Save Me

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Excuse me,” she called out, and the workman turned. He was pushing a wheelbarrow, and his soft belly hung between its handles. Safety goggles dug into his fleshy cheeks, and he was plugged into an iPod.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” he said, with a slight twang. “Do I know you?” He popped out an earbud and squinted through his goggles, then set down the wheelbarrow and walked toward her. “Wait. Yes, I do. You’re that chick Kurt liked, aren’t you? That mom on TV.”

  “Uh, yes,” Rose said, rethinking her disguise. “I wanted to talk to someone about Kurt.”

  “Fine.” The workman slipped off a worn cotton glove and reached out his hand. “I’m Warren Minuti. I’m with Bethany Run, too. Nice to meet you.”

  “Rose McKenna.” She extended a hand, which was swallowed up by Warren’s huge, rough palm.

  “My wife and her friends are all talking about you. She’s glued to that TV.” Warren unstuck his goggles and slipped them onto his hardhat. “I tell her, you must be a good person because Kurt liked you.”

  “Thanks. I felt terrible to hear the news that he had been killed. I’m so sorry. He was a sweet guy.”

  “He was.” Warren sighed heavily, his large shoulders sloping down. “We’re a small crew at Bethany, only nine of us. We do a job at a time, maybe two, so to lose Kurt and Hank, it’s the worst. And Hank, he has a wife and a new baby. Had a wife and a new baby.” Warren shook his head. “Well, anyway. What is it you want to talk about?”

  “Kurt called me Monday night, before the accident, and he mentioned something about a ‘buddy of mine,’ who told him that some guys from Campanile had left some polyurethane in the teachers’ lounge. He said that that helped cause the fire. I was wondering who that buddy might be. Do you know?”

  “Well, Kurt’s best buddy was Hank.”

  “Hank Powell, who was killed with him?”

  “Yeah. Both wakes are tonight, and the burials are tomorrow.”

  “Is that where everybody is?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t go, that’s why I’m here. They all just left to go get ready, but I sent my wife. I go to Drexel at night, for law.”

  “That can’t be easy. My husband’s a lawyer.” Rose paused, thinking. “Kurt said something about new buddies. You know anything about that?”

  “No.”

  “Would Hank have known about Campanile or cans of polyurethane?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did anybody at Bethany Run used to work for Campanile?”

  Warren snorted. “You wouldn’t go from Campanile to us, not if you could help it. Campanile, they’re a whole ’nother league from us. The bigs.”

  “Do you know anything about Campanile or cans of polyurethane?”

  “No.”

  Rose thought a minute. “Do you think any of the other Bethany Run guys knew somebody at Campanile?”

  “Possible, but I don’t know. I never met any of the Campanile crew. We only came after the fire.”

  “What if I wanted to find out who from Campanile worked on the school? Would any of your guys know that?”

  “No.”

  “Then I guess the only way to find out which Campanile guys worked on this job is to ask Campanile.”

  “Good luck.” Warren chuckled. “They’re not gonna give out that kind of information, especially if they think a lawsuit’s coming down the pike, like they said on the news.”

  “You’re right.” Rose took a flyer. “Do you know what happened with Kurt’s accident? I mean, how it happened exactly?”

  “All I know is Kurt was driving, it was his truck, and it went off the side of the road and hit a tree. There was no shoulder on that stretch of the expressway.”

  Rose had to tell him what she was worrying about, or she wouldn’t get anywhere. “Does it seem strange to you that alcohol was a factor?”

  “Yes, I was a little surprised.”

  “Why?” Rose asked, intrigued.

  “I figured that the newspapers played up the alcohol angle, but that wasn’t like Kurt. Kurt woulda had a beer or two, at most. He must’ve been tired, dozed off, and the combination is what did them in.”

  “What about Hank? Did he drink?”

  “Never, not anymore. He was three years sober. Marie woulda drop-kicked his ass.”

