Tombs of Endearments (18 page)

“Had it with these assholes,” Ben called into the control room. “I’m outta here.”

“Can’t stand them anymore,” Alistair yelled. He pushed past Pete and nearly ran me down to get by me.

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Mike called, and Pete added, “Maybe.”

And all I could think was that no matter what they were paying the guys back in the control room, it wasn’t enough.

I stepped out of Ajaz offices and back into the creepy warehouse, and though I wasn’t alone, I didn’t feel any more comfortable than I had when I walked in the place. Now instead of having to worry about mysterious noises and puddles of ooze, I had to wonder who was going to punch who before we made it as far as the door.

The way I remember it, we were almost there when the first shots rang out.

The second I heard that first ear-cracking shot and
the crazy, ping-ponging echo that bounced from wall to wall and caromed off the ceiling, my emotions took over.

And who could blame me? I had a history with this sort of thing. A hit man once tracked me down at the cemetery and tried to shoot me.

Experiences like that are hard to forget.

Just like then, I choked on my fear. My stomach flipped. My heart pumped high-test adrenaline. Every bone in my body turned to mush. Fortunately, I’d learned a thing or two from my experiences with the local mob. Duck and cover was one of them.

I went down like a rock, and grit scraped my cheek. Too late, I realized I’d dropped right into a puddle of I-don’t-know-what. I didn’t have the luxury of switching my position. Another shot splatted into the floor not ten feet from where I was huddled with my arms over my head, and about a million tiny chips of cement rained down on top of me.

I heard Ben gasp and feared the worse—until he grumbled something about crushing a new pack of smokes. Pete whimpered, and though I hadn’t real
ized she was behind us as we left the studio, Crazy Belinda was nearby, too. Proof positive that she was as weird as they came because instead of fearing for her life like any normal person, she was chanting. Hard to say exactly what it was all about, but I swear I heard something about welcoming the angel of death. Go figure.

Alistair was on my right, swearing like a son of a gun. I heard nothing at all from Mike, and thinking about what it might mean, a sour taste filled my mouth. I didn’t dare look to see if my fears were justified. There was nothing I could do to help Mike or anyone else. All I could do was stay rolled in a ball with my head covered. Oh yeah, and cringe when the wet whatever seeped through my pant leg and soaked my skin.

Another shot slammed into a pile of wooden pallets stacked near the wall on my right. It was still reverberating when the door to the studio banged open.

“Somebody’s shooting!” I recognized the voice of one of the techies. He wasn’t dumb enough to come out into the open. He ducked back inside. “Quick, call 911!”

Maybe that’s what scared the shooter off. Suddenly the vast warehouse was as silent as a Garden View tomb. I hoped that was where the similarities ended.

The next second, full-scale bedlam broke out. I dared to look up just as Bernie came huffing and puffing through the studio door, a donut in one hand and a gun in the other. He tossed the donut on the ground and scanned the warehouse, and I guess he didn’t see anything because he looked up
at the walkways that ringed each floor. Even I knew a bad guy could hide for days in the offices up there and never be found.

Hot on Bernie’s heels were the techies and the soundmen; Zack, the PR person; and even the receptionist with the purple hair. When it came to moral support, believe me, it was nice to see them all. It was not so nice when they all started jabbering at once. Their voices mixed with the sounds of gunfire still echoing in my ears, and like Jäger-meister and Red Bull, they packed a punch right between my eyes.

“Holy shit!”

“Everybody okay?”

“Anybody hurt?”

“I’m calling Gene. Right now. He needs to get over here ASAP.”

Their shouts bounced through my brain and made my head buzz. Maybe that’s why when I pushed myself up on my elbows, I heard an odd, chirping sound. Or maybe I didn’t. The acoustics in the old warehouse left a whole lot to be desired—and the wailing of a police siren outside didn’t help.

I sat up, shaking my head. The puddle was bigger than I thought. My butt was soaked. Rather than think about it, I thanked my lucky stars for being alive and took inventory. It looked like everyone else had come through unscathed, too.

Alistair, Ben, Pete, and Mike were all breathing hard and handling the pressure with their usual aplomb. Alistair was swearing up a storm. Pete was in tears. Mike screamed to one of the flunkies for his Southern Comfort, and Ben simply sat in
the middle of the warehouse floor, fighting to get a cigarette out of the pack that had been crushed when he hit the floor. Belinda, of course, was still chanting.

I don’t know how long we all sat there trying to make sense of what had just happened. I only know that’s how Quinn found us all when he arrived.

Just my luck. Was he the only damned cop in Cleveland?

“Somebody want to tell me what happened here?”

Quinn should have known better.
Everybody
wanted to tell him, and they all wanted to do it at once.

