“I know. In the meantime, I could use your input. You know the people involved. Some of them very well. The bereaved widow McBirney for one.” Baronick waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Pete nearly reconsidered his decision not to make the detective wear the coffee.
He must have sensed Pete’s thoughts. “Calm down, Pete. Try not to be so pigheaded about this. We both know you’re a better cop than I’ll ever hope to be. But local departments simply don’t have the budget to effectively handle major crimes. That’s just the way it is.”
“Stop blowing smoke up my ass, Wayne.”
“Your ex-wife wasn’t very forthcoming last night. As soon as she got word her husband was dead, she clammed up and demanded a lawyer.”
Good for Marcy, Pete thought.
“Don’t suppose you know how she got that shiner.” The detective sipped his coffee.
“McBirney slugged her.”
Baronick choked. He fumbled in his pockets until he found a handkerchief, which he coughed into. “You know that for a fact?”
“I do.”
He raised his eyebrows.
Pete knew he was waiting for more, but didn’t feel like making it easy on him.
“Okay. How do you know?” Baronick wiped his mouth with the handkerchief before stuffing it into his pocket.
“She mentioned it yesterday when she came in to tell me she thought her husband killed Ted Bassi.”
Baronick’s eyes grew wide. He set his coffee on the floor and dug his notebook from his jacket. “Maybe you should just tell me everything you know.”
As much fun as it was toying with the detective, Pete decided to get it over with. He told Baronick about Marcy’s failing marriage, her meetings with Ted Bassi, and McBirney’s suspicions.
Baronick didn’t say anything for several moments after Pete finished his report. He tapped his pen against his pursed lips and glowered at his notes.
Pete sipped his coffee.
“I don’t suppose,” Baronick said at last, “that you happened to Mirandize Mrs. McBirney?”
“Didn’t have to. I wasn’t interrogating her. She came in of her own volition to revoke her previous statement that she was home the night Ted Bassi was killed.”
“Still. If she gets a good attorney, he’ll have any statement incriminating her thrown out. Damn it, Pete. You should have read her her rights.”
Pete jiggled the Starbucks cup. Empty. Shit.
“Who else had reason to kill McBirney?” Baronick said.
Who didn’t? Pete wasn’t about to mention Zoe’s late night confession. That left Sylvia and Rose and all the disgruntled township residents McBirney had pissed off during his term in office. And before. “The man had a lot of enemies.”
Baronick’s eyes narrowed as he studied Pete. “Including you, Chief.”
Pete’s hand tightened on the empty cup and it crumpled. “What exactly are you suggesting, Detective?”
Baronick scribbled something in his notebook and then closed it and slid it into his jacket pocket. “I’m not suggesting anything. Just stating a fact. Marcy McBirney was a battered wife. You’re her ex-husband. Not only did our homicide victim steal your wife years ago, but then he abuses her. Don’t suppose you have an alibi for last evening between 4:30 and 6:30, do you?”
Pete wanted to snap an easy answer at the jackass. But the fact was he’d been working on the Jaeger. In his basement.
Alone.
The bells on the door announced someone had entered the station. “Chief?” Kevin called. “I’ve got your coffee.”
Pete glared at Baronick. “I think it’s time you leave.”
The detective stood. “You’re absolutely right. I have a lot of work to do.” He extended a hand to Pete. “Thanks, Chief. You’ve been very helpful.”
Pete held Baronick’s gaze. He didn’t look down at the hand and sure didn’t intend on shaking it.
Kevin appeared in the doorway with a plastic Food Mart bag in his hand. “Hey, Detective,” he said.
The game of who-blinks-first went on for several long, silent moments. Pete won.
Baronick cleared his throat and turned. He patted Kevin’s shoulder as he passed, mumbling a greeting to him.
“What was that all about?” Kevin asked when the bells indicated the detective had left.
“Nothing.” Pete tossed the worse-for-wear Starbucks cup in the trash. “Make me a pot of coffee.”
