Circle of Influence (A Zoe Chambers Mystery) by Annette Dashofy Page A

parking lot was packed. Channel 11’s news truck had been joined by vans from the other two Pittsburgh stations. Zoe suspected several of the other cars belonged to print reporters. No way did she want to march Sylvia’s grandkids through a media gauntlet.
    She dug her cell phone out of her pocket, and within a few minutes of placing a call to Pete, she and the teens were escorted into the back entrance by Seth Metzger.
    “The Chief’s not too happy that you guys are here,” the young officer told Zoe as they made their way through the storage room. “We’re having a hard enough time keeping the lid on this powder keg.”
    “I’ll bet.” She caught Logan’s sleeve. “Did you hear that? Don’t make me regret bringing you here more than I already do.”
    He met her gaze, but said nothing.
    The door at the far end of the storage room opened into a narrow hallway with a low acoustical tile ceiling, dimly lit with fluorescent panels. They passed a couple of empty interrogation rooms before coming to a T-shaped intersection in the hall. Instead of turning left and heading toward the offices at the front of the station, Logan bolted straight toward the holding cell. And Sylvia.
    Seth muttered something under his breath as Zoe loped after the boy.
    She’d expected to find Sylvia cowering and weeping inside the sterile cage-like cell. Instead, the old woman appeared to have grown taller. Her jaw jutted and her eyes narrowed to match the determined crease in her forehead. She took her grandson’s hands through the bars and held them tight.
    “Don’t you worry about your old grandma,” Sylvia told him. “I’m fine. You need to take care of your mom and sister, you hear?”
    Where was Rose?
    Logan sniffed back tears and chewed on his lower lip, but nodded. “I will. But I’m going to make things right for you, too. Aunt Zoe’s helping me—”
    Zoe caught his elbow and squeezed. Hard. He winced, but shut up.
    From behind her a voice boomed, “Aunt Zoe’s helping you with what?”
    She wheeled around to face Pete. Gauging from the scowl on his face and the dark circles under his eyes, she could have guessed he’d had a rough, sleepless night even if she didn’t already know it for a fact. She hoped exhaustion dimmed his observational skills enough that he missed the panic on her face at nearly being busted.
    “I’m helping him watch his sister so Rose can take care of some things.”
    “Yeah,” Logan said. “We’re—ah—yeah. What she said.”
    Pete pinned her with a stare, and Zoe made a mental note to strangle the kid later.
    “Is that right?” Pete sounded skeptical.
    A door slammed. Footsteps and raised voices interrupted the conversation.
    She might have been grateful for the diversion, except she recognized one of the voices as belonging to Jerry McBirney.
    “Right this way, folks,” McBirney bellowed as he appeared around the corner, leading a small army consisting of Elizabeth Sunday and four reporters armed with notepads and cameras.
    Pete approached the group, his arms spread wide. “Metzger!” he shouted. Then to McBirney and his entourage, he commanded, “ No .”
    The reporters froze, mid-stride. The attorney, in her high heels and tailored skirt and jacket, snapped to attention. Even McBirney hesitated in his advance.
    Zoe noticed the red swelling on the left side of McBirney’s face and the slight discoloration below his eye. What the hell had Sylvia done? Zoe eyed her and raised an eyebrow in a silent question. The older woman gave her a smug wink.
    “Step aside, Chief,” McBirney said. “These fine reporters want photographs of the thief.”
    The reporters exchanged uncertain glances with each other.
    “What you mean,” Sylvia said, “is they want pictures of the little old lady who cleaned your clock, you son-of-a-bitch.”
    The rest of McBirney’s face reddened to match the welt.
    “Shut up, Sylvia,” Pete said through his clenched jaw.
    Seth Metzger appeared around the