“James, I’ve spent maybe two hours total with the man. How am I supposed to tell you what’s going through his mind? And whether he’s involved in a major theft and cover-up, and maybe a murder?”
“The FBI can look into Ingersoll’s background and the rest of the board members for the nonprofit—or I should say, I can do that much on my own time without alerting anyone that I’m investigating. But you are part of the museum community, and you can ask different questions, come at the problem from a different angle, right?”
“I suppose. Although how I’m supposed to determine who at the museum is capable of committing or initiating a major crime isn’t exactly clear to me.”
“I know. Just nose around and see if there’s any talk about the place. I mean, you know how boards are put together. Are there any people who stand out as inappropriate at that museum?”
“What—you think a board member might have engineered this? With or without Peter’s participation?” I wasn’t quite sure what an inappropriate board member would look like. I knew that the Society’s board was pretty homogeneous—that is, older white men with money—but there were some oddballs in the mix. I gathered there were plenty of people involved in firefighting one way or another on the Fireman’s Museum board, but not knowing much about that profession, either, I couldn’t guess who didn’t fit in. “I don’t know. I do know that it’s kind of a cushy position for some city employees, current or former, but that’s not all that unusual.”
“Does any money change hands?”
“You mean, do the board members get paid? Generally not, but I’d have to check the details. Certainly not at the Society. We’d rather they give us money.”
“Well, maybe that’s part of the problem at the Fireman’s Museum. Maybe somebody’s expectations were not being met and he saw a quick way to make some money.”
“What an awful idea! I mean, to kill a man and destroy a city collection for a quick payoff?” It occurred to me that I had no idea what the fire engine might be worth.
“I know it’s not something you would do, Nell, but someone might.”
I sighed. “So what do you want me to do? Tell Peter Ingersoll what I suspect?”
“No! At least, not yet. We don’t want to tip anyone off. If he comes to you with a question about the fire engine, since you were the one who gave him the documents, that’s a different story. You play dumb and let me know ASAP.”
“I’m so flattered that you think I can appear stupid,” I said.
“Nell,” he began to protest, and I held up a hand.
“Yes, I know this is serious. Just give me some time to think about it, all right? I want to help, but I don’t want to go blundering in and make things worse.”
“Understood. But you know as well as I do, the longer this drags on, the less likely it will be solved.”
“What, now I have a deadline? Tell me, can your art theft guys trace where that fire engine might have gone? I mean, it’s not like you can stick it in a tidy box and put it in the mail. It’s big, but at the same time, it’s fragile. Somebody would have to have had a really large truck of some sort, to get it away from the warehouse. Don’t the police have spy cameras on every corner? I thought I remembered reading about the city installing those, a few years ago.”
“Some. Not everywhere. This isn’t one of those television shows where you can follow a single car for miles through the city.”
I grimaced. “I know—this is Philadelphia. So you don’t know how the piece might have left the building?” If it really was gone.
“Not yet—we’re still collecting information. And again, we don’t even know when it might’ve happened, either. The night before the fire? Six months? We don’t even have footage going back more than a couple of weeks.”
“You’re certainly making it easy.” I laid my hands firmly on the table. “Let me see what I can come up with. What would I get out of the FBI?”
James’s mouth twitched. “Only our deepest respect and gratitude—off the record, of course.”
“Is that like a get-out–of-jail-free card the next time I have a problem?”
He shrugged, which was not helpful.
“All right,” I pressed, “let’s talk about something more solid. When will you be delivering the wandering Terwilliger documents?”
“Is tomorrow soon enough?”
“Perfect. I’ll tell Rich to get ready for them. And Marty. Thank you.” I checked my watch: I could just make the next train. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said as I stood up and started to pull on my coat.
James appeared startled. “You’re leaving already?”
I smiled. “Hey, if you wanted a date, you should have said so. Call me tomorrow and we can make plans. Good night, James.”
My departure may have seemed a bit abrupt, but I wanted time to think about what James had asked me to do. Regardless of whatever tenuous personal relationship we were nursing along, this was business, and I needed a clear head to consider what he had suggested. On the brisk walk to Suburban Station and during the ride home, I had plenty of time to go over what James had said. I’ll admit I didn’t have a very clear grasp of how the FBI worked, but I knew enough that it wasn’t like in the movies—they couldn’t just swoop in anytime they wanted. I’d already learned that, at least in some cases, they had to be invited by the local authorities before they could act. In this case, people were still questioning whether there was a crime at all, let alone one that fell under FBI jurisdiction, or at least they hadn’t said so publicly. So James couldn’t do much more than he was already doing, sniffing around the edges. If we could prove there was an art theft and/or fraud involved, that would be different.
Could anyone autopsy a dead fire engine?
CHAPTER 12
I awoke with the word fire running through my head. Fires were fascinating, primitive. Why else did so many people gather to watch a fire in progress? I’d been guilty of that myself, when years earlier a house in my neighborhood had been struck by lightning and the attic caught fire. I’d felt a mix of fear and fascination. From what little I’d read about the subject, firemen had always been kind of macho types. I mean, really—they used to hold competitions to see how far they could squirt their hoses?
