Circle of Influence (A Zoe Chambers Mystery) (23 page)

The distance between his mouth and hers lessened. Where had all the air in the room gone? His lips parted, and he leaned in.

Forget the damned game of chicken.
“No.” Zoe bobbed away from him and darted behind her dining room table. “If you have something to say—some reason other than this stroll down memory lane—then just say it. I’m not having a very good day, and you’re the last thing I need right now.” She pressed her fingers to her lips. Why had she told him, of all people, that she was having a bad day?

“Why? What’s going on? Oh. Of course.” He thumped himself on his head. “The funeral. How is Rose holding up? Are the kids okay?”

“They’re great.”

“Really? This ordeal has to be hell for them. They’re lucky to have you.”

Good old Matt. She could always count on him to rub salt in her wounds. Even when he didn’t realize he was doing it.

He prowled around the room, studying the framed photos on her mantle—Allison, several years ago, on a pony next to Zoe on Windstar; a Bassi family portrait; and an old picture of Zoe with her mom and dad before he’d died. Then Matt crossed the room, glanced into her office, and stopped next to a set of shelves holding a cheap CD player and her meager music collection. “I see your taste in tunes hasn’t changed.”

What the hell was he doing? “What’s this all about? Are you so bored that you need to come here and harass me for the afternoon?”

“Something like that.” He ambled back to the sofa and flopped down on it, stretching out his long legs. “I’ve come to realize that I miss what we had all those years ago. I’m tired of fooling around. I keep thinking about settling down, and the only woman I’d want to do that with is you.”

Zoe searched his face for some sign that he was joking. Or stoned. “What happened? Your latest bimbette dump your ass?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Come on, Zoe. At the very least, let me be your friend again. That would be a start.”

She looked at the clock. Crap. She still had barn work to do. “I don’t have the time or energy to be your friend. Maybe you could knock on Mrs. Kroll’s door, though. I’m sure she’d enjoy the company. Now, I really need you to get out of here. I still have to clean stalls before my shift.”

“You’re on duty tonight?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” He sighed and climbed to his feet. “While I’m here…We’re having an emergency board of supervisors meeting tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. I imagine you heard that Jerry McBirney died.”

“I heard.”

“We’re having a meeting to reorganize the board. I thought you’d like to know.”

“That’s it?”

“It doesn’t have to be.” He gave her that boyish, flirtatious, cock-eyed grin that melted girls’ hearts. Both young and old.

“Yeah, it does.” She nodded toward the door. “Bye.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Okay. But I’ll see you tomorrow, right? At the meeting.”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll want to be there. We’ve got some big surprises in store. Trust me.”

“Trust you?” She bit off a laugh. 

“When did you get so cold?”

“When I walked in on you and that slut in my bed.”

He winced. And then he left.

Zoe exhaled. She looked at the clock. Matt’s visit hadn’t left her much time. But maybe she could still squeeze some luck out of this crappy day and find something—anything—on the computer to help locate Logan.

TWENTY-TWO

Once school let out, Pete checked the rest of the list of Logan’s friends. One of them thought he might have spotted Logan at the JV basketball game the night before, but he couldn’t be sure. Pete suspected the kid was on something, with his eyelids at half-mast, and made a note to keep an eye on the boy.

By five o’clock, the roads were beginning to glaze over and snow continued to fall. Pete had depleted all his ideas of where a kid would hide and considered the strong possibility that Logan was no longer in Vance Township. Maybe he’d headed into Brunswick.

The mall.

If Pete was seventeen and trying to disappear, he’d go to the mall in Brunswick, where every teenager in Monongahela County hung out. On a night like this, the parking lots would be largely deserted. Spotting a silver Taurus—or any vehicle—would be simple.

Pete headed for the police station, his shift over. He planned to drop off the evidence from the break-in at the Helping Hands Store, stop at home to change into his civvies, and then drive to the Brunswick Mall. Sears was having a sale on tools. If he happened to pick up a missing teen in the process, so much the better.

As he wheeled into the Vance Township PD lot, he noticed a vehicle in his spot. An unmarked black Ford sedan that he recognized as Baronick’s.

Seth sat on the edge of what had been Sylvia’s chair. “He’s in your office,” the young cop said. “I told him he should wait in the conference room, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Pete waved a hand at him. His office door was closed. Without knocking, Pete entered and found the detective making himself at home in Pete’s chair, poring over a file.

