The Gray Ghost Read online

  “That’s not the worst of it,” she said, drawing him toward the station. “They’re charging him with murder.”

  15

  Oliver stared at his sister for several long seconds before turning to Sam and Remi. “If you’ll please excuse me, I need to find out what’s going on.”

  “Like I said, maybe we should go with you,” Sam said. “Just in case.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” Allegra asked.

  “My friends,” Oliver said. “Sam and Remi Fargo. They’re guests at Payton Manor.”

  Her brows went up a fraction. “Not exactly the place to drag guests, Oliver. Is there even any furniture left?” She smiled at them. “Pleased, I’m sure. But if you’ll excuse us, this is a family matter, and we need to arrange for a solicitor.”

  “Actually,” Sam said, “we are family.”

  “His mother and Uncle Albert are cousins,” Oliver said. “He’s Cousin Eunice’s son.”

  “It’s possible we can help,” Sam added, “if you can tell us what happened.”

  She crossed her arms, her expression turning dark. “He’s in jail. Arrested early this morning for murder. I’m not sure what else to tell you.”

  Oliver’s face turned pale.

  “Did the police say who he was suspected of killing?” Sam asked. “Or where it happened?”

  “It was a warehouse fire, and the man who died was a security guard.”

  “A security guard? Murdered?” Remi asked.

  She nodded. “The firefighters found the body after they put out the blaze. They say he was one of the security guards from the London Motor Show.”

  Sam looked at Remi, who was doing an admirable job of appearing very neutral. Probably she was thinking the same thing he was, that the man killed was someone involved in helping to get the car out of the showroom during the false fire alarm. “And your uncle?” Sam asked. “Where was he when all this happened?”

  “That’s just it, I don’t know. He says he has no memory of anything but driving off in the Gray Ghost.”

  Oliver stared in shock. Finally, he shook himself, saying, “Uncle Albert can’t remember what he had for breakfast on a good day. How would he remember that?”

  “I have no idea. The police are preparing search warrants for his properties now.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Oliver said. “Why on earth would he be murdering a security guard? Especially for a car he already owns.”

  “They’re saying he did it for insurance,” Allegra said.

  “For the last time, the blasted car has no insurance.”

  “He didn’t know that, did he?”

  “I have no idea. Even so, that’s a far cry from murder.”

  “Where was this warehouse?” Sam asked. “London?”

  “No. Here in Manchester. On Alberg Street.”

  Oliver suddenly looked sick. “Our warehouse?”

  “Uncle Albert’s warehouse, yes. They’re saying that he killed the security guard and set the fire as a distraction to steal the car.”

  “I still don’t believe it. He could barely drive my car when he took it two weeks ago. I can’t picture him trying to drive the Ghost. And, definitely, not murder anyone.”

  It was clear Oliver believed his uncle was innocent. But history was filled with stories of relatives being surprised how many proverbial skeletons were actually stuffed in the closets of their loved ones. And most police weren’t likely to arrest without strong evidence. “What proof do they have?” Sam asked Allegra.

  It was several seconds before she answered. “Video of Uncle Albert driving the Gray Ghost from the warehouse right before the fire. There was a camera mounted on the building across from it. I’ve asked to see the video, but they won’t let me. They’ll only show it to his lawyer and he doesn’t have one, yet.”

  “Then we need to get him one right away,” Oliver said.

  “I’m working on it,” Allegra said. “But in order to hire him, we need money, which is why I need you. You have guardianship over Uncle Albert. With no money to speak of, the solicitor is asking for Payton Manor as collateral.” She pulled some papers and a pen from her purse.

  “Where do I sign?”

  “Oliver,” Sam said. “Before you sign anything, let us at least get an attorney—if nothing else, to look over those papers.”

  “I couldn’t ask—”

  “We insist,” Remi said. “This is stressful enough without worrying about losing your home.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. You’re probably right.”

  “Let’s go in and see what the police have to say,” Sam suggested.

