Fire Engine Dead (26 page)

“I guessed. He seemed awfully nervous when I talked to him at the Bench Foundation event.”

“He’s probably just worried about his liability. Look, Nell, you don’t have to make excuses—you did the right thing, and I know that the FBI has to look at me as a possible suspect. But I just can’t imagine that any of the people I’ve worked with for years could be involved in something like this.”

But who else was there? “I know how hard that is. But maybe whoever set this up didn’t plan to kill anyone. Theft, no matter how large, is a far cry from murder. Assume for the moment that insurance fraud—or maybe that and the theft of the fire engine—was the only intended crime, and the watchman was—what do they call it? Collateral damage?—then who would be capable of planning the fire?”

He was shaking his head again. “I don’t know! I mean, I see your point, but I still don’t believe anyone I know could have done this.”

“Sure you do,” a voice said from the doorway. I turned in my chair to see Scott Ingersoll, in grubby clothes, a battered knapsack slung over his shoulder, slouching against the door frame that led to the catalog room. “Hey, Peter.”

Peter stood up abruptly. “Scott?”

My mind was working furiously. How had Scott found a way into the building? Of course—the noise Peter had heard must have been Scott breaking in. I knew that our security system covered mainly the doors; there was no way we could have wired each and every window, and there were plenty.

“What are you doing here, Scott?” Peter’s breath sounded raspy.

Scott ignored his brother’s question. “Nice to see you
again, Ms. Pratt. Although I bet you won’t enjoy the visit.” Scott grinned but kept his distance. Of course, he knew he had our only escape route blocked.

“It depends on what you want.” I should call the cops—except that my cell phone was in my bag two stories up, and Scott was between me and the nearest landline phone.

“You know, Ms. Pratt, it would have been a lot simpler if you’d just stayed out of this.”

“Peter asked for my help in reconstructing what was in the collection.” I wasn’t about to mention the FBI. What could Scott want? How much had he heard of our conversation while he was sneaking up on us? I didn’t know, but I had an ugly feeling I was about to find out.

“I hadn’t counted on that. I figured Peter would be so broken up about the loss of his precious little collection that he’d just wallow in misery and let the cops take care of it while he collected the insurance. But, no—thanks to you, now he knows about that trade-off. You had to figure out the fire engine wasn’t the right one.”

Wait—how did he know that I knew? Had he overheard me tell Peter? Had someone else told—Marty, Shelby, Eric, James? I didn’t think any of them would have let anything slip, and even if they had, how would it have gotten back to Scott? I tried to remember what Shelby or James had told me about Scott: he had a minor criminal record, but no one had told me the details. Maybe he was just guessing. “Why do you say that?”

“Why else would you and the police still be poking around? If you weren’t suspicious, you would have handed over the records to Peter and that would have been the end of it, but you just kept right on asking questions. Looks like you were too smart for your own good, Ms. Pratt.”

So it seemed. But…why would he know that I was still talking to law enforcement? I hadn’t said a word to Peter about the switched fire engines prior to today. Which left…Gary, and I could find no reason to believe he was behind all this. The gears in my mind ground slowly…

What about Jennifer? Jennifer had engineered this meeting with Peter and made sure it was after hours when no one else would be around. Jennifer was the only one who knew we were both here. Ergo, Jennifer had told Scott. Bingo: Jennifer was the link—and she and Scott had to be in this together.

Scott seemed amused as he watched me. “Figured it out yet?”

“Jennifer,” I said bluntly.

“Got it in one. I said you were smart.”

How long had they been planning this? I really didn’t like the idea that Jennifer had played on my sympathy and used me to lure Peter here. She was a damn good actress.

“Scott, what’s going on here? What does Jennifer have to do with this?” Peter wheezed.

“Ask your friend here.” He nodded at me. “If you can get the words out.”

Peter turned to me, fear in his eyes. “Nell?”

I kept my eyes on Scott. “Peter, obviously there had to be someone on the inside, who knew where the collection was and what the engine was worth. I think Jennifer’s a better bet than Gary. Right, Scott?”

“Keep up the good work. Gary is exactly what he looks like—an old coot who loves to talk about fires and firemen. Now, Jennifer—she’s got a head on her.”

