“I’m not a hundred percent sure of the time, but it was about then. Yeah.”
“What about the Buick?”
“Huh?”
“Was the Buick there?” How hard a question was it? Yes or no?
Her mouth hung open, and her good eye flitted from one side to the other. Creases deepened in her forehead. “I don’t know. It was dark. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Damn it. “Okay. Forget about that for a moment. What do you know about the computer?”
“What computer?”
Pete almost snapped a second pen. “The one your husband demanded Sylvia be arrested for stealing.”
“I don’t really know anything about it. Jerry never talks about his work to me. All I know is what everyone else does. From the news.”
Pete studied her for indicators of a lie. The physical evidence of battery masked his usual keen ability to read her face. “What about the break-in at the station?”
“I heard about it. That’s all.”
“When was the last time you came here?”
“To your office?”
“To the station in general.”
Her brow puckered into a puzzled frown. “Not since…I haven’t been here since before our divorce.”
“Don’t suppose you shared your knowledge of the station’s security with your husband, did you?”
“What? No. Pete, what are you getting at? You think Jerry had something to do with that, too?”
He leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows at her in a silent version of “do you?”
Marcy stared at him, her face registering shock. But it dissolved and softened into something resembling surrender. “A week or two ago, I’d have said no way. Now I don’t have a clue who I’m married to. But if he had any insider information on station security, he didn’t get it from me. Besides, I’m sure you changed everything since I worked here.”
Pete rocked forward. He made a silent vow. From now on, he was going to change those codes every other week.
“You’re going to arrest Jerry, aren’t you?” she said. “I didn’t want to believe it at first, but now I know for certain that he killed Ted. Because of me.” She buried her face and gave way to hiccupping sobs.
Adrenaline pumped through Pete. Jerry McBirney had motive. The victim’s body was found in his car. And now he no longer had an alibi.
Pete’s phone rang. Ordinarily, Sylvia would have answered it, and Pete considered letting it go to voicemail. But some locals had never grasped the concept of dialing 9-1-1 for emergencies.
“Excuse me,” he said to Marcy as he answered the call.
“Chief? This is Cyril Ramsey.”
Ramsey worked with the township’s road department. “Yeah, Cyril. What can I do for you?”
“I’m in the plow, out here on Cowden Road about a quarter mile east of the McBirney farm, and I’ve found a pickup truck over a hill. No one’s in it. Must’ve slid off the road on the ice.”
The adrenaline kicked up a notch. Pete flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “You got a license plate number on that truck?”
“Yep.”
As Ramsey rattled off the number, Pete matched it to the one Rose had given him. “I’ll be right there. Don’t touch anything.”
“Yes, sir, Chief.”
Pete hung up. Ted’s truck. A quarter mile from the McBirney farm. And no other houses around. If Ted had run off the road there, and had to walk…
“Yeah,” Pete said to Marcy. “I’m going to arrest your husband.”
Zoe longed for the day to be over.
The computer yielded nothing. The new software permitted her to open files listing tax records of all the township residents including Social Security numbers. Had she been interested in stealing anyone’s identity, she’d have been in heaven. She spent over an hour scanning files, and other than being surprised by some of the locals’ stated income, she found nothing of significance.
Nothing worth killing for.
She shut the computer down when Allison came in through the kitchen door. She carried muddy boots, and her cheeks glowed pink from the cold.
“Did you have a good ride?”
“It was okay, I guess. We saw a deer.”
“I’m jealous.” Damn that Jerry McBirney. On top of everything else, he’d mucked up her chance to get in the saddle on a gorgeous winter day. “Next time, I’m coming with you.”
“Whatever.” Allison deposited her boots on the rug next to the back door. “Where’s Logan?”
Good question. The boy’s sudden exit had left a nagging ache in Zoe’s gut. “He had to leave. I’m going to drop you off at home on my way to work. Speaking of which, I need to change into my uniform.”
Allison plopped into a chair and pulled out her cell phone.
When Zoe came back downstairs wearing her light blue shirt and navy blue trousers with pockets up and down both legs, Allison looked up from the phone. “Could you drop me off at my friend Bethany’s house? It’s right on Main Street in Phillipsburg.”
Zoe studied the girl. She appeared more relaxed than she had since this all began. The ride and fresh air had done her good. “I don’t know. Your mom—”
“Call her. It’ll be okay. Mom likes Bethany.”
“All right.” Zoe picked up the phone, harboring a healthy dose of skepticism.
Rose’s mother answered on the first ring. She informed Zoe that Rose was asleep thanks to some pills the doctor had given her.
“Bethany?” Mrs. Bertolotti said. “Oh, yes. She and Allison have been friends since grade school. Of course you can drop her off there. Just tell her to call when she’s ready to come home.”
“Okay. Um…” Zoe hesitated to ask, but couldn’t help it. “Is Logan there, by any chance?”
“Logan? No. He called about an hour ago to say he’d be late. Why?”
“Nothing.” As long as he’d checked in. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks, dear.”
By the time Zoe dropped Allison at her friend’s front door and pulled into a space in the parking lot across the road from the ambulance garage, the sun had settled low on the western horizon, and the temperature had tanked. In the minutes it took to bustle across the street and into the office, her eyelashes had about frozen.
