Fire Engine Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “I’d assume he got some sort of pension or disability payment from the city, so I guess he can afford to work at the museum.”

  “That sounds about right. So now what?”

  “I…don’t know.” I really didn’t. I trusted that Shelby had plumbed the depths of our records. I didn’t want to pull Marty in any further. Maybe I really had to do what James had suggested and talk to live people.

  “I’ll see if I can find a reason to talk to Gary again. Oh, and since I didn’t know that Peter was from New Jersey, can you do a quick computer check and see if anything comes up there?”

  “I’m on it, Chief.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Eric popped in as Shelby bustled out. “Agent Morrison’s on the phone for you, Nell.”

  It was already eleven—where was the morning going? I took a breath to steady myself before I picked up the phone. “James, what can I do for you?”

  “You have time to meet for lunch? The Market Street Deli at noon?”

  “Sure, sounds fine.”

  “Good. See you then.”

  No frills, that was James. I paused briefly to count exactly how many words we had exchanged: twenty. I hoped he’d be more forthcoming in person.

  At quarter to twelve I left the Society and headed toward Market Street. James was waiting for me when I arrived. “Hello, Nell,” he said, rising and pulling out the plastic molded chair for me.

  “Hello, James. Love the decor here.” I sat and shrugged out of my jacket.

  “This is business. You want something upscale, wait until this case is over. The mayor’s breathing down my neck. He wants this solved like yesterday, so we don’t tarnish the reputation of the fire department.”

  “I’ll hold you to that. What’s up?”

  We were interrupted by a harried waitress and ordered sandwiches and coffee. When she had left, he said, “We’ve found video footage of a truck appearing at the loading dock at the warehouse the night before the fire was discovered.”

  “That’s good news, isn’t it? Whose camera was it?”

  “The warehouse’s. The only one, and a cheap one at that so it’s crappy quality, but better than nothing. We can make out someone unloading something large, and someone loading something else large. Well, a couple of someones. They needed to use a ramp for the truck, and I’m guessing they had a winch inside to help move the machinery. You have any idea how heavy an antique fire engine is?”

  “No, sir, I do not. Why on earth would I?”

  Unperturbed, James went on. “It’s heavy. No sign of the guard in the pictures.”

  “Does that mean he…wasn’t involved?” I’d have to think about that—the guard was dead, or at least unconscious, before the truck was moved? Did that clear him or implicate him? “The fire was discovered, what, in the morning of the next day? Let me guess: there were no markings on the truck, right?”

  “Morning, predawn. It was set up to burn slowly—it wasn’t just someone splashing gasoline around and tossing a match. The truck was plain, light colored. The recording quality was so lousy we couldn’t even read the license plates—don’t believe all that trash you see on television about enhancing the images. But we know there was a plate on the front.”

  “And that was important why?”

  “Assuming it was local, that rules out Pennsylvania and Delaware, both of which do not require a front plate. Of course, it could have come from any of the other thirty-eight states that do require one. But I’m betting on local, maybe New Jersey. I can’t see anyone driving halfway across the country to steal a fire engine. Or knowing where to find it.”

  “It’s probably happened, for the right artifact, but in this case I agree. So you’re still looking at people at or connected to the museum?”

  “Of course. Aren’t you?”

  “That’s what you asked me to do. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

  “And?”

  I contemplated how to answer that. “James, this might work better if you told me if you had any suspects and I told you what I’ve found out about them. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re looking at a pool of about forty people here.”

  “Staff and board, right?”

  “Yes, but I think we can focus on only a few of those—the ones who are most closely connected to or are most active at the Fireman’s Museum. We’ve been through our files, and what I do have is more or less limited to the staff there, and more anecdotal.”

  “Wait a minute—we?”

  “Yes, we. I asked Shelby to help.”

  James’s expression darkened. “I asked you to keep this confidential.”

  I hated being put on the defensive. “And that’s what I told Shelby. I trust her. Besides, Marty already knows what’s going on.” I decided not to mention that Eric knew. And Selden Pepper. “Do you trust her?”

  His shoulders slumped. “I try to forget that Philadelphia still thinks like a small town. Okay, what do you mean by anecdotal? Gossip?”

  “Sort of,” I admitted. “For example, say we host an event like the gala, the one you attended? Afterward, all the staff who were there sit down and we pool information, anything we heard that might be relevant to the Society. Like who’s getting a divorce, which means we might not get as big a contribution this year, or none at all. Or who’s had a death in the family and stands to inherit a nice sum. Or who’s had a bad experience with another institution and might want to switch their favorite nonprofit. A lot of this never makes it to public records, but we look at the whole picture from a different angle. We use this kind of information to plan our solicitation strategies. Sometimes we have records that go back for years, when we’re keeping an eye on a particular individual, waiting for the right time to make an approach for a contribution or a board position.”

  “I never thought about all that,” James said with something like admiration in his voice. “It’s almost like what we do, although we place more emphasis on criminal activities. You don’t run across that much, do you?”

