21
I had no intention of feeling better in the morning, but I’m lousy at pathos. I tried watching television, but even the war and the scud studs couldn’t hold my attention and the mystery Rosemary had brought me to read was far less amazing than the real one I was involved in. There was only one thing I could do when my brain was running like a mouse in the maze. I grabbed my sketch pad, intent on venting my spleen by sketching everyone who came in. And I didn’t intend to be flattering.
Unless it was someone with a needle.
I flipped through the pages, looking for a clean start, and came across the sketch I’d promised to the good cop, Willis. I’d made a good job of it on both of them. Dillon’s bad cop glared out me from under the fur hat. His crossed arms contrasted nicely with his danc