Zoe’s sleep would have been disrupted by two more calls overnight—had she slept. But both times the pager tones went off, she’d been wide awake, staring at the underside of the bunk above her. By eight o’clock, Friday’s daylight shift had shown up. She mumbled goodbyes and ventured into the morning sun.
The sky was crystalline blue and the air so cold that the hairs in her nose froze. She tugged her parka’s collar higher, trying to protect her face.
Her truck groaned a bit, but the motor turned over after only minor wavering. She set the heater and the fan on high and flexed her fingers inside her gloves to encourage blood flow.
Jerry McBirney was dead.
All night, that’s as far as her brain would venture. But with the light of day burning into the shadows of her mind, she had to consider some hard questions.
Who killed him? What had Logan found on the computer yesterday?
Where the hell had Logan gone?
Zoe shifted into drive and hit the gas. Before she let her mind take off on some ridiculous tangent, she needed the answers to those last two questions. As long as Logan wasn’t involved, she didn’t care much about the first one.
Except maybe to shake that person’s hand.
Five minutes later, she wheeled onto Rose’s street and parked in front of her house. As Zoe pounded on the door, she prayed a bleary-eyed Logan would answer.
Instead, a pale, gaunt Rose let her in.
“Have you heard from Logan?” Rose said.
“No. I’d hoped he was here.”
“I haven’t seen him since he left for your place yesterday after the funeral.” Rose’s eyes were red and moist, her lips raw and cracked.
Sylvia sat on the couch in the living room. Dark circles shadowed her bloodshot eyes. “Good morning, dear,” she said to Zoe, her voice strained and weak.
Zoe leaned down to give her a hug and then turned back to Rose. “He left my house around two. Said a friend needed his help with something.”
Rose nodded and started pacing. “He called me and said the same thing. Told me he didn’t know what time he’d be home. But when he wasn’t back by nine, I started calling his cell phone. It keeps going to voicemail.” She threw her hands up. “I spent half the night driving around looking for him, but I don’t know where else he could be. I wish Ted were here.” Her voice cracked, and she sank into one of the living room chairs.
Zoe knelt at her feet and placed a hand on her knee. “Did you call around to his friends?”
“Of course I did. I called everyone I could think of.” Rose brushed a tear from her cheek with a trembling hand.
Zoe hated what she was thinking. McBirney was dead. Logan was missing.
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Have you called the cops?”
“I tried Pete last night,” Sylvia said. “Damned voicemail. I left a message, but he hasn’t called back. Rose refuses to call 9-1-1.”
“I can’t,” Rose wailed. “I’m afraid. What if…you know…there really is something wrong.” She burst into tears. “I can’t take it, Zoe. I just buried Ted. I can’t lose my boy, too.”
Sylvia hauled herself up from the couch and moved to Rose’s side. Her eyes glistened as she rested a hand on her daughter-in-law’s shoulder.
Zoe couldn’t breathe. She had to tell them. Damn Logan. If onl
y he were home, safe and sound. And innocent. Then it wouldn’t be so hard to say the words.
“Jerry McBirney was killed last night.”
Zoe noticed Sylvia’s fingers tighten on Rose’s shoulder. Rose made a sound that was half gasp, half retch. She stared at the carpet. The refrigerator’s soft hum in the next room sounded more like a tractor in the midst of the silence.
Sylvia spoke first with a hushed, “Hallelujah.” She released her grip on Rose, stood up tall, and stalked into the kitchen. A chair squeaked as she lowered into it. After another silent pause, she slammed her hand on the table.
Zoe flinched.
“How?” Rose said.
“It looked like stab wounds. Punctured a lung. He bled out.”
Rose chewed her already raw lip. A parade of emotions marched across her face. Finally, she nodded. “Good.”
“Good, my ass,” came Sylvia’s response from the kitchen. “The son of a bitch deserved a long, suffering death for what he did to my boy.” She turned in the chair and met Zoe’s eye. “And to you.”