“If you’re going to set up camp in my station, you might want to do it in the conference room,” Pete said. “More space.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” Baronick motioned to the seat across him. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve spent the day chatting with your local citizens and could use your help sorting through my notes.”

Instead of taking the chair Baronick had indicated, Pete moved around the desk and stood over the detective.

“You knew the Bassi kid was missing,” Baronick said.

It wasn’t a question so Pete didn’t answer it.

“Any thoughts?”

“About what?”

“The missing Bassi kid.” Baronick finally looked up. “Any luck locating him?”

“Not yet.”

“So what do you think? Is he another victim? Or a suspect?”

“What I think,” Pete said, “is that you’re in my chair.”

The detective met his gaze. The young hot shot probably fancied himself to be a master poker player. But Pete caught the minuscule muscle twitch beneath his right eye.

Seth appeared in the doorway and froze.

Keeping his eyes on Baronick, Pete said, “What?”

“I’ve got a call. Vehicle accident out on Oak Grove Road. No injuries.”

“So go.”

Seth vanished, obviously not eager to get in the middle of this pissing contest.

Baronick’s twitch turned into a full-blown blink. He gathered his papers and vacated Pete’s chair, taking a seat in the one he’d motioned to earlier.

Pete reclaimed his desk, rearranging his mess to suit him. Sylvia always said no one but Pete could find anything there, and that was the way he wanted it.

“So about the Bassi kid?” Baronick said.

“He left without telling his mother where he was going. What teenaged boy hasn’t done that at one time or another?” Pete didn’t buy his own words for a moment, but wasn’t about to throw Sylvia’s grandson to the wolves. Especially this wolf.

“And that’s all there is to it?”

“As far as I’ve been able to tell.”

Baronick shrugged. “As I mentioned, I’ve been chatting with a number of your local citizens. They’re a fascinating bunch. Everyone seems to know everything about everybody around here.”

“Anybody tell you who killed Ted Bassi or Jerry McBirney?”

“Not exactly. But I’ve learned some interesting tidbits, and I’ve been able to compile a list of potential suspects.”

“Really?” Pete crossed his arms in front of him and leaned back. This should be entertaining.

“On the surface, it would seem everyone loved Ted Bassi with the notable exception of Jerry McBirney. Did McBirney kill Bassi and then someone else took revenge on McBirney? Possibly. On the other hand, no one had much good to say about McBirney. I have a sense there’s going to be considerable dancing on his grave once he’s in the ground.”

“Can’t argue with anything you’ve said so far.”

“I did come up with one strong suspect for both murders. One person with motive, means, and opportunity.” Baronick beamed as though he’d just discovered the cure for cancer.

“And who might that be?”

“Marcy McBirney.”

“Marcy? What motive does she have for killing Ted Bassi?”

“Crime of passion. They were having an affair.”

“No, they weren’t. Ted was helping her find a divorce attorney.”

“I’m sure he was. The man didn’t want his lover married to someone else.” Baronick snickered.

It struck Pete that he hadn’t questioned Marcy’s version of the story. He hadn’t wanted to.

“But your ex-wife isn’t my only suspect. As I mentioned, it’s possible we have two killers. Supposing Jerry McBirney killed Ted Bassi, then I have two—make that three—other suspects for the McBirney homicide.” Baronick held up one finger. “The boy. Logan Bassi. Getting revenge for the murder of his father.”

Pete cringed. He feared the same thing, but hoped more than anything to find evidence to the contrary.

Baronick held up a second finger. “Zoe Chambers.”

Pete choked. “What?”

“I discovered that she and McBirney have a rather nasty past, including an attempted rape.”

Pete held his poker face. How the hell had Baronick found out about that? Did he know the rest of it? McBirney’s visit to her at her barn? The threats? If he didn’t, Pete wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. “That’s two.”

Instead of holding up the third finger, Baronick folded both hands together and rested them on the desk. “My third suspect is still in love with McBirney’s widow, even though he’s divorced from her. That would be you, Chief.”

“Visibility sucks,” Earl said.

Zoe, content to leave the foul-weather driving to her partner, squinted into the night. With the exception of the black sky, everything was white—the surface and the edge of the road, as well as the curtain of snow sweeping across Medic Three’s headlights. Her nerves played hell with her gut. The night was too eerily similar to Monday, and she kept seeing Ted’s body in that Buick.

“Are you all right?” Earl said. “You’re awfully quiet this evening.”

“I’m fine.” She wasn’t. The computer had refused to offer any indication of what sent Logan off to who-knows-where. She’d made it up to the V’s in the tax records. The clue was probably buried in old lady Zuckerman’s file.