  “Rarely.” I smiled. “Although I will say that we’ve been known to look the other way if a prospective board member is introduced and we know he has a somewhat shady past…”

  “As long as he writes a big enough check?” James finished the statement for me.

  “Exactly. I can’t defend it, but we’re just trying to survive, and there’s a lot of competition. And we have procedures in place to ensure that we do not accept stolen property, but it’s not always easy to prove what’s legitimate and what isn’t, if someone claims that it’s been in the family for a century. Plenty of institutions larger than we are have been burned that way.”

  “Interesting problem.” Our lunch arrived, and we were silent as the waitress deposited our sandwiches. “So, what’ve you got for me?” James resumed when she’d left.

  “Remember, I’ve only been working on this for a couple of days. So far I haven’t found anything negative about Peter Ingersoll. His assistant, Jennifer, was with him at an event last night, and it looked to me like she was holding him up.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “No, or at least I didn’t see him drinking. More like he’s falling apart—we already know he has health issues. Still, he has to go through the motions and stay in the public eye—I heard him say so.”

  “Are they an item?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, although there’s no reason why they shouldn’t be, or why anyone would tell me, for that matter.”

  “You mean you don’t record the juicy stuff like that?”

  “Only if it will help us ask for money.” Before he could say anything, I held up a hand. “No, I don’t mean blackmail! Just who knows who, and how well.” I decided it was time to cut to the chase. “I assume you’ve been looking at all the staff?”

  “Of course. They knew where the fire engine was.”

  “True. And their salaries are pathetic.”

  “You know this how?”

  “Nonprofits have to post public
records with the IRS, and they include salaries. I’m sure you know that. And fundraisers access that information all the time. We look at who’s on their boards, or what grants they’ve received recently.”

  “Duly noted.” He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed. When he had swallowed he went on. “Do you know the curator, Gary O’Keefe?”

  “Not well. I met him briefly at the funeral procession, and then he tagged along when I had lunch with Peter and gave him the collection information. From all I’ve heard, he’s an honest guy. Do you know anything different?”

  “No, just checking. What you’ve told me about the salaries there matches what I’ve found. Nobody’s made any unexplained large deposits lately, and nobody’s suddenly living way beyond their means.”

  “Maybe they’re being careful. After all, everyone knows law enforcement can access financial records easily these days, and I don’t think the people I’ve met are the kind to have connections to offshore banks.” Another thought struck me. “Do you think this could mean that whoever stole the fire engine hasn’t sold it yet? That it’s stashed somewhere while they wait for the right moment, or until things quiet down?”

  “Could be.”

  “I’ve been wondering about the timing of the theft,” I said slowly. “The collection has been in storage for months now, but since the construction is almost done, they would probably be moving it back fairly soon. Do you think that’s why they decided to act now? I mean, someone could have made the switch when the collection was first moved, and probably no one would have noticed for months—no one would have any reason to visit the warehouse. Why now?”

  James gave that due consideration. “Do you know what the estimated completion date was?”

  “I think they were hoping to be open again before June, maybe? In case you don’t know it, teachers get pretty desperate to fill time at the end of the school year, and they love field trips. Assuming, of course, that there’s any money left in the school budget for buses and that kind of stuff by then. Anyway, assume they were planning to reopen in June, both for the schools and to catch the tourist season, and of course the collections would have gone back to the building sooner than that for installation.”

  “So their window was going to close shortly.”

  “Yes. What about this: they saw this rash of arsons happening and they thought they would be a good cover?”

  “Seizing the opportunity? Maybe. Obviously the police are talking with the fire department’s arson investigators, but there’s nothing particularly unusual about the fires, except their timing.”

  “Did you find anything pertinent about Allan Brigham?”

  “No criminal record, except for an arrest for public intoxication a while ago, never repeated. No unusual financial activity. He was a—”

  This time I finished his sentence. “A retired fireman. I know.”

  “Sure is one tight-knit community, isn’t it?”

  “I think that’s been true since the first fire department was founded, according to the reading I’ve been doing. Which means they aren’t going to want to rat on each other, right? Not that I’m implying that there’s anything to tell.”

  “Exactly. Certainly not to me, as an outsider and a federal agent. In a way, the local police could have better luck. At least they’re kind of a brother organization.”

  “Nobody at the museum has a history of arson? Obviously I don’t have access to criminal records.”

  “Nope, although Celia’ll tell you that a lot of arson cases never get reported. There are even holes in the FBI database, because if a fire event doesn’t go to prosecution, we don’t hear about it.”

  I could see the frustration in his face. “James, how do you manage all this? I mean, are you just looking at background, or do you actively interview people you think might be involved? Are you at the point where you’re checking alibis?”

  “The police are taking the lead on that side of things, and we’re providing background. As long as we don’t get in their way, they’re pretty good at sharing what they’ve got.”

