shaking their heads as bits of news and rumors trickled down the line. They had their cats in carriers at their feet, their dogs on tight leashes and their children under watchful eyes.

Leah moved forward at a crawl, worried that at any moment someone might step out into the street without looking and add to the casualty toll. Ten minutes and barely fifty yards later, she and Rory gave up and abandoned the car. They made their way by foot through the deepening pall of smoke. Without the car as a buffer around them, the crackling of the fire was loud, almost gleeful, as it sank its sharp teeth into the wooden bones of the house. The air was gritty and foul with the odor of melting plastics and other synthetics, and Rory found herself thinking that fires must have smelled better back in simpler times.

Shields in hand, they ducked under the crime-scene tape and were directed to the ranking police officer, a captain by the name of Joe Flagg. Flagg had a long face topped off by a gray military buzz cut and narrow lips that were pinched into a grim line. If he was pleased to see them, he did an admirable job of hiding it.

“Good,” he grunted when Rory introduced herself as the sketch artist. He motioned for her to follow him and led her to a lawn several houses down on the far side of the fire.

“We assembled all the witnesses over here so you wouldn’t have to waste time looking for them,” he said, yelling in order to be heard above the roar of the fire and machinery. “You need anything, I’ll be back there where you found me.”

He turned away before Rory could tell him that he hadn’t done her any favors by corralling the four eyewitnesses where they’d no doubt been comparing what they thought they’d seen. Over time she’d discovered that most people had fairly unreliable memories, especially when they were in crisis mode. Instead of fielding several different perspectives from the group, she was probably going to wind up with one homogenized description, and it would be a happy coincidence if her rendering actually turned out to resemble the suspected arsonist.

When she introduced herself, the three women and one man all started talking at once, adding to the general commotion. To restore some order, Rory assigned each of them a number and took them one by one onto a nearby porch, where she could sit on a rattan bench and have an actual lap on which to perch her laptop. She was just finishing with the first witness when the woman she’d dubbed witness number three rushed up the steps to them.

“That’s him. Over there,” the woman said, gasping with excitement and gesturing madly across the street at a short, heavyset man in his thirties. He was staring at the fire, as transfixed as a teenybopper watching a rock star.

“Are you sure?” Rory asked.

“That’s him. I’d know him anywhere.”

The other witnesses had joined them on the porch. Three of them were in agreement. The fourth dissented. Based on her first sketch, Rory wasn’t entirely sold. Then the suspect saw them pointing in his direction and he bolted, a picture far more telling than any thousand words.

Rory set the laptop aside and ran down the porch steps. None of the Riverhead police nor the detectives from her own precinct were nearby or looking in her direction. She couldn’t just let him get away.

“Go get help,” she shouted to the group on the porch as she raced on down the walkway and into the street. Her progress was slowed by the thick fire hoses that were writhing through the street and the crazy quilt of emergency vehicles she was forced to circumvent.

The suspect was out of sight by the time she reached the lawn where he’d been spotted. Assuming he’d disappeared around the back of the house, she kept going in that direction. There was no sign of him there or in the adjoining yards. Fences of various heights and styles prevented her from seeing any farther. She supposed that he might have fled into one of the closest houses through an open back door. There was a good chance that the residents, routed by the police or by the general excitement, hadn’t bothered to lock up. But it would take too long for her to check each house, and there were too many places in them where he could be lying in wait to ambush her. If that’s where he’d taken refuge, her colleagues would find him eventually. For now her priority was to make sure he hadn’t left the area.

The best option for an arsonist on the run was probably to cut through one of the unfenced backyards to the next street. If he’d planned ahead, he might even have left his car there. Rory’s hand went to the gun holstered at her waist. Reassured by the weight of it, she charged on, slowing only to pass between the arbor vitae that separated this house from the one behind it. Still no sign of him. When she reached the next block, she saw him scuttling across the street toward a small, dark blue car with a dented back door that had seen its best days back in the eighties. He didn’t appear to have a weapon in his hands, and since the weather was warm, he wasn’t wearing a jacket that might have concealed one.

Still, Rory would have liked to hear the pounding of other police racing to the scene, but the only pounding was her own heartbeat echoing in her ears. Since she couldn’t very well ask the suspect to hang out a while and wait for her reinforcements to arrive, she stopped and drew her gun, steadying it with both hands.

“Stop, police!” she shouted. “Stop or we’ll shoot.” No harm in letting him think there were several guns ready to take him down. With any luck there would be, and hopefully soon.

The suspect slowed and glanced back over his shoulder. He was out of shape and breathing hard, his eyes skittering back and forth as he tried to decide on the odds of making it to his car without being shot.

“Forget it,” Rory said with conviction, “I always hit what I aim for.” The suspect didn’t need to know that she’d never had to shoot a real person before.

“Okay, okay.” He turned to face her, arms raised in surrender. “But you got the wrong guy.”

Rory kept him in her gun sites as she moved toward him. “It’s amazing how often that happens,” she said wryly. Where the hell was the cavalry? “I need you facedown on the ground, now!”

“I’m in the middle of the street. What if a car comes?”

“I guess you’d better start praying that doesn’t happen.” Of course, he did have a point. It probably wouldn’t sit well with the brass or the media if she let him get run over without benefit of a trial. But she couldn’t let on that she was such a novice that she hadn’t thought of that herself.

“I got rights,” he was sputtering. “Hey, tell her. Tell her she can’t treat me like this.”

Who was he talking to? She resisted the urge to look behind her in case it was a ruse.

A moment later Leah was standing beside her as two uniformed cops ran past them to take the suspect into custody. Rory thought he looked as relieved to see them as she was.