Circle of Influence (A Zoe Chambers Mystery) (16 page)

The mare produced a big-boned sorrel colt she named Windstar. Jerry proposed that she move into one of his spare rooms so she could be closer to the pair. He bought her a new saddle for the mare and a tiny halter for the colt. She cleaned stalls for him and did some cooking and cleaning around the house to earn her keep.

One night, he suggested they go out to eat. Instead of a local diner, he took her into Pittsburgh’s Station Square for a dinner cruise on one of the riverboats. Until that night, Zoe always thought he was being kind to a young waif. Having lost her own dad at such an early age, she thought of him as a surrogate, buying her the toys her father hadn’t been around to purchase. But on that riverboat, she realized in Jerry’s mind, he’d been courting her.

He asked her to dance. She agreed, but pulled away when he drew her close and tried to kiss her. He hounded her all evening, and she struggled to be polite about rebuffing his advances. Finally, he seemed to give up and turned to the bar for solace.

The drive home was silent. Sometime in the middle of the night, Jerry came into her room. She awoke to find him over her, reeking of booze.

“You think I’ve been feeding you and putting a roof over your head all this time because I’m nice?” she remembered him saying. “I’m not that nice. And now it’s time to pay up, Blondie.”

His hands crawled over her skin, under her pajamas. She squirmed, fighting to get out from under him, free from his grasp, begging him to stop.

He laughed.

She remembered that laugh.

She remembered her sobs.

In his drunken state, he wasn’t able to complete the rape. So instead he battered her with his fists, slamming her face twice.

Zoe had no memory of the pain. Adrenaline and her survival instincts protected her. She managed to catch him off balance after the second blow and got in one of her own, using the small bedside lamp as a club. While he was down, she escaped.

It took two days to line up a stall elsewhere for her mare and foal and a trailer to transport them. She waited until McBirney was gone before arriving at his barn. As soon as she stepped through the door, she knew something was very wrong. The foal’s plaintive whinny greeted her along with the sound of thrashing and wood splintering. She ran to the stall to find the mare, glassy-eyed, crashing blindly around the stall, oblivious to her baby.

Zoe barely succeeded in rescuing Windstar without being trampled herself. She secured him in another stall and placed a call to the vet. The mare died five hours later, despite heroic efforts by Dr. Benton. Remnants of her hay told the tale. Clippings from toxic Chinese Yews had been mixed with the alfalfa. McBirney had failed at raping her physically and the beating he gave her left bruises that would heal in time. So he’d taken his revenge in the one way that ravaged her soul as nothing else could.

Twelve years later, Zoe stood toe-to-toe with the man who had orphaned the horse tied next to them now. “You sick bastard. You tried to rape me.”

“Your word against mine.”

“You beat me.”

He shrugged. “Water under the bridge.”

She gagged and tasted bile on the back of her tongue. “You killed my horse.”

“What? You’ve gone off the deep end this time.”

“You poisoned my mare.”

McBirney seemed puzzled. “That mare from the auction? Oh. Yeah. I do remember something about her dying. In my barn. While you were trying to sneak her out without paying your board bill.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “The way I see it, since you never paid me for the mare or the board, she was mine anyway. So you still weren’t out anything. Didn’t she have a colt? Whatever happened to him?”

Zoe stared hard at McBirney. Do not look at Windstar. Do not give even a hint.

But it was too late. Realization lit McBirney’s eyes. “Aw, so this fine looking animal is out of that mare I bought.” He laughed. “
My
mare. That means he’s mine, too. Nice looking fellow. He’ll look even better in
my
barn.”

Zoe’s head spun. Was he serious? Legally, did he have grounds? And did it matter? McBirney got what McBirney wanted.

He crossed his arms and studied the gelding with an appraising eye. “I’ll be back in an hour with my trailer to pick him up.”

Zoe stepped between McBirney and her horse. “No.” She hated the desperation in her voice. But what if he did legally have ownership? “I’ll pay you.” She had no intention of giving him money for her own horse, but she’d be buying time.

“You couldn’t afford him, Blondie.”

The space behind Zoe’s eyes grew cold and still. “I’ve been boarding
your
horse for twelve years,” she said, proud of the calm determination in her voice. “At thirty bucks a month? That should be a good down payment.”

McBirney was quicker at math than she was. “That’s little more than four grand. A horse like this? I’d have to get no less than ten thousand. You owe me six. And I want it now.”