“But, why? Was it just about the money?”

“What else? Jennifer needs the money. Her husband’s
pension sucks—he’d only been with the department a few years when he died. The pay at the museum isn’t much better. That hunk of wood and metal was worth a couple of years’ salary for her, and it was just too easy to pass up. She asked me to help, for a share of the proceeds. Wasn’t hard to do.”

“Did you set all the other warehouse fires?”

“Maybe. What’s it to you?”

“Scott, a man died there, where you switched the fire engines.”

For the first time, Scott looked troubled. “Yeah, well, that wasn’t supposed to happen. The guy was a drunk. We thought he’d just passed out in a corner—wouldn’t have been the first time.”

I wasn’t sure whether I believed that Scott hadn’t known where the watchman was, but this wasn’t the time to debate that. “Where’s the real fire engine?” I asked.

Scott all but snarled, “Look, lady, don’t expect me to pull a Sherlock Holmes and tell you everything you want to know. That’s bullshit. I don’t have the time.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“Your place here is going to have an unfortunate fire, and it’ll look like Peter was the one who set it. Too bad the two of you have to die. Jennifer will be all upset about sending Peter over here to talk to you, when she’s had her suspicions that he was mentally unstable. But she was a loyal little employee, and she trusted her boss. Boo-hoo.”

So Jennifer had set it all up. Wait, back up:
had
to die? Sorry, but I wasn’t going to go quietly. “What’s your end of the plan? You’re supposed to do the dirty work and kill us? And why do you think you can set a fire here?”

“Oh, come on, lady—this building is full of dry old paper
and books. Piece of cake. As for killing you—the fire’ll take care of that.”

That was convenient: he didn’t get his hands dirty; the fire did all the work. What a handy rationalization. “And why is Peter supposed to have set it?”

“Why, to cover up killing you, of course. He couldn’t let you keep nosing around.”

“Nobody’s…going to…believe that.” Peter’s breathing was worsening rapidly, and he reached into his pocket for an inhaler. Would anyone buy that a serious asthmatic would be able to start a fire? Of course, the fire department and the police would have two bodies, neither of whom was talking. The story Scott had presented would be the simplest solution. Would James believe it?

“Why…are…you…doing…this?” Peter struggled to say.

Scott cocked his head at his brother. “Well, let’s see. Because you were little Mr. Perfect and Daddy loved you better? Because your asthma got you out of a lot of stuff that I ended up having to do?”

I watched Scott. Actually he didn’t seem very invested in the reasons he tossed at his brother: they sounded like echoes of old sibling arguments. But why had Scott acted now? I said, “The fire engine isn’t worth that much.” Certainly not a man’s life.

“What would you know about it? Hey, I’m not greedy. And how often do I get to stick it to Peter here and make some change out of it?”

Maybe it was about the fire, not the cash. Maybe I was looking at a true arsonist. And maybe Jennifer had been pulling his strings all along. “Scott, you’re talking about killing your
brother
!” And me, of course, but there was no
point in adding that. “Do you really think the FBI and the police aren’t already looking at you for this?”

“Sure they are, but I’ve got an alibi. I was with Jennifer the night of the fire. We’re in
love
.” His eyes flickered toward Peter, who was having more and more trouble breathing. “Sorry about that, Petey, but one of us has got to take the fall for this, thanks to Ms. Pratt, and it’s not going to be me.”

Scott Ingersoll was one sick man. Hang on—hadn’t James told me that Jennifer had told the police that she was home alone? From the way Scott drawled the word
love
, I had to stop and wonder who was pulling whose strings. Had Jennifer recruited Scott, or had he persuaded Jennifer to help him? Had Jennifer just thrown him under the bus by undercutting his alibi? Did he realize that?

And this was the man who wanted to kill me? Please. I’d be embarrassed to have been outwitted by those two—except that I’d be dead. But I wasn’t yet, and I wasn’t giving up that easily.

“That’s not what Jennifer told the police. She said she was home alone. Will the police be able to match you to one of the guys on the surveillance footage?”

For a moment Scott looked startled, but he recovered quickly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, lady.”

Yeah, right. I tried another tack. “We have fire suppression systems in this building, you know.”