  They learned little more than what Allegra told them. Since Oliver had power of attorney for his uncle, he at least was allowed a short visit, while the others waited in the lobby. When he walked out several minutes later, he looked as bewildered as he had when he’d first learned the news.

  Allegra, who’d been pacing the entire time, stopped, looked at her brother. “Well?” she asked.

  “Just as you said. The detective told me there’s video of Uncle Albert climbing in the window of the warehouse just before the fire started in the office. A few minutes later, he’s opening the garage doors and driving off in the Gray Ghost.”

  “See? Can we just sign the papers now and get him a solicitor?”

  “The thing is,” Oliver said, almost as if he didn’t hear her, “how could he remember the location of a warehouse he hasn’t been to in years when he couldn’t even find his way home that afternoon he wrecked my car?”

  “He wrecked your car?” Allegra asked. “Why am I only just learning about this?”

  “The point is, he couldn’t find his way home from downtown Manchester to Payton Manor, so how would he find his way to that warehouse from London? That’s over four hours. Longer, even, when you consider the speed limitations of the Gray Ghost.”

  “Clearly he didn’t drive it. It had to have been in a truck.”

  “But who drove the truck?” Oliver asked. “The dead security guard? Uncle Albert only remembers waking up in the car. As expected, he can’t recall where it is.”

  Sam and Remi exchanged glances, Sam thinking that video evidence was pretty strong. Remi’s expression was one of surprise mixed with disappointment, undoubtedly hoping for proof of the man’s innocence, not his guilt. Remi tended to root for the underdog, and up until this moment, that had clearly been the case.

  Apparently, she wasn’t ready to give up, asking Oliver, “After talking to him, what do you think?”

  “Only that he would never murder anyone.”

  Allegra crossed her arms, her expression stern. “Maybe not on purpose. But you have to admit, the insurance fraud . . . He still has moments when he’s all there.”

  “Fewer and farther between. There is nothing you can say that’ll let me believe he’s guilty of any of this.”

  “The video,” she said.

  Oliver’s face fell, and he sank into a chair. “Uncle Albert isn’t a thief or a murderer. That’s not how he taught me to live. And in those moments of lucidity, would a man intent on selling off the last of the family possessions to save his tenants resort to something like this?”

  Remi nodded. “He has a point.”

  “The problem is,” Sam said, “the police believe otherwise or they wouldn’t have arrested him. The investigators are looking for something more concrete than your belief that he’s a man of character and worth, which gets you nowhere in court when faced with this sort of evidence.”

  “The most obvious?” Oliver said. “He couldn’t possibly climb in that window on his own. And no way could he drive that car at night without his glasses. Probably not even with them. You heard what happened when he took my car.”

  The mystery deepened, and Sam looked at Remi, noticing her brows go up al
most imperceptibly. She was as intrigued as he. “The way I see it,” Remi said, “it can’t hurt to take a quick visit to that warehouse and have a look around.”

  16

  Allegra looked aghast at Remi’s announcement. “The warehouse? You think that’s wise? In the midst of the police investigation?”

  “We’re only going to look. Should be safe enough if the police are there.”

  “You can’t be serious, Oliver,” Allegra said. “Think about it.”

  “I trust Sam and Remi.”

  “Well, I’ll have no part of it.” She stuffed her papers back in her purse. “If you’re going to go off on this wild-goose chase, someone needs to stay by the phone in case of emergency.” She stalked off, clearly perturbed by their intentions.

  “She’ll be fine,” Oliver said. “A bit bossy, ever since her divorce, and stressed from raising her son on her own.” He stood. “Shall we?”

  * * *

  —

  THE WAREHOUSE was located on the south side of town, surrounded by a sea of old brick warehouses constructed around the turn of the twentieth century. The police had come and gone, as evident by the yellow crime scene tape pulled away and stuffed in a garbage can, its long ends fluttering in the breeze.

