Circle of Influence (A Zoe Chambers Mystery)

by Dashofy, Annette

  “Mom?” Logan’s strained tone snapped Zoe’s attention away from Pete’s back disappearing through the door.

  Rose gripped the back of one of the living room chairs so tight, her knuckles went white. She tipped forward and Zoe thought she would tumble face first onto the floor, but Logan caught her. Sobs racked Rose’s thin frame and she collapsed against him. Logan towered head and shoulders above his mother, but when his face twisted in despair, he reminded Zoe of the nine-year-old boy whose puppy had slipped its leash and been hit by a car so many years before.

  Tears warmed Zoe’s cheeks, too. She looked at Allison who had at least lifted her eyes and was watching the scene, though her face remained emotionless.

  Stop fighting it, little one, Zoe wanted to say. You don’t need to be tough for us.

  “He’s gone?” Rose hiccupped. “Zoe? Tell me it’s not true.”

  Zoe crossed the room and drew mother and son into her embrace. “I wish I could,” she whispered into Rose’s hair. “I really wish I could.”

  The snow had finally stopped by the time Pete parked next to the station’s front door and checked the dashboard clock. Three fifty-four.

  Bells on the door jingled, announcing his return. Sylvia popped up behind the half wall, her faded blue eyes glazed with concern. “Well, it’s about time. What the hell’s been going on? Why wouldn’t you tell me over the phone? I was afraid something had happened to you.”

  “I’m fine.” Pete ran several possible versions of the upcoming conversation through his mind. “Come into my office. I need to talk to you about something.”

  She squinted at him. “What about?”

  “Just come into my damned office already.” Without waiting for more questions from her, he passed her door and hoped she would follow.

  She did. Sylvia took a seat facing his desk and leaned her forearms on its edge.

  Pete sunk into his well-worn chair. He met her curious gaze for a moment before looking away.

  “All right, Pete. What’s up? You get into trouble for not throwing my old ass into lock-up?”

  “Nothing like that. But I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s about Ted.”

  “What about Ted? Oh, God. He beat the crap out of Jerry McBirney, didn’t he? I knew something like this was going to happen. That boy has got a temper—”

  Pete reached over and put a hand on her arm. “Sylvia. That call about the car stuck in the game lands? There was a body inside. It was Ted.”

  The room grew quiet. Sylvia’s mouth hung open. Her gaze slid from Pete to the desktop. “I don’t think I heard you right. You mean Ted was on the fire crew at the scene.”

  “No, Sylvia. I mean Ted was the victim.”

  For several moments, the only sound in the office was the soft tick of the clock on the wall, counting off seconds. When she spoke, her words were little more than a squeak. “He’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Pete didn’t notice her breathing. She slumped against the back of the chair.

  “Sylvia?”

  She blinked. And choked back a moan. “That son-of-a-bitch McBirney,” she said, her voice low and deliberate. “That son-of-a-bitch killed my boy.”

  By eight o’clock in the morning, the sun was shimmering across a blinding white landscape. Bone weary, Zoe slipped on her sunglasses as she climbed into her battered Chevy pickup truck outside the ambulance garage, where Pete had dropped her off after taking Sylvia back to the house to watch over what was left of the Bassi family.

  Zoe was glad there hadn’t been any more calls in those last few hours before the daylight guys came staggering in to relieve her, Earl, and the four other members of her shift. Not that she’d gotten any sleep. She’d lain on the lumpy mattress and stared at the underside of the bunk above her, Ted’s ghastly gray face fixed to the inside of her eyelids every time she ventured to close them.

  The salt trucks were out, and while the roads weren’t entirely clear, at least they were sloppy rather than slick. No sooner had Zoe pulled onto Phillipsburg’s narrow Main Street than a car passed going the other way, splashing brownish, salty slush on her windshield. She cursed to herself for forgetting to fill the washer fluid reservoir and hoped she had enough to make it home.

