“Well, I still haven’t had my caffeine. Want to head back to the Boudreau house and see if they’ve got some coffee?”
Before Beth could answer, her cell phone rang. Looking down at the caller ID, she noted Nica’s name. “Nica, everything okay?
“Beth, I can’t find Jamie. She’s gone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
With the fire finally contained, Brody left Jeff in charge of clearing and processing the scene, and looking for evidence of foul play. Jeff had almost finished his courses, and this would be good on-the-job experience, though he’d follow up on everything he did, to make sure he didn’t miss anything vital. In the meantime, though, he needed to head to the sheriff’s station, and update Rafe on what the forensic arson crime lab uncovered about the Summers’ fire.
How could Greg do this? The man flat-out lied to his face yesterday when he’d questioned him about his family’s homestead. When he’d asked him if he could think of a single person who’d want to burn it, he’d said no. An awful thought raced through his mind, one he hadn’t wanted to considered, even when he’d suspected Greg’s involvement. Could Greg’s family be in on it? Would they condone, maybe even orchestrate, the fire and subsequent coverup? It didn’t seem plausible, but at this point, he wasn’t sure about anything anymore.
Right now, he had more questions than answers. The only concrete thing he had was documented proof Greg’s prints were found at the scene. He decided to take a deep breath and break down the facts. Number one, Greg had the means. Gasoline as an accelerant was quick, easy to obtain, and affordable. Anybody could drive up to a gas station and fill up a five-gallon container without arousing suspicion, especially in a small town like Shiloh Springs. Number two, Greg had motive. His family was in desperate need of a cash infusion. His mother’s cancer treatments were mounting and expensive, draining the family’s coffers dry. As a motive, it was hard to think of a better one. Paying for an ailing parent’s chemotherapy and radiation therapy treatments might hold sway with jurors, compassionate circumstances notwithstanding. Number three, Greg had the opportunity to commit the crime. Though he lived in San Antonio, it wasn’t that far a drive to Shiloh Springs. He could have done it and gotten back home before he’d been missed, with no one the wiser.
Pulling up in front of the sheriff’s station, he sat with his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, gripping it until his knuckles turned white. He never minded putting a firebug behind bars. It was his job. His responsibility. Keeping people and their homes and property safe was something he took seriously. Yet now his conscious warred with his oath to protect. Greg was his friend. He’d know the family for more than twenty years.
With a heavy sigh, he climbed out of his truck and headed inside. He needed to talk to Rafe, get his head on straight before he did something he might regret. Sally Anne greeted him as he walked inside, though she seemed subdued, almost sad. He waved, but couldn’t allow himself to be distracted. This needed to be handled now, before he headed for San Antonio and a confrontation with Greg.
After a perfunctory knock on Rafe’s door, he opened it and stopped short, spotting Greg sitting across from Rafe. The seriousness in his brother’s expression had the little hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention.
“What’s going on?”
“Come in, Brody, and close the door.” Rafe motioned to the chair beside Greg. “We have a situation.”
“You have no idea,” Brody muttered under his breath.
“Greg, you want to tell him or should I?”
Greg’s shoulders slumped, and he couldn’t quite meet Brody’s gaze. “I’m turning myself in. I’m the one who set the fires.”
Fires? Plural?
“Okay,” he drawled out the word, his gaze shifting to Rafe.
“I’ve read Mr. Summers his rights, and he’s waived his right to counsel. Greg, why don’t you start at the beginning, and tell Brody what you told me.” Rafe pointed to the recorder on his desk, and Brody raised his brows, looking at his brother.
“Like I told Rafe, I mean Sheriff Boudreau, I started the fire on our property. The barn. I was desperate. My dad was calling me all the time, moaning and groaning about how the land wouldn’t sell, how he needed the money for Mom’s treatments. I’m overextended. My savings are gone. I wiped out any credit I had, borrowed money from any place I