  Rose felt her heartbeat quicken. “When Kurt called me before the crash, he sounded a little drunk, slurring his words, a little.”

  Warren frowned. “That wouldn’t be like him. He was a responsible guy. He took care of his sister and niece.”

  “I know. I could play you the voice message. I saved it, if you want to hear it.” Rose hesitated. “It might be upsetting, now.”

  “No, play it.”

  Rose slid her phone from her purse, then thumbed to voicemail and played the message on speaker. Kurt’s amplified words echoed eerily through the burned-out cafeteria, then the message clicked off. She eyed Warren for a reaction in the twilight-blue haze.

  “Can’t say I can explain that,” he said, rubbing his chin.

  “He sounds kinda drunk, right?”

  “Kinda.”

  “If he was, why would Hank let him drive? Doesn’t that seem weird to you? That a guy with a wife and a new baby would let his buzzed friend drive him home?”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m wondering if someone killed Kurt because he was asking questions about the fire. Or because he knew about the polyurethane.”

  “What?” Warren’s small eyes flew open. “You’re talking about murder.”

  “I know. I’m just trying to figure it out, and I can’t explain why Hank would let Kurt drive drunk. Unless Hank didn’t know.” Rose thought about it, brainstorming. “Unless Hank saw Kurt have his usual one or two beers, but maybe someone slipped something into his drink. One of these new buddies he mentioned. It’s plausible, isn’t it? It could have happened.”

  “Maybe, but murder?”

  “I’m just saying it smells, don’t you agree? That guy on the tape doesn’t sound like Kurt after only two beers, does he?”

  “It doesn’t but I still don’t get why Hank got into the car with him.”

  “Maybe Hank couldn’t tell. What if Kurt wasn’t that talkative? What if Hank saw Kurt drink only two beers and figured he was fine to drive, even if he did slur a little?” Rose put her phone away. “Something’s wrong with this picture, and two men are dead. And I think it’s connected with the fire.”

  Warren frowned. “We should go to the police.”

  “With what? What do we say? A buzzed guy got in a truck, drove, and had an accident? That’s not suspicious.”

  “True.”

  “And they think that the fire was accidental. Besides, I’m the last person who they’d believe, since I’m involved.”

  “That’s true, too.” Warren sighed, a huge exhale from his barrel chest. “But if someone murdered Kurt and Hank, I want to be the first to know about it.”

  “Then maybe you can help,” Rose said, with hope.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Rose hit the gas, with Warren in the passenger seat. He’d changed into slacks and a fresh polo shirt, which he’d had with him for night school, and he’d shaved in the school’s men’s room. She could see, in the light, that he was older than she’d thought, maybe thirty-five. Or maybe it was the grim set to his jaw, as if he were gearing up for the task ahead. They were in rush-hour traffic on the bucolic back roads out of Reesburgh, heading to Campanile’s headquarters, near West Chester.

  “Okay, so what’s the plan?” Warren asked, looking over.

  “Let’s review, okay?” Rose wasn’t sure what to do next. “We can’t know where we’re going if we don’t know where we’ve been.”

  “That’s deep.”

  “You’re telling me. I just learned it.” Rose smiled. “Now, Kurt thought that polyurethane left in the teachers’ lounge contributed to the explosion, but he was killed before I could ask him how. So far I’ve heard a f
ew different reasons for the explosion, like faulty wiring, a gas leak, and a punch list not done. What have you heard?”

  “The same thing, except for the punch list. Punch lists never get done, and nothing explodes.”

  “So what caused the explosion?”

  Warren shrugged. “The fire marshals’ report won’t come out for weeks, and that’s what the lawsuits will be about, and all that.”

  “So let’s try to figure it out, ourselves. You’re an expert, and I’m a … mom.”

  Warren smiled crookedly. “You’re kinda nutty, lady.”

  Rose smiled back. She slowed, passing an Amish man driving a buggy, his head tilted down and only his beard visible under the brim of his straw hat. “We have an advantage. They think it’s accidental, and we don’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “So how exactly do you make an explosion with gas, loose wires, and cans of polyurethane?”