  Ten minutes later, when she pulled into the farm lane, she realized she didn’t remember a thing about the trip. Her mind kept replaying the events from last night. Ted’s body. Logan looking like a little boy trying to be a man. Allison withdrawing into herself, pushing her emotions into an unreachable cubby. And Rose, pale and in shock, then hysterical after Pete disclosed the details of where Ted’s body had been found. He was her entire life. They were what all married couples should be—a team in every way. How would Rose get along without him?

  Zoe was glad to see the farm lane had been plowed. She didn’t feel like fighting with the transfer case to shift her twenty-year-old truck into four-wheel-drive. She braked as she approached the huge old white farmhouse, then opted to continue on to the barn.

  The house—circa 1850s—boasted a wide center hall and staircase that split it in two. She rented one half—two rooms and a kitchen downstairs, a bedroom and bath upstairs—from Mr. and Mrs. Kroll, who were well into retirement age. When Zoe had approached them about the ad offering a portion of their house for rent as well as a stall for her horse, the timing had been perfect. They offered her both at a discount if she agreed to manage the barn. Considering her small-town paramedic’s income barely covered the cost of gas for her truck and food for her and her critters, the deal was perfect. She made up the difference by giving riding lessons. Some months she even made enough for extravagances. Like clothes.

  She trudged through the snow from her truck to the big barn—the new one with an indoor riding arena lined by stalls on two sides. Massive double doors on both ends were currently closed against the bitter wind. She slipped in through the standard-sized one facing the driveway.

  Soft nickers greeted her. One of the boarders must have fed the horses or the whinnies would’ve been much more insistent. When she checked the dry-erase whiteboard on the wall by the feed and tack room, as predicted, Patsy Greene had left a note stating that she’d fed them an hour earlier. Patsy also noted that her horse, Jazzel, was to be kept in. The vet would be there late morning to check on the mare’s mysterious lameness.

  The familiar sounds of horses shuffling in their stalls, eager to be released and smells of warm manure mingling with hay and wood shavings should have soothed Zoe. But instead, the barn’s peacefulness felt bizarre to her. How could the world just go on as if nothing had happened? Her body was stuck doing routine chores while her mind raced. She needed to do something. But what?

  She checked her watch. Pete would be on his way to Jerry McBirney’s house by now. Damn. She wanted to be there when Pete questioned that bastard. She wanted it so bad, she ached. But Pete had forbidden it. Claimed she might say or do something that would jeopardize any case he built against McBirney.

  What annoyed her the most was that he was probably right. She preferred to think she could restrain herself when facing the man likely responsible for Ted’s death—and so much more. But if she was honest with herself, she wasn’t so sure she could hold back her anger.

  George, the school pony, nudged her over his stall door, rousting her from her thoughts. Smiling, Zoe rubbed his furry ears. She decided to leave the pony in his stall next to Jazzel’s to keep the fidgety Arabian mare company. After tossing both of them an extra flake of hay, Zoe put a shoulder into the huge sliding back door that opened into the pasture. It rebelled, then released with a loud, metallic grumble. Starting at the first stall, she unlatched and opened each one, stepping out of the way as the horses charged out and into the snow. Several immediately dropped and rolled in the white powder. One gave an impromptu bucking demonstration. The older ones simply ambl
ed off, nose to the ground, sniffing out bits of grass beneath the snow.

  The last horse she released to the outdoors was her own twelve-year-old Quarter Horse gelding, Windstar. He pawed at the stall door as she approached.

  “Patience, Windy,” she said, sliding the latch.

  He snorted in response.

  “Whoa.” She used her firm, no-nonsense voice.

  As if understanding the trouble he would be in if he misbehaved, he stood motionless, but alert, when Zoe opened the door.

  She stepped to one side. “Okay.”

  He half-crouched and launched from the stall as if it were a starting gate, kicking up his heels as he charged across the empty arena and out of the barn.

  Zoe followed him at a more subdued pace.

  She checked her watch again. Ten whole minutes had passed. Pete was probably talking to McBirney. Rose was probably making phone calls.

