Circle of Influence (A Zoe Chambers Mystery) (6 page)

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 have 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.

“Probably hot-wired it. Isn’t that what car thieves do?”

“Sometimes.” Except Pete already knew the ignition hadn’t been tampered with. “Where are the keys?”

McBirney reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring with at least a dozen keys on it. He fingered them and held up one. “Here.” 

“Do you keep a spare?”

“I do.” McBirney pocketed the keys and stepped to the workbench. He removed one glove and slipped his hand under the bench. “I keep an extra hidden right—” He frowned. “It’s missing.”

How convenient.

“Oh, wait. Here it is. I was feeling in the wrong spot.” McBirney extracted his hand. A key on a ring dangled from his finger.

Of course it was. Pete looked at the key, wondering if it had really been an accidental find or just a sleight of hand to keep him from knowing McBirney had had it on his person all along.

“Do you mind?” Not that it mattered whether he minded or not. Pete speared the ring with his pen, while digging a paper bag from his coat pocket that he kept for just-in-case moments when he needed to hold onto evidence. He deposited the key into the bag and labeled the evidence. He doubted he’d be able to lift a usable print from it, but he’d try. “Who else knows where you hide this?”

“No one who would use it to steal the damned car. Shouldn’t you get on your radio and put out a BOLO on it?” McBirney demanded.

Pete didn’t need to be on the lookout for the Buick. He knew exactly where it was. He just wasn’t quite ready to play that card yet.

The wind and snow had obliterated any signs of tire tracks. However, there was a trail of the white stuff leading into the bay as if someone had tracked it in. Pete knelt to study it. No discernible boot prints, only clumps. Traces of snow grew fainter toward the rear of the shed.

“Did you have the car pulled in headfirst or backed in?”

“Huh?” McBirney scowled. “Backed in. What the hell difference does that make?”

“Probably none.” Pete stood up and strolled around the shed, taking in every detail. Nothing seemed out of place. The man was anal regarding his tools.

A small flash of blue caught his eye. Squinting, he moved toward one of the nails hammered into the wall. No tool hung on it. But a miniscule scrap of blue fabric with frayed edges clung to it.

“Do not move,” he ordered and headed back to his SUV.

Marcy and McBirney appeared baffled by his actions. “What’s going on?” Marcy called after him.

Pete hoisted a black nylon bag containing his evidence collecting gear from the back of the Explorer and trudged back to the shed. After digging his camera from the kit, he snapped a series of photos to show the location and size of the fabric and noted a description of each shot in his notebook. Then he pulled out another paper bag and a pair of tweezers, which he used to carefully remove the shred of blue. He dropped it into the bag and labeled it. “What the hell are you doing?” McBirney’s expression had shifted from perplexed to annoyed to outraged in a matter of seconds. “My car was stolen. Plain and simple. Get on the horn and report it, damn it.”

Pete tucked his camera and the evidence back into the kit. “No need. Your car is back at the township garage.”

McBirney’s mouth hung open, his brows furrowed into a sharp V with matching creases across his forehead.

Marcy put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Pete, stop with the games. Just tell us what’s going on.”

“Fine. Your car was found last night in the game lands.”

“Great.” McBirney rubbed his hands together. “When I can pick it up?”

“You can’t. It’s being held as evidence in a murder.”

The color drained from Marcy’s face.

“Murder?” McBirney grunted. “Whose murder?”

“Ted Bassi’s. He was found dead behind the wheel of your Buick.”

Marcy doubled over. Pete expected McBirney to reach for her, but instead he shot a look at her that Pete couldn’t quite interpret. Shock? Anger, perhaps? Whatever it was, it sure wasn’t loving concern for his wife.

SIX

Sitting in the McBirneys’ kitchen felt like a bad episode of
The Twilight Zone
. Pete recognized many of Marcy’s touches from his own kitchen and made a mental note to have his house redecorated. At the very least, he intended to toss the vintage advertisements for Coca-Cola and Campbell’s Soup. Similar tin signs hung on the backsplash in this kitchen as well. Funny. He thought
he
had been the one to pick those out.

At least Marcy had finally left for that appointment of hers.

“You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with this.” McBirney’s words cut through Pete’s reverie.

“Why wouldn’t I? You and Bassi weren’t exactly friends.”

McBirney leaned back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. He opened his mouth, but reconsidered whatever retort he had been about to make and closed it again.