Being stabbed and stuffed in a car trunk on the coldest night of the year, left to either bleed to death or freeze to death sounded pretty torturous to Zoe, but she didn’t attempt to change Sylvia’s mind.
“Anyhow, that’s why Pete didn’t answer his phone last night. He drove the ambulance so Earl and I could both work on McBirney.”
The kitchen chair clattered to the floor as Sylvia staggered to her feet and lumbered into the living room. “You mean you had to work on him?”
“Yeah.”
Rose swore under her breath and buried her face in her hands.
Sylvia stared at her. “I hope you didn’t try too hard to save the bastard.”
“Sylvia,” Rose snapped.
“I did everything I could,” Zoe said. “Everything I’d have done for anyone else.” She felt like she should tack on an apology.
Sylvia shook her head. Then sighed. “Well, yes, of course, you would have to. That’s the kind of person you are. Thank heavens he died anyway.” She reached for the phone. “I’m going to try Pete again.”
The kitchen door slammed, and Sylvia spun toward it.
Rose leapt to her feet. “Logan?”
Allison appeared in the doorway. Like everyone else in the Bassi family, she looked as though she’d put in a long sleepless night. “No. It’s me. Isn’t Logan here?” Even with her face scrubbed free of its usual heavy make-up, she hardly resembled the little girl Zoe knew and loved.
Sylvia took the girl by her shoulders. “Do you have any idea where he is? Who he might be with?”
Allison’s eyes darted from her grandmother to her mother and then to Zoe. “No. I figured he’d be here. I—I don’t know.” Her face took on a greenish pall. “Oh, my God. Something’s wrong. Where is he?”
“That’s it.” Sylvia released her granddaughter and reached for the phone. “I’m calling Pete. And if he doesn’t answer, we’re calling 9-1-1.”
TWENTY
When Pete answered Sylvia’s phone call and said he’d be right there, Zoe offered her goodbyes and ducked out. She didn’t feel like another encounter with him. She especially didn’t want to be around when Rose reported her son missing. Pete would no doubt put the pieces together the same way Zoe had. Thank goodness he didn’t know about Logan and Zoe’s attempts at sleuthing. Or the stolen hard drive.
Before turning onto Route 15, she pulled over and shifted into park. She dug her cell phone from her pocket and punched in the coroner’s office number. He’d been nagging his part-time deputy coroners to attend more autopsies. She’d assisted on two last summer, but the memory of the stench prompted her to dodge his recent requests. Until today.
She got his voicemail.
“Hey, Franklin,” she said after the beep, “this is Zoe. I’m on my way to the morgue. I’d like to observe the autopsy on Jerry McBirney. Maybe even assist. I should be there in a half hour or so.” She neglected to mention the desire to see for herself if that brute McBirney actually had a heart. And if he did, whether it was black. She suspected Franklin wouldn’t appreciate her humor.
Shifting into gear, she turned right onto Route 15 heading south toward Brunswick. As she passed the police station, her thoughts rolled back to Logan. Maybe he’d phoned and left a message on her machine at home. She would pass the farm on her way. It would take only a minute to find out.
She pulled into the farm lane and hurried into the house. The only message was from her boarder Patsy, who was supposed to feed and clean stalls, but who phoned to say she had the flu. That left the work to Zoe. She checked her watch. Quarter to nine. Crap.
She punched in Franklin’s number again. “It’s me. Something’s come up and I’m going to be later than I thought. But I still want to attend the autopsy if at all possible. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She rushed through the barn chores and changed into clean clothes that didn’t have bits of hay and manure stuck to them. By the time she wheeled the truck back onto the road, her clock read 9:58.
Heavy black clouds rolled in from the west. The radio crackled a weather advisory for late afternoon and into the evening. She punched the power button, silencing the grim predictions. Enough of those played in her brain without any help from the local newscaster.
Paulette greeted her in the back hallway of the Marshall Funeral Home.
“Did Franklin head over to the morgue yet?” Zoe said.