  There had to be something she could do. Franklin Marshall and Doc Abercrombie, the forensic pathologist, would perform the autopsy later today. She considered driving back into Brunswick for it, but no way did she want to watch Doc cutting into Ted. She should just finish her morning chores and get some sleep. Later there would be stalls to clean, water buckets to fill. Mundane daily tasks took no vacation because of a tragic thing like the death of a friend.

  As she reached the door, her cell phone chirped. The name Logan appeared on the small screen..

  “Aunt Zoe?” The teenager’s voice trembled. “I need your help. I think I’ve done something really bad.”

  FIVE

  Pete took another hit from his travel mug of strong, black coffee as he steered his vehicle into the long driveway leading to the McBirney house. Caffeine. What he really needed was an antacid to quell the churning in his gut. The thought of interrogating Jerry McBirney didn’t bother him. In fact, to remain professional, he’d have to mask his satisfaction at the idea of arresting the asshole. No, Jerry wasn’t the McBirney Pete dreaded. Marcy McBirney, formerly Marcy Adams, his ex-wife… He’d made it a point to avoid running into her. Until now.

  The glare of the sun off the snow forced Pete to squint behind his sunglasses. The sputtering rumble of a tractor filtered through the Explorer’s closed windows. As he topped the hill and eased down the other side, the farmhouse, barns and sheds stretched out before him. Odd shaped mounds of snow surrounded the outbuildings, indicating buried pieces of machinery and shrubbery.

  What the hell had Ted Bassi been doing in Jerry McBirney’s car? Had he driven out to the game lands alone? Or did someone drive him there and place his body behind the wheel? How and where had he sustained those injuries? Rose hadn’t been able to give Pete any answers to his questions. Nor did she claim to have any knowledge of where Ted’s old Ford F-150 pickup was.

  Pete spotted the tractor maneuvering around the outside of the older barn below the house. A man he assumed was McBirney sat perched on top of it, bundled in brown Carhartt coveralls. The driver hadn’t noticed Pete’s arrival or perhaps chose to ignore him. Either was fine with Pete. He preferred to do a little quiet snooping before dealing with the questions anyway.

  He’d spent the better part of an afternoon at the farm last summer investigating a wildfire, and he still recalled in which shed McBirney usually kept his Buick. He parked the Explorer in front of that building, cut the engine, and climbed out.

  The wind had died down, but the January sun lacked the strength to warm the icy air. He looked at his travel mug. The contents would likely be cold or at least lukewarm by the time he returned to it. But he wanted his hands free so the coffee stayed behind.

  He approached the shed that housed a baler, some tools, a John Deere lawn and garden tractor, and usually the pale blue Buick. Today, however, that bay stood empty.

  “Hello, Pete.”

  Every muscle in his back clenched at the familiar voice. He pictured her face before he even turned. And when he did, his memory hadn’t failed him. Marcy remained as drop-dead lovely as he recalled, even bundled in a hooded parka with her face half-hidden by a woolen scarf. She tucked her hands under her arms for warmth. Jeans hugged those incredible legs down to a pair of furry mukluks.

  “Marcy,” he said, trying to keep the chill from his voice. He wasn’t sure he succeeded.

  She tipped her head to one side. “What brings you out here?”

  “Business.”

  “Well, I figured it wasn’t pleasure.” She looked toward the tractor moving snow from around the old barn. “Jerry will be up in a few minutes. I was just heading out to an appointment in town.”

  Perfect. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  But she didn’t move.

  “It’s okay. You can go.” Pete made a shooing motion with his hand.

  “I’m not in a hurry.”

  Damn. Marcy never did make life easy for him. “Do you mind if I look around?”

  A scowl crossed her dark eyes. “Why?”

  He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “Why not?” He tried to sound flippant.

  But she knew him too well. “I think maybe you should wait for Jerry.”

  “Fine.” He swung his gaze to the shed as casually as he could. “Where’s the Buick?”