“You say you were here all last night?”

“After the meeting, yeah.”

“Alone?”

“No, of course not. Marcy was with me.”

Pete jotted a note to verify that with her later. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Ted Bassi dead?”

“Bassi was an asshole.”

Sylvia would have snapped McBirney’s head off for that one. “Just because he didn’t appreciate you having his mother arrested?”

McBirney raised a finger. “Speaking of that—”

“No, we’re not,” Pete interrupted. “We’re speaking of Ted and your car and murder.”

McBirney clamped his mouth shut so hard his lips turned white. He lowered his hand. “There are a lot of people out there who would want Bassi dead. He was a hothead.”

“Care to name names?”

“No.”

No?
Something wasn’t right with this picture. “You sure? Because as far as I’m aware, you’re the only one who had a shouting match with the victim just hours before he turned up dead. In your car. I don’t suppose you have any thoughts on how else Ted got there if not for you.”

McBirney’s face reddened. “Look, Chief, I have an alibi. Finding out who killed that SOB is your job, not mine. And I think it’s time for you to go serve that arrest warrant on our computer thief. If you want to talk to me anymore, you’ll have to do it through my attorney.” He stepped to the door and opened it, letting a rush of frigid air into the house. “Good day, Chief Adams.”

Pete smelled guilt in this room the way a wolf smelled blood from wounded prey. But he knew he’d gotten all he was going to for now. He rose, picked up his hat, and tucked his notebook into his pocket. As he passed McBirney in the doorway, he paused to stare into his eyes—eyes that shifted ever-so-slightly under the scrutiny. Pete smiled and headed out into the bitter cold. 

The snow crunched beneath his boots and his mind gnawed through McBirney’s responses as Pete headed for his car. McBirney was hiding something. If he hadn’t killed Ted—and Pete wasn’t convinced he hadn’t—then he knew damned well who had.

Pete slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine. He started out the lane, casting another long look at the empty spot in the shed. 

Zoe passed a Channel 11 News truck parked at the end of the street as she approached Ted and Rose’s house. Make that Rose’s house. The combination—Ted and Rose—had always flowed off her tongue with such ease. As if they were one entity. TedandRose.

But no more.

Zoe recognized Sylvia’s white Ford Escort in the driveway, but not the black Lincoln.

When Sylvia greeted her at the door she swept her into an embrace. “Zoe, dear, thank goodness. I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve asked my attorney to meet me here instead of my house so I can help Rose with the kids. You’ll be a good distraction for her.”

“Your attorney?” That explained the Lincoln.

“Yes. I’m going to turn myself in to the magistrate.”

“Oh.” Zoe motioned toward the street. “What’s with the news truck?”

Sylvia blew a disgusted puff of air. “Damned vultures. They’re interviewing our neighbors. Can you imagine? They knocked on the door here about an hour ago, but we didn’t answer. As if Rose and the kids haven’t been through enough without the media asking stupid questions.” She shook her head. “Why, if my husband were still alive...”

A tall, rotund, silver-haired man in a pinstriped suit stood in the middle of the kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hand. A briefcase sat open on the table with a legal pad covered in scrawls next to it. Sylvia introduced him as Anthony Imperatore, attorney-at-law. They exchanged polite greetings before he went back to frowning at his notes.

Zoe and Sylvia found Rose in the living room with the blinds drawn. She sat on the couch, her telephone in her lap, her head in her hands. Zoe eased down beside her.

Rose sat upright, as if awakened from a sound sleep. “Zoe,” she whispered. And then she burst into tears. Zoe pulled her against her shoulder and held her while she wept.

Sylvia blinked away tears of her own. “I’ll get you girls some coffee. Or would you prefer tea?”

“Whatever Rose is having is fine,” Zoe said.

Once Sylvia had left the room, Rose sniffed and disengaged herself from Zoe’s arms. “I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not.”

She huffed a short laugh. “No. I’m not. What am I going to do? I haven’t been a single mom since the kids were little. I don’t remember how to do things on my own. Ted promised he’d never leave us. Hell, the kids don’t even remember a life before Ted became their dad.” And with that, she leaned toward Zoe and again dissolved into tears.

Zoe held her close, fighting her own tears, while flashing back fourteen years to a time when she and Ted had been dating. She and Rose were best friends all through high school and had been known as party girls. Zoe was lucky and never had to pay the price of stupidity and backseat rendezvous.