  He hadn’t answered my question. “So, do you know if the staff members have alibis for the times in question?”

  “The usual: I was home alone watching television or reading a book. No, nobody called me, and I wasn’t on the Internet. So there’s no real way to verify the alibis. None of them were together.”

  “Have you looked at the board members?”

  “Briefly. I can’t see any motive for any of them. Can you?”

  “Not really. They don’t benefit financially, and the institution they’re serving suffers. Of course, if any of them had lost a lot of money lately”—as had many of our donors—“they might have jumped at the chance to steal the fire engine. Although that wouldn’t explain the murder. I assume you’ve looked at all their financial records?”

  “We have. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “How about one of the volunteer firefighters who’s pissed off at something?” I wondered if I should mention Walter Barnes’s brush-off, but I couldn’t be sure whether he’d been rude because I asked about the Fireman’s Museum or because he’d thought I was boring and not worth his time.

  James groaned. “That’s another fifty or so people to look at, and believe me, the fire department is touchy about sharing their records if they think we’re looking for dirt.”

  Funny how many ex-firefighters or their kin ended up needing money, I thought. Was money behind this? Or something else? We both fell silent, and I was suddenly aware of the noise and bustle around us. Life went on for most people in the city, and here we were trying to untangle a knotted mess involving multiple crimes while trying to avoid antagonizing anyone in the city. Not a simple task.

  Finally James asked, “Nothing fishy about the museum’s financials, from your perspective?”

  I shook my head. “In their official reports they claimed to have assets and a positive cash flow. If the city’s supporting them somehow, it doesn’t show up on their books, or at least on the report. But I hardly think city administration or the city council would destroy the collections and kill someone for a paltry five- or six-figure line item in the city’s multibillion-dollar budget. That would hardly solve the city’s financial problems, and there are more quiet ways of dissolving an organization.”

  “I’ll take your word for that.” Suddenly he was all business. “I’ll get the tab—it’ll go on my expense report, since you’re an informant.”

  I smiled. “You know, that sounds really odd. I don’t think I’ll put FBI informant on my résumé. I wish I could have given you more.” Somehow I wasn’t sure I had told him anything he didn’t already know.

  “I appreciate your insights, Nell. Let me know if you come up with anything else, will you?”

  “Of course.” I watched as he stopped at the cashier’s desk, then left. I dawdled with the last of my coffee, thinking. The odds that an outsider had pulled this off were small, but if it was an insider, that left a pretty small pool: Peter, Jennifer, or maybe Gary O’Keefe—that nice-guy facade might hide a bitter and twisted person. Maybe I should seek him out and talk to him. Maybe I should talk to Peter again—I would probably offer a more sympathetic ear than the police or the FBI. And wasn’t that why James had involved me?

  CHAPTER 19

  Sometimes I wished there was a way for me to sneak back into my office, sight unseen, so I could actually get some work done without everyone showing up and demanding things from me. The building did have a side door and the back stairs, but if I took that route, I’d have to go past Latoya’s office to get to mine. Was I avoiding Latoya? I hadn’t admitted it to myself. In the end I decided to go that way, because it would mean passing only one person, even if that person was one I would prefer not to talk to, rather than going through the public entrance and running the gauntlet of half the staff.

  As my luck would have it, Latoya was actually standing in front of the collections filing cabinets looking up somet
hing, so there was no way to avoid her. “Oh, Nell, there you are. A moment?”

  “Of course,” I replied, following her into her office. She gestured gracefully toward a chair; I sat. “What do you need?” I asked.

  “While I might have asked that the whole situation with the new hires and the FBI materials be handled somewhat differently, I think things are turning out far better than we might have expected.”

  Whoa! Was she actually saying something nice to me? I was momentarily stunned. “I’m very glad to hear that. I think the Society will benefit in the long run.”

  Latoya seemed to recognize my effort. “I agree. I can understand that the FBI’s actions put you in a difficult position. I’m sure things will go smoothly from here on out. And the new staff does seem to be capable, despite their youth,” she admitted.

  “Thank you, Latoya. I hope so.” I stood up and fled before I could say something to shatter our fragile accord.

  Of course, I couldn’t resist the urge to keep going and take one more look at the kids’ progress in the processing room. I was curious to see just what was in the collection—and what parts the Society should fight to keep, if it came to that. I poked my head in the door of the processing room. Everybody was still busy, but the stacks of boxes had been moved around, and most bore sticky notes with cryptic markings. “Hey, looks like it’s really coming along!” I said as I walked in.

  Rich looked up from the list he was checking. “Oh, hi, Nell. Yeah, once we worked out a system it went really fast. We’ve got the boxes grouped by period and material now, and I was wondering whether we should start on the box-level inventory?”

  I quickly surveyed the room before answering. “Do me a favor, will you? Make sure you ask Latoya? After all, she’s the one in charge here.”

  Rich gave me a quizzical look, then nodded. “Got it.”