I spent my days amidst literally tons of dry, old paper, which anyone could ignite with a single match and which could quickly burn out of control, and if I allowed myself to think about it, that made me very uncomfortable. Note to self: Look up the status of the Society’s fire control systems. Second note to self: Make sure my home fire extinguisher is in working order and figure out how to use it. Once a fire had started, it would be a little late to stop and read the instructions.
As I ate breakfast, I continued to puzzle over James’s request. The FBI strongly discouraged its agents from involving civilians in investigations, with good reason—and James himself had told me so on more than one occasion. On the other hand, I had insights into a particular community that most agents lacked, so I could make a contribution. On the third hand, someone had died, which made this situation more critical. On the fourth hand—or was I up to feet now?—I didn’t want to betray any confidences that a colleague might share with me, because I had to keep working with these people in the long run. I didn’t know Peter Ingersoll well, so I was unlikely to receive any particularly personal revelations. All I had to do was listen and ask a few innocent and appropriately professional questions. Right?
When I arrived at my office at the Society, Eric was already waiting with a few message slips and a cup of coffee for me. “Do you have spy cameras on the corner outside, so you know when I’ll be here?” I joked.
Eric smiled shyly. “Nope, but I looked up the train schedule, and I know you generally take the same train every day. I can even check to see if the train is on time.”
Ah, the wonders of modern technology—which took the mystery out of a lot of things. I reached for the coffee cup and said, “Anything important this early?�
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“Agent Morrison left a message. And Latoya’s called twice—she seems upset about something.”
That didn’t sound good. Did she know about Alice already? I had been planning to tell her, really—this morning. Of course, as president I had every right to hire whomever I chose, but maybe I ought to have at least left Latoya a message. Had Marty said something?
“Thank you, Eric.” I decided to finish my coffee before I confronted Latoya. Which was a nice theory, but it didn’t work, because three minutes later she came charging into my office.
“When were you planning to tell me about this little intern you hired?” She made it sound as though I’d brought in a hooker or something.
I was not going to apologize. “Latoya, this only came about late yesterday. When I went to tell you, you’d already left for the day. Shut the door, will you?” When she grudgingly complied, I went on. “This is more complicated than it appears—she comes with dollars attached, and hiring her is a favor to Marty Terwilliger and a donor. I’m sure you can find something for her to do. In fact, I’ve got an idea.” I proceeded to outline my grand if vague scheme for focusing on the Terwilliger Collection.
Eventually she nodded. “I can see that makes sense.”
“How did you even find out about her?”
Latoya smiled, not without malice. “She’s waiting downstairs in the reading room.”
“Oh,” I said lamely. Well, the girl was certainly eager. “I said I’d get back to her by the end of the week. I thought we ought to get Nicholas settled before we saddled him with help. Has he given you a firm date yet?”
She gave me a long look and then started laughing. “Apparently he and his employer agreed that there was no point in waiting. He’ll actually be here later this morning, too.”
I had to join in her laughter. “Well, there you go. Fully staffed, and more.”
“I’ll let you know when Nicholas arrives. I think we should talk to him and Rich and the intern together. You can explain your vision to them, and I’ll walk them through the details. Finish your coffee now,” she said sweetly, and she stood and went out the door.
I seized the free moment to return James’s call.
“There’s been another fire,” he said without preamble when he picked up the phone. “Warehouse. Different neighborhood. I’m still not sure the museum’s fire is part of this series, but I thought it might be helpful if you and I talked with a specialist.”
How had he known I was going to agree to help? “What kind of specialist?” I asked.
“An arson profiler.”
“I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”
“There is—and there’s a good one in the Philadelphia area. Could you meet tomorrow at nine?”
“That should work,” I said, looking at my calendar.
“Actually, her office is close to your neighborhood—West Chester. You want to meet at the university there?”
I did some mental calculations. West Chester was definitely the suburbs, like my neighborhood of Bryn Mawr, but it was actually west and south of me. Why was it that people who lived in the city had no clue where anything outside of the city was? “Why don’t you pick me up at my place on your way? Then we can ride together back to the city.”
“All right. I’ll be there tomorrow by nine.” He hung up.
By the time I’d replaced my phone, Latoya was back with Nicholas in tow. “Here he is, Nell. Where do you want to start?” I could see she was enjoying my confusion—things were moving a little too fast for me.
And then the pace picked up. I was trying to think up a response to Nicholas and Latoya when the phone rang and Eric called out, “It’s Bob at the front desk. Something about a delivery from the FBI?”
Oh, shoot—the missing documents! James had said he’d release the recovered papers today, but he hadn’t said they would show up this fast. I picked up my phone. “Bob? Can you please send the delivery people around to the back entrance? I’ll meet them there.”
“Will do.”
I turned to Latoya. “We’ve got to find Rich. The Terwilliger papers are here.” When she looked confused, I realized I hadn’t had a chance to tell her about my conversation with James, either, and I hurried to explain. “The FBI has finally returned our stolen documents, and apparently they’re here, right now.”