  Warren looked over. “Where did you say the poly was?”

  “The polyurethane? In the teachers’ lounge.” Rose thought back to her conversation with Kristen. “Somebody shellacked the cabinets on Thursday, the day before the explosion, and left it there. That seems odd to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Shellacking cabinets is the kind of thing they do before you move in, that’s what we did at my new house, and it was already done in the lounge, I saw a photo. Why do the cabinets need a second coat, all of a sudden? It was a month after school opened.”

  Warren nodded slowly. “The teachers eat in there?”

  “Some, yes.”

  Warren wrinkled his nose. “That would stink.”

  “It did, and that’s what I thought.” Rose thought again of Kristen. They whizzed by horse pastures with run-in sheds, and hand-painted signs advertising Halloween hay rides and corn mazes. “The lounge reeked of it, and there were WET PAINT signs everywhere.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “The poly would have hidden any gas smell.”

  Rose looked over, her ears pricking up. “So if a bad guy knew he was going to make a gas leak, he might shellac some cabinets to mask the odor.”

  “Right.”

  “How do you make a gas leak? Is that hard?”

  “No, easy. The gas leaked in the wall between the kitchen and the lounge, and there was a big three-quarter-inch pipe there. I know, I cleaned up the debris. If somebody got into the building on Thursday or Thursday night, they could give the gas valve in the wall a quarter turn.”

  “Wouldn’t that show, a hole in the wall?” Rose asked, as the country scenery gave way to a concrete ramp, heading to Route 202, going north.

  “Not if it was behind a cabinet or an appliance. Gas would leak out, but nobody would smell it because of the poly, and they’d also get desensitized to it.”

  Rose remembered Kurt telling her the same thing, about being desensitized. “So let’s say the bad guy shellacked the cabinets to hide the gas smell. How does the wall explode?”

  “He needs a spark to make an explosion.” Warren frowned, in thought.

  “Wouldn’t the loose wiring provide a spark?”

  “It could, but not for sure.” Warren shook his head. “It’s not necessarily a live spark.”

  “So what causes a live spark in a wall?”

  “The spark didn’t have to be in the wall. The poly was in the teachers’ lounge, so the spark could have been in the teachers’ lounge. An appliance could do it, or the oven.”

  Rose thought a minute. The Kristenburgers. “How about a microwave?”

  “Yes. They could have rigged the micro to spark.”

  “How?”

  Warren looked over. “Ever put tinfoil in a microwave? You get live sparks, blue flashes, the whole nine.”

  “No, tinfoil wouldn’t have worked. The teacher would have seen it.”

  “Not if it was hidden inside the micro, like in the plastic part on top.” Warren’s brown eyes came to life. “Here we go, I got it. On Thursday, you shellac the cabinets and leave the poly out. It stinks. Then on Thursday night, when nobody’s around, you hide tinfoil in the microwave, turn a valve in the gas pipe, and loosen the wiring in the wall. An electrician could do all those things in fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then, you leave the caps on the poly open a little, so the fumes leak into the micro. Nobody can tell because it stinks anyway, and you put up the signs.”

  Rose was confused. “But how do fumes leak into a microwave?”

  “They drift in.”

  “I thought microwaves were closed, sealed.”

  “No, they’re not. A spark in the micro, with poly fumes inside, would cause an explosion, and if the gas had been leaking in the wall, from a big, three-quarter-inch pipe, it would go boom!” Warren made an explosion with his thick fingers.

  “What’s the loose wiring have to do with it? Isn’t that overkill?” Rose thought a minute, answering her own question. “Wait, maybe not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that would show up later, when the fire marshals come in. In other words, if you want to make it look like an accident, you need an innocent cause, like faulty wiring.” Rose felt astounded. It all made sense. “Like you said, a wire could spark, but you’re not sure enough. So it’s an explanation, but not a reliable-enough cause.”