Trish, the Northern Monongahela County EMS dayshift secretary, was gathering her purse and coat. “Hey, Zoe. Looks like you’re in for a busy night. Medic One is en route to Brunswick with a full cardiac arrest and Medic Two just pulled out on their way to a traffic accident on Millers Hollow Road. So you and Earl are up for the next one.”
Zoe thanked her. And hoped Trish was right about the busy night. Back-to-back calls all night long might keep her mind off things.
Pete adjusted the angle of the beam of light the lamp threw on his workbench. The carving on the Jaeger’s stock wasn’t turning out the way he pictured it in his mind. But why should this be any different than everything else in his life?
He’d spent most of the afternoon overseeing the retrieval of Bassi’s Ford pickup from where it had rested, almost on its side, over an embankment. Only a half-rotted fencepost kept it from rolling further down the hillside. It was little wonder no one spotted it sooner.
Any evidence outside the truck had been obliterated by the snow. After having the Ford towed back to the township garage, Pete went over the interior of the vehicle, bagging a variety of fibers and hairs, as well as lifting dozens of fingerprints. Unlike the Buick, this vehicle hadn’t been wiped clean. Before he’d even had a chance to finish processing the Ford, one of Baronick’s cronies had shown up to take possession of the evidence.
Pete set down the chisel he’d been using and fingered the others nesting in an old wooden box
next to the muzzleloader. Making a selection, he inspected the blade and tested its sharpness on his thumb.
The phone jangled. He flinched, and a tiny pin drop of blood appeared where the chisel pierced his skin. Guess that one didn’t need sharpening after all. He replaced it in its box and reached to answer the phone.
“Chief,” came Kevin’s voice. “I’ve got a 2008 Chevy Malibu, registered to Jerry McBirney, parked behind Rodeo’s Bar on King’s Hollow Road.”
“Do you have McBirney?”
“No, sir. The bartender says McBirney was in earlier, but left around four-thirty p.m. No one here’s seen him since.”
Pete checked his watch. Quarter of seven. Damn it. His head throbbed. “I’ll be right there.”
He strapped his gun belt on over his jeans and checked his Glock before securing it in its holster. Grabbing a bulky pair of gloves, he slipped into his heavy black jacket.
Pete hated winter. The night air felt every bit as sharp as his chisel’s blade and cut into his lungs with each breath. He cranked the SUV’s heater onto high, but he was pulling in beside Kevin’s cruiser before the first hint of warmth reached him.
The Malibu sat alone next to the dumpster behind the bar. Most of the establishment’s patrons parked in the well-lit lot out front. Why was McBirney parked back here?
“No sign of him,” the officer said as soon as Pete climbed out of his vehicle, flashlight in hand.
Pete aimed the light at the Malibu’s windows and then at the ground. The area had been cleared of snow.
“No footprints,” Kevin said. “And no one inside the car. I’ve tried calling McBirney’s cell phone, but no answer. I called his home. Mrs. McBirney states she hasn’t seen or heard from her husband since this morning.”
Something didn’t feel right. Had McBirney left the bar with someone else? Pete strolled around the car, checking each of the doors. All locked. He aimed the light through the driver’s window. “The keys are inside.”
“Huh.” Kevin frowned. “Could be he locked his keys in the car and had to go get another set.”
“Possible. Except wouldn’t he have called his wife if he needed a spare car key? You just said she hasn’t heard from him.”
“We need a warrant to search it,” Kevin said.
As if Pete needed to be reminded. “I’m not going to search it. I’m going to wait until McBirney comes back and arrest his ass for murder.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go inside and get me a coffee. Then you can get back on patrol.”
“Oh.” Kevin seemed disappointed. If Pete hadn’t wanted this bust so bad, he’d gladly let the kid sit in a dark police cruiser as the thermometer dipped closer and closer to zero.
What was that? Pete paused and listened for a faint moan.
“What is it, Chief?”
Pete shushed him and held up one finger. There it was again. Low. Soft. Muffled.
And it was coming from the Malibu’s trunk.
“Forget the damned coffee,” Pete ordered. “Pop that trunk.”
SEVENTEEN
The crew room at North Monongahela County EMS sported an eclectic array of furniture that had been donated by various employees. “Donated” meant discarded by dumping it at the ambulance garage. None of the emergency personnel turned any of it down, though. They were thrilled with the donations considering their meager budget limited other furnishing options.
The sofa smelled of dust, but Zoe didn’t mind. She knew every lump by heart and knew how to position herself in the proper gully for maximum comfort.
Earl and the crew from Medic One huddled around the ancient television set, grunting and whooping at the Pittsburgh Penguins’ game. Medic Two remained out of service at Brunswick Hospital after transporting a teenage male with a possible closed head injury, the result of the traffic accident they’d responded to.
The Red Wings scored, and the guys let out a stereo groan.
It looked like it was going to be a quiet night until the pager tones went off, alerting them to a call from the County Emergency Operation Center.
“I’ll get it,” Tony DeLuca, crew chief and one of the hockey nuts, hoisted himself out of his chair and lumbered into the office.