  Facing the street was the main entrance, a double door constructed of heavy corrugated iron. It was a massive affair barely wide enough to allow a modern truck through. The doors were secured shut with a chain and massive padlock that looked strong enough to stop a locomotive. All the windows of the warehouse had been boarded up with plywood.

  “We should walk around the perimeter of the building,” said Sam.

  Quietly, almost afraid of making a sound, they walked through a century of trash and foliage, pausing to listen but hearing nothing except an occasional chirping from a male bird trying to seduce a female.

  As they rounded the last corner, Sam thought he heard a scraping noise behind him. He drew his gun, motioning the others to be silent. But it was nothing, just a brief puff of wind blowing a branch of a tree against the building.

  Oliver eyed his weapon, looking mortified. “Is that really necessary?”

  “I wish it wasn’t,” Sam said. Given their experience in London, he wasn’t about to take any chances. He kept his gun down by his side.

  “What, exactly, are you looking for?” Oliver asked.

  “Not sure yet. Something out of place. Hoping I’ll recognize it when I see it.”

  He paused in front of the building across the street, noticing a camera mounted near the roofline and pointed toward the Payton warehouse. “Who owns that place?”

  Oliver looked in the direction of the camera. “I haven’t the faintest.”

  “Might be worth it to find out.”

  “He had to have climbed in one of these,” Remi said, pointing to one of several boarded-up windows along the front. “The others around back are too high.”

  In fact, the lower part of the window frame was a little over waist-high. “He doesn’t really have the upper body strength to pull himself up,” Oliver said.

  Remi checked out the camera on the other building. “Seems like an odd choice of entry for someone committing a crime.”

  Sam walked over to the recessed door leading to the office. He motioned Oliver and Remi into the protected area.

  He looked at Oliver. “What did your uncle keep in this warehouse?”

  Oliver shrugged. “A few old cars and farm equipment he sold off when he needed the money.”

  “Any chance we can get inside?”

  “Of course.” As Oliver pulled out his keys, a gunshot cracked, bits of brick hitting them.

  Sam stepped in front of Remi as she pulled Oliver next to her in the doorway. The gunman was somewhere to their left.

  Two more shots hit the wall beside them from the right. “Remi?” he called out, unable to spot the second shooter.

  “We’re fine. I came prepared.” She already had her Sig Sauer drawn.

  He gripped his Smith & Wesson, scanning the street. “Not trying to pressure you, Oliver. But we need in. Now.”

  “One of these keys,” Oliver said.

  Sam kept his focus outward, gun aimed, as Oliver, hand shaking, worked at the lock on the warehouse door, unable to find the right key.

  They needed to move.

  17

  Oliver dropped the keys as several shots hit the building.

  “Remi?”

  “Got you covered, Sam.”

  She fired once in each direction as Sam gave the door a hard kick, but it didn’t budge.

  Abruptly, Oliver pushed Sam aside, threw his shoulder against the door, and watched as the Fargos stared, dumbstruck, at seeing it swing open and crash against its hinge stops.

  “Where did you learn how to open doors like that?” asked Remi, highly impressed.

  “From three years on the Manchester Unified Soccer Team—”

  Oliver was interrupted by a spray of shotgun pellets that ricocheted off the bricks beside Sam. Remi wasted no time raising her Sig Sauer, and she fired around the doorway but was unable to spot the gunman. Sam laid down a short barrage of fire at two targets he spotted on the roof of the building next door.

  Oliver threw his arms over his head at the crack of the gunshot, as shreds of brick cut tiny furrows in his forehead. Sam shielded Remi when she rammed against Oliver, propelling him through the open doorway. He emptied the Smith & Wesson at the gunmen on the roof. One clutched his shoulder as he fell over the edge of the parapet. He was quickly dragged away by his companions.

  The office was black with soot, the floor still wet, everything reeking of charred wood. There was a second door leading into the warehouse that was also locked. Oliver threw his shoulder into it. The moment they were through, Sam slammed the door closed, Oliver pushing a heavy workbench against it. All were breathing heavily when Remi checked the men. The only injuries she found were the lacerations on Oliver’s head.