  “True.” Warren nodded, shifting forward. “An electrician could do all of this, easy. If he worked the job, he could have a key. Or somebody else would, like one of the higher-ups. Hell, Campanile is the GC, and they hire the guy who installs the damn locks.”

  “Right.” Rose hadn’t thought of that. “So we need to know the electrical sub and the electrical crew that Campanile used on the job, and we take it from there.”

  “How are you gonna get that?”

  “I’m not, you are.”

  “Me?” Warren looked at her like she was nuts. “How?”

  “You’re a carpenter, right?”

  “All my life. My dad was one.”

  “Okay, so let’s say you could be looking for a job, at Campanile.” Rose accelerated. She booked it because it was already 4:15 and they had to get to Campanile before closing time. “You go in, apply for a job, and get the info in an informal way. In conversation.”

  “How?”

  “You can do it.” Rose looked over. “You look the part because you are the part, and you’re not from here, so you can ask a lot of questions without seeming suspicious. Where are you from, with your accent?”

  “Arlington, Texas.”

  “Can you ham it up a little?”

  “Sure thang, ma’am,” Warren answered, slyly. “What’re my lines?”

  “Say you’re from Texas and you think big. You need a new job and you want to start at the top, with the best. You heard Campanile was the best, stuff like that.”

  “Kiss some ass.”

  Rose nodded. “Say you need a new job, you want to move up. You want to work for Campanile and become—what’s it called, what you would be?”

  “I’d love to be project manager.”

  “Great. Does Campanile have project managers?”

  “Sure. But I bet they promote from within.”

  “Well, let them say that. Tell them you’re new to the area, so you don’t know any of the subcontractors, but you can work with anybody.”

  “Should I mention Reesburgh?”

  “No, I’d leave that out. I don’t want them connecting you with the fire at all.”

  “But I have to get them to talk about subs on the Reesburgh job.”

  “You can’t go about it directly.” Rose glanced over as the car whizzed along. “Wait. Listen. Subcontractors are important, right?”

  “Sure.” Warren cocked his head, listening. “The finished job is only as good as the subs.”

  “Exactly. Say that, and say you’re good at managing subs and getting them to do their best work. Tell some dumb story of a sub you managed in T
exas.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Make it up.” Rose didn’t know if this plan broke her lie diet, but she wasn’t the one lying. “Drop the names of some subs in Arlington, ask if they work with good subs, then bring the conversation around to electrical subs, then maybe you can get a name of an electrician or two on the job. How many could there have been? Not that many. Think you can do it?”

  “Yes.” Warren straightened up.

  “They’re big, so they might have a human resources person. If they don’t know who the subs are, you might have to get through that interview to somebody who does, like somebody not in administration.”

  “I thought of that already. I’ll say I want to talk to somebody who’s been in the field. I’ll say I flew up here and don’t want to leave until I see somebody tonight.”

  “Okay, good.” Rose felt a wave of worry for him. “If you can’t get them to say it, then just leave. Don’t do anything to arouse their suspicion. If they came after Kurt, they could come after you.”

  “Let ’em try.” Warren lifted an eyebrow. “I’m from Texas.”

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Rose slouched down in the driver’s seat, pretending to read her BlackBerry, though she could barely see the screen through her sunglasses. Warren had gone into Campanile headquarters at 4:50, and it was 5:45. It meant he had probably gotten to the second interviewer, but she was beginning to worry. She prayed she hadn’t gotten him into anything dangerous.

  She’d parked the car in the last row of the lot, where it couldn’t be seen from the entrance, and kept an eye on the entrance in the rearview mirror, waiting for him to appear. The Campanile offices were in a typical corporate center: low-profile buildings with fieldstone façades and smoked-glass windows. Each company had its own signed parking lot, and there were dried cornstalks tied to the CAMPANILE sign, next to a hay bale and a gigantic pumpkin.