She held her ground, searching his eyes for some hint that he was kidding. She saw none. And she didn’t have six thousand. Hell, she didn’t have six
hundred
.

A slow smile crept across his lips. “Can’t afford it? Let’s see. I think we can make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” She expected him to ask her to intervene between him and Pete. Help him get off the suspect list for Ted’s death. That’s what McBirney had come there for, after all.

But he moved closer. Leaned toward her. His putrid breath hot on her face. “Same deal I wanted from you twelve years ago.” His voice was low and lustful. “You and me, Blondie. Only no alcohol this time for me. And total cooperation from you.”

The meaning of his words sizzled into her brain. She backed away from him, but he snatched a fistful of her hair. Survival mode kicked in. She tried to knee him. Missed her mark. He laughed, a harsh, triumphant laugh.

She struggled to pry his hand loose. “
Let go
.”

Spooked by the tussle, Windstar tried to bolt. When he hit the end of the rope, the horse attempted to whirl, slamming into McBirney. Staggered, he eased his hold on Zoe’s hair. She pulled free, sacrificing a chunk of her scalp in the process, and snatched the only thing within reach—Windstar’s bridle. She swung it at McBirney. The steel bit found its mark, catching him across the face.

He yelped and grabbed at his cheek. Zoe dove for the tack room. Her fingers closed around a bottle of fly spray sitting just inside the door. She ran at McBirney, pumping the trigger as fast as she could. The contents weren’t lethal, but she knew they stung like hell when you got the stuff in your eyes.

“Bitch!” McBirney screamed as he covered his face. He stumbled and tripped, crashing down on his back.

Zoe leapt to the phone next to the door. She punched in 9-1-1 and waited for the emergency operator to pick up.

“What the hell are you doing?” McBirney frantically mopped his face with his coat sleeve.

“I told you to get out. Next time maybe you’ll believe me the first time.”

He struggled to his feet. “Fine. I’m going. You don’t have to call your boyfriend.”

“What is your emergency?” the voice on the phone asked.

“I want to report an intruder.”

“No, you don’t. I’m out of here.” McBirney, his eyes red and watering, waved his arms at her. “And if you insist on calling the cops, I’ll have you charged with assault. You can share a jail cell with your friend, Sylvia Bassi.” He lurched toward the open door.

As soon as he was outside, Zoe apologized to the operator. “I’m sorry. When the guy saw I was serious about having him arrested, he decided to leave on his own.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to send out an officer?”

“Positive. Thanks.”

“No problem. If you change your mind or the intruder comes back, don’t hesitate to call.”

Zoe held onto the phone as McBirney climbed into his car.

He paused with one foot in, one foot out. “And for the record, I was not responsible for killing that horse. Or Ted Bassi.” He shook a finger at her. “But you…You had better watch your step.”

She hung up the phone when he drove away. Tremors started with her hands and overtook her entire body until her knees buckled. Her scalp burned. She sank to the ground and lost what little lunch she’d eaten.

Pete stared at the scrawls on the whiteboard he’d set up in the conference room, and tried to clear his mind. What was he missing?

Ted Bassi’s body had been found in a Buick owned by Jerry McBirney Monday night at 11:35. He had been last seen leaving his home at 8:50.  Rankin reported first noticing the car in the game lands at 10:50. That placed his time of death within that two-hour window.

Pete sipped at his coffee and studied the list of suspects. Neighbors placed Rose at her mother’s house. The kids had both been at home. Sylvia was the only family member with no solid alibi, having been escorted home after the meeting by her grandkids and Zoe, but then being alone until she showed up at the police station later that night at 11:05. Still, Pete didn’t buy Sylvia killing her only son. He’d witnessed her grief firsthand and knew false tears when he saw them. Sylvia’s had been real.

So had Marcy’s. Had she been having an affair with Ted? None of the local hotels reported seeing either of them Monday night. Or any other night for that matter. She and Jerry McBirney remained on the suspects list with a note that they were each other’s alibis and several large question marks.

Physical evidence was noted next. Several long dark hairs undoubtedly belonged to Marcy. They were still at the county trace lab along with the blue fabric Pete had found in McBirney’s garage. If it matched Ted’s torn jacket, that would place the victim at the prime suspect’s home on the night of the homicide.

How had Ted’s jacket gotten torn? What was he doing at McBirney’s farm? In McBirney’s car? And where was Ted’s truck?

Pete shook his head. First things first. He picked up the phone.