  “We need something heavier to block the door,” Sam said, scanning the concrete floor. He spotted a rusty engine block hanging from a red hoist’s chain and pulleys less than fifty feet away. Sam and Oliver, shoulder to shoulder, rolled the engine block on the hoist’s overhead rail unit until it was hanging over the workbench. Oliver lowered the hoist’s iron hook until the hunk of iron it was supporting thumped on the bench’s surface, securely blocking the doorway. And none too soon.

  They heard footsteps in the office, then someone shouting, “Get that door open.”

  Sam spoke to Remi in a low vice. “How many shots do you have left?”

  “Three. How about you?”

  “Just reloaded,” Sam whispered.

  “Come closer to the door,” came a gruff voice. “We can’t hear you.”

  Sam silently motioned everyone back. Just as they moved farther away, hugging the concrete floor that reeked with rancid diesel oil, a deafening blast of automatic gunfire filled the warehouse.

  “Down!” Sam shouted, shielding Remi beneath him. Oliver froze, and Sam reached up and pulled him to the floor as another barrage of bullets ricocheted off the engine block. Lying on his stomach safely below the spread of bullets, Sam looked around the warehouse and took stock. It was empty except for two classic vehicles, a dark green 1929 4½-liter Blower Bentley and a classic 1917 Ahrens-Fox fire engine, against the rear wall. Frozen in time, neither looked like their tires had rolled over a street in a century. They were parked side by side next to a metal tool cabinet and under three skylights coated with layers of soot and dust that only allowed a dim blanket of daylight to leak through to the interior of the warehouse.

  To their left, at the far end of the ancient building, stood the impassible corrugated iron doors, unfortunately secured on the outside with the huge chain and padlock. They saw no sign of another exit. Or useable phone.

 
He checked Remi, who seemed well composed, using her cell phone to call for help. Not so for Oliver, his skin tone ashen, a sheen of perspiration glistening on his forehead. Sam noticed he was cradling his right elbow, blood seeping through his fingers. Sam quickly pulled off Oliver’s coat and saw a deep gash and led him to a seat behind one of the two desks pushed together as a workbench. “Remi,” he shouted, seeing a stack of clean orange rags folded on the counter near a pegboard. “Toss me a couple.”

  Remi grabbed several, bringing them to him. He folded one as a compress, pressing it against Oliver’s arm, knotting two others together to hold it in place. At least it wasn’t arterial. He’d survive—assuming they could escape.

  Whoever was out there wasn’t worried about stealth, their heavy boots shuffling across the floor with whatever they were doing. A few seconds later, complete silence, and Sam hoped the men had given up. But then the strong scent of diesel reached them, the oil flowing under the door, pooling beneath the engine they’d used to block it.

  Suddenly they heard a new rippling sound, followed by a loud woosh, as a growing holocaust raced across the warehouse floor.

  Oliver reared back, fear bordering on panic. “Fire! There’s no escape!”

  Remi ignored Oliver and calmly informed emergency services that the Payton warehouse was on fire. “Please hurry. Mr. Payton is trapped inside. Please hurry,” she repeated in her best uptight tone.

  Sam grabbed the fire hose from the wall, hoping it was still connected to the outside water hydrant. He aimed at the blazing fire, opened the valve, and was rewarded with a lame spurt.

  Remi had pocketed her phone and grabbed an extinguisher from the rack on the wall. One twist with both hands and it broke off in a cloud of dust, along with an avalanche of mummified rat bones. Undeterred, she aimed at the fire. Nothing happened.

  “Now what do we do?” Oliver muttered, shrinking into the corner.

  Sam and Remi’s eyes locked on each other for a moment, well aware they might never see tomorrow. In unison, they turned and stared at the old Ahrens-Fox pumper fire engine.