“Oh, dear. I’m afraid he’s been there and back. Detective Baronick showed up here at eight o’clock and asked that the procedure be expedited.”
Eight o’clock? Zoe sighed. Even if she’d come straight into the city from work, she’d have missed it.
The coroner’s assistant gave her an apologetic smile. “He’s in his office if you want to talk to him.”
Zoe found him at his desk, tapping on his computer keyboard.
“I got your messages after the fact,” he said without looking up. “A local politician’s death is high priority where the County PD is concerned.”
“I understand.” Zoe sank into one of the plush chairs across the desk from him. “What did you find out?”
He paused in his typing and gazed at her over his readers. “You were on the crew that brought him in, right?”
“Yes.”
“So you know the basic physical condition of the body.” He went back to his computer. “Mr. McBirney suffered four penetrating wounds to his posterior upper right quadrant. One of the wounds penetrated the intercostal muscles between the fourth and fifth ribs, missing the scapula and puncturing his lung. Cause of death was exsanguination.”
He bled to death. No big surprise. “So they were stab wounds?”
“Phillips-head screwdriver.”
“What?”
Franklin stopped typing, leaned back in his chair, and removed his glasses. “From the pattern of the tears in the skin, it’s my determination that the weapon used was a Phillips-head screwdriver.”
Not exactly helpful. Just about everyone she knew had a toolbox and a set of screwdrivers. Even she had one.
“Only one of the wounds penetrated deep enough to be fatal—the one that punctured the lung. The other three attempts hit the scapula and exhibited more tearing, but caused no significant damage. In addition, I found evidence of blunt force trauma to the top of the victim’s skull.”
Zoe’s mind flashed back to another head injury. “Blunt force trauma? The same as Ted Bassi’s?”
“Not really.” Franklin placed his palm on top of his head. “There was no fracture in this case, but the victim suffered a subdural bleed perimortem. Non-life threatening.”
“So he was stabbed and hit on top of the head?”
“There were also some soft tissue injuries to the victim�
�s face.”
Zoe cringed as she recalled swinging the bridle, striking McBirney with the bit.
“The patterns of bruising would be consistent with a beating.” Franklin made a fist.
“Someone punched him?”
“Repeatedly. There was also one other contusion that caused some minor soft tissue damage that was inconsistent with the others. I’d say it happened some time earlier as healing was already evident.”
Ah. That would be her contribution.
“This man suffered a violent assault. Possibly multiple assailants.” Franklin stared past her and frowned. “And yet, he exhibited no defensive wounds. It doesn’t appear he fought back.”
“Maybe he didn’t have a chance to.”
“Perhaps.” Franklin slipped his reading glasses back on his nose and rested his fingers on his keyboard. “In any case, I’m afraid Vance Township has another homicide to deal with.”
Pete stood inside the doorway of the rear entrance of the Helping Hands Store in Dillard. Mrs. Zellers, who managed the charitable second hand shop, fussed with an errant strand of gray hair that refused to stay in its bun. “The lock’s been broken, and there’s mud all over the floor. I mopped before I closed up last night. I can’t believe someone would break in here and steal from us.” Her voice quivered.
Concentrate. A breaking-and-entering call might seem minor to Pete after his previous stop at the Bassi residence, but to Mrs. Zellers, it was huge. “Is anything missing that you’re aware of?”
“That’s what’s so odd. The money box wasn’t touched. Not that I leave much here anyway. But the muddy tracks don’t go anywhere near the front counter.”
“Is there anything else he might have taken?”
She hoisted her shoulders in a mammoth shrug. “Not that I can tell. I’d have to do inventory, but most of our stuff is donations and not worth much. I just don’t understand.”
Pete leaned over and squinted at the lock. He pulled his glasses from his pocket and jammed them on his face. The tiny scrapes around the keyhole leapt into focus. No pry bar gouges like the ones on his evidence room door.
Circle of Influence (A Zoe Chambers Mystery) Page 20