“Sure you do—old ones. I checked the specs—looked at your old annual reports, when you announced your so-called improvements. You really counting on them to save you?”

I didn’t want to find out.

The bastard was still grinning at us. He was enjoying this, or maybe just anticipating the nice bright fire that he thought
was coming. “And of course, there’s always that handy smoke inhalation. You don’t have to fry, just inhale too much. Peter’ll probably go first, though. That pesky asthma, you know. I spent years listening to him wheeze at night.”

Not if I could help it.
Think, Nell!
Scott was definitely bigger and no doubt stronger than I was, so I didn’t think I had a chance of overpowering him physically. Peter was pretty much useless if it came to any kind of physical attack. I’d gotten that far in my thinking when Scott pulled a gun out of his pocket and waved it at me.

This was getting ridiculous. “What, Peter is supposed to have shot me? How is anybody going to account for a bullet?”

“Just some insurance.” He ignored my question and turned to Peter. “Recognize it? It was Dad’s. How sentimental of you, to have kept it all these years. But of course, you always really looked up to Dad.”

Peter glared wordlessly at him and dropped into a chair, his breathing labored.
Come on, Nell, think this through
. Now that I knew Scott was armed, I couldn’t even rush him, or I’d end up with a bullet in me. I glanced around the room: heavy tables with the lamps bolted to them, heavy chairs. I supposed I could throw books at Scott, but that seemed ridiculous. I wondered hysterically if a six-inch-thick tome would stop a bullet. Leather or cloth binding? What was I supposed to do?

And then the answer came to me: let Scott start a fire.

Sure, it was completely illogical, but I was beginning to
have a glimmer of an idea, and the only way for it to work was to let Scott do what he planned, and do it right here in the reference room. “It’s not that easy, you know,” I said.

“What, to start a fire? Sure it is, if you know what you’re doing. Look at all the lovely paper you have here.” He grinned. “And don’t tell me you have recording devices and spy cameras everywhere, and a panic button in your pocket that connects you immediately to the police department. You’re alone here with Peter. He sets the fire, you try heroically to put it out. Either he shoots you or he doesn’t, but you both die. He gets the blame, and Jennifer and I get a nice chunk of change when we unload the fire engine, even if we have to wait until things cool down before we sell it.” He barked a short laugh at his own joke. “End of story.”

He’d forgotten to mention that the museum would probably go under, and Jennifer would be out of a job, but now
was not the time to bring it up. “Look around you, Scott. What’re you going to light?”

“Why would I be stupid enough to do it here? Even I can see the sprinkler heads up there.”

If my pathetic plan was going to work, he
had
to do it here, right where we were. But how on earth was I supposed to convince him to do that? “You really think they’re going to blame Peter for all the fires? I mean, look at him—he can barely breathe.”

“I made sure he didn’t have an alibi for any of those fires.”

“Jennifer.” If I got out of this alive, I was going to enjoy watching her go down.

“Yup, she’s one smart cookie. She keeps his schedule, so she told me when he was going to be alone at home when all the fires started. So let’s get rolling.” He waved the pistol at us.

Peter struggled to get out of his chair, then fell back again.

A flicker of anger crossed Scott’s face. “Get up, you jerk. We’re going back into the stacks, where nobody passing by outside will notice the fire for a good long while.”

Not part of my plan. I wondered if I could communicate psychically with Peter and convey that I wanted him to stay right here.

Scott waved his weapon at me. “Help him.”

I moved over to Peter’s chair and slid my arm under his. Which conveniently let me lean close and hiss, “Act helpless.” Peter looked at me with sad puppy-dog eyes, and I realized he didn’t even have to act. I hauled him out of his chair, but he was pretty much a dead weight, focusing on breathing and nothing else.

I glanced at Scott, whose face was now flushed. “He can’t make it.”

“Then drag him,” Scott snarled.

I made a good show of it, but Peter was surprisingly heavy. Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t have dragged him anywhere near the stacks in the back of the building. “This isn’t going to work. I can’t move him.”

Scott’s expectation that we’d make it to the stacks was dimming, but now he was getting mad. He waved the gun at us. “Back there. Around the corner, out of sight from the front.”