Or she’d missed it completely.

Plus Logan still wouldn’t answer his cell phone. She stared out the window at the blizzard. Where the hell was he?

The radio crackled. “Medic Three, this is Control. What’s your 10-20?”

Zoe reached for the mic, but paused. “Good question. Where are we?” They were returning to the garage from Brunswick Hospital on Route 15 after a cardiac run, but her mind had drifted and one snowy bend in the road looked the same as another.

“We’re coming up on the intersection with Mays Road,” Earl said.

“Thanks.” She keyed the mic. “Control, this is Medic Three. We’re about a half mile north of Mays Road on Route 15.”

“Medic Three, respond to a vehicular accident with injuries. Route 15 approximately two miles north of Dillard. Fire-rescue has been notified.”

“Copy that. Medic Three en route.”

“Eighteen forty-two.”

Zoe grabbed the clipboard and started filling out a new report while Earl flipped the switch for the emergency lights.

“It’s gonna be like this all night,” Earl predicted. “No one wants to give up their Friday night drinking with their buddies just because the weather’s a little bad.”

“A little?”

The ambulance fishtailed as Earl maneuvered around a sharp bend, but he managed to maintain control.

A minute later, they rolled past the farm. Zoe looked up at her house. It was completely dark. Odd. She hadn’t left any lights on in her half, but the Kroll’s half was always brightly lit. 

They came up behind a slow moving car and Earl whooped the siren at the driver.

“Watch,” Zoe said. “He’ll panic and run off into a drift.”

Instead, he stayed squarely on the road, but slowed down even more. “Hold on.” Earl tapped the siren again and then pulled out and gunned it around the car.

Another mile and Zoe made out the orange glow of flares through the white lace curtain of snow. “There.”

“Got it.”

She radioed in to Control and jotted the time on the report.

As they eased up to the scene, Zoe assessed the view before them. One car, a dark colored sedan with the front end caved in against a utility pole, which was snapped off at the point of impact. Wires sparked and crackled and were all that kept the pole from coming all the way down.

Ah-ha. That explained the darkened farmhouse.

A second car was pulled off the road on the far side of the smashed one, its headlights adding to the illumination provided by the flares.

Zoe and Earl climbed out of the ambulance. Sirens wailed, and an air horn blasted in the distance. Snow pelted her in the face, and she pulled her hood over her head. Grabbing the jump kit from the back, she half ran, half skated toward the car.

A figure leaned into the car’s open driver’s door, his back to her. He straightened and turned, taking a step toward them, catching the light of one of the flares. His hands and the front of his coat were dark with blood.

“Oh, my God,” Zoe gasped. “Pete.”

Pete realized instantly what Zoe was thinking. “No,” he said. “It’s not my blood.” He wiped his hands on his bomber jacket. Damn. Another one for the trash. “He’s got a head laceration. It’s bleeding like a mother, but I don’t think it’s that bad. His leg, on the other hand…” Pete wanted to warn her who “he” was, but she rushed past him before he had a chance.

He’d been on his way to Brunswick to investigate his mall theory. The roads were treacherous, but the idea of that kid being out in this weather—not to mention Sylvia at home on the verge of a stroke worrying about him—was more than enough incentive to take the risk.

The crash must have happened mere minutes before he came upon it. He almost broadsided the damned car since it blocked both lanes. Smoke poured from under the wrinkled hood. He’d grabbed his fire extinguisher, a flashlight, and his cell phone and ran to the passenger door.

Pete aimed the light through the window. The driver, his face bloody, shielded his eyes from the beam, but Pete recognized him.

Matt Doaks.

Pete hit the smoldering engine with the fire extinguisher and called in the accident to the EOC. Then he wrestled the driver’s door open to get a better look. He was greeted with a moan.

“Chief Adams,” Doaks said through clenched teeth. “Man, am I glad to see you.”

“Where are you hurt?” Pete took in the wilted airbag drooping from the steering column and noticed Doaks was wearing his seatbelt. So he wasn’t a complete moron.

“I don’t know. My chest hurts, and my head’s throbbing. And I can’t move my right leg.”

Pete aimed his light toward Doaks’ feet. The left leg seemed okay, although wedged under the dashboard, which was considerably closer to the driver than it was before impact. However, the right shin appeared to have an additional angle to it besides the normal ankle and knee joints.

“Don’t move. I called 9-1-1.”

“I smell smoke.”