Latoya sniffed. “A little notice might have been helpful.” She considered for a moment. “Where do you want to put them? In the vault? Or with the rest of the collection upstairs?”
I was surprised she had even asked. “I don’t know—what do you think? They’re probably not organized, since the FBI has been sitting on them for a while. I know Rich has moved most of the Terwilliger Collection to the third floor, and we can’t just put the other stuff into a public space.”
“Then I recommend we bring them up here to the third floor for processing,” Latoya said.
“Fine by me,” I replied promptly. “Why don’t you go down and accept delivery, and I’ll see if I can find Rich and let him know.”
With that problem solved, sort of, I still had to deal with Nicholas, slouching against the door and looking vaguely disapproving, and with Alice waiting in the reading room. “Nicholas, come with me. I don’t know how much you’ve heard, but we had some theft issues, and the FBI was involved. We’ve recovered a portion of what was taken from us, and now it’s come back to roost. We can use your help in going through it. Oh, and welcome to the Society. We can deal with the formalities later, but right now we have to get this sorted out.”
“Good idea,” Nicholas said, pushing himself off the door frame.
I led the way to the workroom at the back of the third floor, praying I’d find Rich there. He was, and I thanked the gods. “Rich, I’m so glad you’re here!” I looked around the room: there were file boxes scattered everywhere, although I could see they were carefully labeled. “We’ve got a…situation. The good news is that the FBI has released the missing Terwilliger documents. The bad news is that they were just delivered.”
“What, now?” Rich looked around the room. “You’re telling me you want to put them here?”
“We need to go through them and figure out what’s what. At least you’ll have help—this is Nicholas Naylor, our new registrar.” The two young men exchanged cautious handshakes and kind of mumbled at each other, but I wasn’t going to worry about the social niceties. “We just hired him, and I haven’t had time to make an announcement to the staff. And there’s more help on the way.” Rich looked confused, but I didn’t have time to explain Alice’s presence right now. I turned back to Nicholas. “I have a list of what we know was missing from our collections, and there should be information on the registrar’s computer—I know, you haven’t even seen it yet, but I’m sure you can figure it out—I’ll get you the password. I’ll give you a hard copy, which will at least get you started. Rich, Latoya is downstairs at the back door. I asked her to accept delivery, but she’ll need help getting things moved upstairs. Can you go down?”
“Uh, sure,” Rich said, still looking a bit startled. Whatever he had planned for the day clearly wasn’t going to happen. He headed out the door.
“Nicholas, do you think you can set up some sort of method to inventory what’s coming in?”
He nodded, unruffled. “Sure. How much stuff are we talking about?”
I realized I wasn’t exactly sure. Items had vanished from our collections over a long period, but I didn’t know how much had been recovered. “I really don’t know. Maybe we should go down, too, and take a look? Follow me.”
I led him down the back stairs to the loading dock at the back of the building. Latoya met me as I opened the door from the hall. “Nell, you’ve got to see this,” she said, her eyes gleaming. She led me out the back door onto the loading dock, where a truck was backed up, its doors open.
“What?” I said, looking at her, then at the truck.
“How many boxes did you expect?” Latoya asked.<
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“I don’t know. A dozen?” And then I realized what she was saying. “Wait—there’s no way we lost this much stuff. Is there?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ve gone over our records, such as they are, with a fine-tooth comb. I’ve been in regular contact with the FBI. This far exceeds my estimates.”
“Is there an inventory list? Are you sure this is all for us? They want us to sign something.”
Mutely she handed me a clipboard with a multipart form attached. I scanned it quickly, but it didn’t help much. All I could make out was a line item: Documents (167 boxes). Ours was the only name on the “Deliver To” line. I gulped. “This can’t be right,” I whispered, mostly to myself.
And then the light dawned: oh my God, James must have sent us everything the FBI had recovered, not just ours. Which made sense, because how could the FBI have known which pieces were ours? But 167 boxes? I glanced at Rich, and he looked as panicked as I felt.
“Uh, ma’am, I need a signature so I can start unloading,” the delivery driver said.
I looked at Latoya. “Do I sign?”
She shrugged. “I’d rather we had the documents under our stewardship than bouncing around the city.”
She had a point. I had no idea how the FBI had handled them, but further wear and tear jostling around in the back of a delivery truck, not to mention repeated loading and unloading, couldn’t be good for fragile documents and artifacts—assuming that’s what they all were. I took the pen clipped to the board and signed. “Start unloading. Rich, can you coordinate? We’ll need a couple of rolling carts or dollies, at the very least.”
Rich snapped out of his apparent shell shock. “Okay. And let me go up and segregate the T-Collection, so we don’t get even more muddled.”
“What do you want me to do?” Nicholas asked.
“I guess go with Rich and help him prepare upstairs. We can’t start processing everything until we’ve got all this unloaded.” One hundred and sixty-seven boxes, and not a label on any one of them. I felt faint. And if they weren’t all the Society’s materials, what the heck was in those boxes?
Fire Engine Dead Page 10