Earl stood and stretched. He ambled over to Zoe and booted one of the sofa legs. “Wake up. This one’s ours.”
“I’m awake.” Zoe swung her feet to the floor, sitting up with a yawn.
DeLuca returned a moment later, his face red. “You better get rolling.” He waved a sheet of notepaper. “Respond to Rodeo’s Bar, thirteen forty-eight King’s Hollow Road. Male with multiple penetrating wounds. Undetermined weapon. He’s breathing, but unresponsive. The police are on scene. You’re asked to go to the rear of the building.”
Zoe bounded off the sofa. Earl snatched the paper from DeLuca on their way to the garage.
“You want me to drive?” Zoe asked.
“Nope. I’ve got it.” Earl grabbed his coat from the row of hooks in the garage and headed around to the driver’s side.
Zoe shrugged into her parka and climbed into the passenger side. Earl fired up the unit as the behemoth garage door rumbled open.
As they rolled onto Main Street, Zoe picked up the aluminum clipboard and the mic. “Control, this is Medic Three. We’re en route to Rodeo’s Bar, King’s Hollow Road.”
“Ten-four, Medic Three. Nineteen eighteen.”
Zoe jotted the time on the fresh run report and copied the address and other information from DeLuca’s note.
The emergency lights cut swaths through the black night, bouncing off the houses and businesses they passed. Zoe flipped the siren control from high/low to wail as Earl swung the ambulance left at one of Phillipsburg’s three traffic signals. They bounced across the rutted railroad tracks and made another left, heading into the countryside.
Penetrating wounds. That could be a stabbing. Or it could mean gunshots.
“What do you think?” Zoe asked. “Bar brawl gone bad?”
“Possible.” Earl shot her a grin. “And it wouldn’t be the first time. It’s your turn to take the lead, you know.”
“Only if the police have secured the scene before we get there.”
“Chicken.”
“You know it.”
The unit swayed as they made the hard right onto King’s Hollow Road. Zoe braced against the console with one hand and the doorframe with the other.
King’s Hollow Road wound its way through a wooded valley, crossing two one-lane bridges along its course. The top speed they could maneuver safely was little more than thirty-five miles an hour. Zoe cut the siren, turning it back on for a few whoops when they approached a blind curve or came up behind another vehicle.
“Medic Three, this is Control.”
Zoe keyed the mic. “Go ahead Control.”
“Chief Adams requests your ETA.”
Zoe checked the dashboard clock. “Estimated time of arrival, five minutes.”
“Copy, Medic Three.”
Zoe eyed her partner whose face glowed pale green in the illumination of the instrument panel. “Pete wants to know how soon we can be there. That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, it doesn’t. But on the other hand, it seems the cops have things under control so you don’t have to worry about leading the way into a barroom brawl.”
Small comfort.
Four minutes later, the ambulance rocked side to side as they drove through the potholed parking lot to the rear of the building where two police vehicles sat with their headlights aimed on a car next to a dumpster. Several flares added to the visibility. Even though the cab of the ambulance had only begun to feel the effects of the heater, a trickle of sweat rolled down Zoe’s back.
“Control, this is Medic Three. We’re on sc
ene.”
“Ten-four, Medic Three. Nineteen twenty-nine.”
Earl parked behind Pete’s SUV and they both leapt out. Pulling on latex gloves, Earl headed directly to the car. Zoe yanked open the patient compartment’s side door and grabbed the jump kit and portable oxygen tank. Sirens wailed in the distance.
With the clipboard tucked under her arm, she lugged the equipment between the police cars and took her first good look around. A dark-colored Malibu sat next to the bar’s dumpster. Police tape partially encircled the car. The trunk was open and Earl leaned into it, his stethoscope plugged into his ears. Pete and Kevin stood back, watching.
The bar brawl scenario in Zoe’s mind began slipping away. It completely lost its credibility when she got close enough to see their patient.
Jerry McBirney, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, lay curled into a fetal position in the Malibu’s trunk. The illumination and shadows cast by the flares and the headlights masked the true colors of the surroundings, but not enough to disguise the sickly pallor of Jerry’s swollen face. Or the dark pattern of blood pooling beneath him.
Zoe froze. Was he dead? There had been times when she’d arrived at a scene and hoped the patient showed no signs of life because he was so badly mangled, she couldn’t imagine what his “life” might be like if the paramedics succeeded in their mission. This time she hoped the patient was beyond help for a more selfish reason. Heaven help her, she did not want to work on Jerry McBirney.
Pete’s voice pierced her mental fog. “Zoe.”
She shook off the momentary paralysis. “Yeah.” She jumped to Earl’s side and set the jump kit on the ground, flipping open the clasps. “What have we got?”
“He’s alive, but just barely,” Earl said. “No response to pain stimuli. Pulse is thready. B.P. is seventy-six over forty. Respiration, twenty and labored.”
Zoe stuffed her feelings into some enclosed corner of her brain and scribbled the numbers onto the report. Like it or not, McBirney was her patient and she would do whatever it took to keep the bastard alive.
Circle of Influence (A Zoe Chambers Mystery) Page 17