  Pete had caught her off-guard. “Huh?”

  “Jerry’s Buick. The one he parks over there.” He motioned to the empty spot in the shed.

  Marcy’s eyebrows rose. The scarf failed to obscure the questioning frown. “I…” Her voice trailed off, and for a moment she was silent. Except for the wheels Pete swore he heard grinding in her head. “I suppose Jerry loaned it to one of his buddies,” was the best she could come up with.

  He hid his smile behind a forced frown, but noticed his ex-wife watching him. She was trying to read him as only she could. Turning his back to her, Pete spotted McBirney making his way up the hill toward them. The tractor roared as he hit the throttle and bounced up the rutted lane.

  Pete wanted to be the first one to pose the question of the missing Buick to McBirney, but he knew that given a chance, Marcy would try to beat him to it.

  “Thanks, Marcy. I’ll let you get to your appointment while I talk to your husband.” Those last two words grated on his tongue.

  “I have plenty of time.”

  Obviously, being clever wasn’t going to work. He’d have to shift into official-mode. “I’m sorry. I really need to talk to him alone. You know. Business.”

  “As in official business. I get it. What’s this all about, Pete? What’s going on?”

  Before he could insist she leave, McBirney and his tractor pulled up beside them. The tractor sputtered to a stop.

  “Chief Adams,” McBirney called out as he climbed down. “Once again, your timing is impeccable. I was just about to go inside and call you.”

  This wasn’t how Pete expected the conversation to begin. But it was more intriguing than what he’d planned, so what the hell. “Really?”

  McBirney sidled over to Marcy and slipped an arm around her waist. “Hello, darling.” He planted a kiss on her lips.

  Clenching his jaw, Pete tried not to look away. Of course, this little show was all for his benefit. Knowing it, however, didn’t make it any less painful.

  “Yes.” McBirney held Marcy close to his side and turned his attention back to Pete. “I need to report a stolen vehicle.”

  He seemed serious. Marcy appeared startled. Interesting.

  “A stolen vehicle? Which one?” Pete loved playing dumb.

  “My Buick.” McBirney waved an arm at the shed. “I parked it last night and when I came out this morning, it was gone.”

  Pete pulled his notebook from his pocket and clicked his pen. “Any idea who might have taken it?”

  McBirney frowned, his gaze shifting to his left. “Do I have any idea who might hav
e taken my car?” he repeated.

  “That was the question, yes.”

  “Not really.”

  “What’s that mean? Either you have an idea or you don’t.”

  “No. I have no idea.” McBirney rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

  Pete nodded. He didn’t believe a word of it. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Not at all.”

  Pete headed toward the shed, knowing that McBirney and Marcy trailed behind. “You said you parked it last night. When was that?”

  “About eight-thirty, quarter of nine. After the supervisors’ meeting broke up. By the way, have you thrown Sylvia Bassi in jail yet?”

  A pain shot through Pete’s right temple. “Not yet.”

  “I don’t know what you’re waiting for. And I want that computer confiscated, too.”

  “Right now, I’m busy taking your stolen vehicle report. Why don’t we focus on that, okay? What did you do after you parked the car?”

  “I went inside. Why?”

  Pete shrugged. “Did you hear anything? Like someone hanging around outside? Maybe you heard the motor starting.”

  “No. I didn’t hear anything. I was watching TV.”

  “Yeah? What was on?”

  “A movie. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. I just love Clint Eastwood. Don’t you?”

  “Uh huh.” Pete jotted a note to check the television listings.

  He studied the interior of the shed. The building was constructed of rough-hewn timber. The sides and roof consisted of corrugated tin. No frills. The equipment inside seemed well cared for. A pegboard held an assortment of tools. Rakes, a hoe, and several shovels hung from sets of nails pounded into the support posts. Other nails held bundles of twine, old license plates, and rolls of tape. An uncluttered workbench ran the length of the back wall.

  “I wonder how they got it started.” Pete hoped he sounded as if he were merely thinking out loud.