Rowdy padded along beside him as he crossed the foyer and looked through the peephole, to find Mark Sayers standing beneath the wide, overhanging porch roof. “I was just getting ready to call you,” Trace said. “Come on in.” He stepped back and Sayers walked into the living room, his light brown hair neatly combed, his cheap suit already rumpled. “Listen, I heard what happened last night. Unofficial word is arson. I guess I owe you an apology. Looks like Maggie’s troubles are bigger than I thought.” “Apology accepted. But I’m still gonna need your help.” “Hey, I’m a cop. It’s my job to protect and serve. I don’t want to see anybody get hurt. Just tell me what you need.” “You want a cup of coffee?” “Love one.” Trace led the detective into the kitchen, took down a a mug and filled it with the steaming, dark Colombian brew. “Thanks,” Sayers said, accepting the cup. “So what’s your take on the fire?” “Well, that’s the thing.” Trace led him over to the kitchen table and both men sat down.