“Hey, Grace,” he said when the county trace evidence tech picked up.

“Pete Adams,” came the sandpapery reply. “How the hell are you?”

“I need a favor.”

Grace grunted. “You men are all the same. What d’ya need?”

“Do you have anything yet on the Bassi homicide?”

“Jesus, Pete, that stuff only came in this week. I’m still processing evidence from before Thanksgiving.”

“I would consider it a personal favor if you could expedite this one case.”

“Personal favor, huh?” There was silence at the other end of the line for a moment. “Steak and beer at Galligher’s?”

“You got it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The line clicked dead in Pete’s ear. Grace was never one for idle chitchat.

Then there was that lone fingerprint on the back of the Buick’s rearview mirror. Nothing on the steering wheel. Nothing on the seatbelts or door handles. Nothing. No smudges, no partials. The car had been wiped clean. But the idiot had missed the print he left when he moved the mirror.

Pete swore to himself. If McBirney had been driving the car, he wouldn’t have needed to adjust the mirror. Pete had already compared the print against Ted’s. No match.

He turned to a second whiteboard, which listed the information on the break-in. The timeline indicated the burglary happened between 4:00 and 5:45 Tuesday afternoon. The suspect list on this one included all the Bassi family, thanks to Sylvia having taken the damned computer in the first place. McBirney was there, too, courtesy of his bizarre interest in seeing the thing out of Sylvia’s possession. Pete had scribbled in Marcy’s name, too.

Kevin and Seth had phoned the officers formerly employed by the township, but neither one confessed to having shared security codes. Pete didn’t buy into either of them being involved in this mess anyway.

Tool marks on the evidence room door jamb and that damned fingerprint were about all they had to go on.

He drained his coffee cup and slammed it down on the table. Who the hell had taken the computer and why? What was the link between it and Ted’s death? Everything kept circling back to McBirney.

And Marcy.

Pete rubbed his eyes. What he really needed was to catch a break for once.

The buzzer from the front door sounded. Now what? He pulled the door to the conference room closed behind him and looked at the monitor for the new security camera outside the front of the station. A woman stood there, bundled in a ski jacket. Her face was shielded by oversized sunglasses, but they didn’t hide her identity. He studied her, comparing the image with the one from the night of the break-in. Same person? He wasn’t sure. Later, he’d sit down and view both side-by-side.

“Hello, Marcy,” he said, stepping aside as he let her in.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to talk.”

Perfect. “No bother.” He escorted her into his office and she sank into a chair without waiting for an invitation.

She kept her head bowed. Her long hair tumbled forward like a veil. Pete eased into the seat behind his desk. He noticed her hands trembling as she reached for the sunglasses and slid them off her face.

“I can’t do it anymore,” she said, her voice low. “I’ve been lying to you about Jerry being home Monday night. I can’t know for sure where he was, because I wasn’t there.”

Got him
. But Pete’s moment of triumph faded when Marcy swung her head to toss her hair away from her face, revealing a swollen and blackened eye. “My God, Marcy.”

“I need your help,” she said, her voice ragged. “I think Jerry killed Ted.”

Zoe’s legs felt like over-cooked spaghetti when she finally climbed to her feet. Her mouth tasted like bile and her mind rebelled against efforts to focus. She gazed at her gelding through tear-blurred eyes.

That bastard was going to make some sort of legal claim on Windstar. Was it possible? The horse’s registration papers were in Zoe’s name and had been his entire life. And McBirney would have too many questions to answer. However he might simply sneak back under the cover of darkness and do something as heinous as he had with the mare all those years ago. That would more closely match his vindictive style.

Another wave of nausea hit her. What if McBirney hadn’t really left? What if he’d stopped at the house on the way out?

Logan.

Zoe ran to Windstar who pulled back and showed her the whites of his eyes. “Whoa, boy.” She jerked his lead rope free from the tie ring and clucked to the horse. He broke into an easy jog at her side. She crossed the indoor arena with him, opened the sliding door, and slid the halter off his head. The horse took two steps into the slushy snow before taking off at a gallop, kicking up slop as he went.

Zoe tossed the halter onto its hook in the tack room and sprinted back to the house as fast as the snow and her boots permitted. By the time the kitchen door slammed behind her, she was out of breath. Sweat soaked her clothes beneath her parka. She kicked off the boots and thudded through the kitchen and living room to come face-to-face with an ashen Logan at the office door.

“Are you all right?” Zoe asked. “Where is he? Is he still here?”