I may have mentioned that Quinn isn’t the most patient guy in the world. He listened, for maybe like half a second, then he held up his hands, a sure signal that the circus had to stop. Now.

Their voices trailed off, and one by one, Quinn took a look at the Mind at Large band members. He knew Alistair from the incident at the Rock Hall, so when he got to the drummer, he stopped and pointed. “You,” he said. “What happened?”

“Are you stupid? Do you think we always sit around on our butts in the middle of a friggin’ warehouse? Somebody took a friggin’ shot at us, that’s what happened.”

“Not a shot. Shots. Lots of shots.” Mike felt obligated to set the record straight. One of the gofers showed up with a bottle, and after a few glugs, Mike’s voice was quieter and his hands didn’t shake nearly as much. He pointed up to the walkway that bordered each floor of the warehouse. “The shots came from somewhere up there.”

“Or not.” Ben got to his feet. He was breathing
hard, and there was blood on his shirt near where his sleeve was torn and his arm was scraped. He had half a mashed cigarette in his hand, and he snapped his fingers, waited for a roadie to light it, and took a long drag. “I hunt, so I know a thing or two about guns,” he said, releasing the smoke with a sigh. “The shots…” He turned and pointed toward the door where an army of cops was getting ready to fan out to search the building. “They came from over there.”

“And I nearly got killed.” Pete sniffled and wiped his nose with this sleeve.

“Oh yeah. Like you’re the only ruddy one.” Alistair’s glasses hung crooked on his face, and he ripped them off, tossed them on the floor, and ground them under his heel. “Why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself, Petey, and—”

“And feel sorry for you?” Pete might have been small, but he was wiry, and let’s face it, emotions were running high. He jumped to his feet and rounded on Alistair. “Why don’t you just admit it, Al, you’re scared shitless. Just like the rest of us.”

“Just like you.” Alistair’s sneer was monumental. “Like all of you.”

Ready to rip Alistair’s head off, Mike shoved the bottle of Southern Comfort back to the guy who’d gotten it for him. “Why you rotten mother—”

Quinn didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He stepped between Alistair and Mike to stop them, and with one laser-sharp look, advised Pete and Ben not to get involved.

Alistair grumbled, and just for good measure, crunched his glasses one more time.

Mike ripped the bottle out of the hands of the kid who was holding it. He took a long drink.

Pete snuffled and demanded a cold cloth for his forehead, and when one of the roadies went to get it, Ben stepped forward.

“Maybe you should ask her.” I’d like to think the animosity in Ben’s voice and the suspicion in his eyes were the result of residual shock. I mean, it’s not every day a person nearly gets his head blown off. It’s kind of hard to feel charitable, though, when the person tossing the accusations has his eyes right on you.

Startled, I sat up a little straighter.

“We were fine until she came around.” Ben pointed at me with his cigarette. “She’s the one who told us we were in danger. Don’t you think it’s a little funny that no sooner does she tell us that we’re all going to die than somebody starts taking potshots at us?”

Quinn swiveled to get a better look at me. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I don’t know. What do you think, Pepper? Do you think it’s funny? As funny as me finding you here with these guys?”

“I think it’s plenty coincidental. But this…” My fingers were sticky. I dared a look at my hand. It was covered with nameless grime and coated with goo. I wiped it against the leg of my pants and struggled to my feet. Quinn didn’t offer me a hand up. I started to dust off the seat of my pants, but when my hand met wet fabric, I thought better of it. “This is definitely not my definition of funny. Looks like I was right.” I glanced from bandmate to bandmate, firmly ignoring Crazy Belinda, who
was on her knees, rocking back and forth. “Somebody’s out to get you guys.”

Quinn’s gaze was penetrating. “And you deduced this how, Sherlock?”

“She spoke to him. Does all the time.” The louder Crazy Belinda talked, the faster she rocked. “He told her. He told her somebody’s going to die.”

I think when it came to Belinda, Quinn pretty much got the picture. He nodded in a way that told the nearest uniformed cop to get her out of there pronto and looked my way. “And the him in question is…?”

“Vinnie, of course.” One of the omnipresent gofers handed Alistair a bottle of water and a couple of pills. He popped them, washed them down, and shoved the water back at the man. Fortified, he slid a glance from Quinn to me. “This little bird here communicates with the dead.”

Sometimes when I’m bored, or when I’m feeling especially down-and-out and wishing Quinn and I could get together, I imagine breaking this news to him myself. On good days, I picture me dropping the bombshell and him nodding thoughtfully. Then he tells me to sit down, gets me a glass of wine, and confesses (his hands on mine and looking deep into my eyes) that though he’d never been able to pin it down, he’d always known I was different. It was why I fascinated him so. He says he wants me to tell him all about my Gift. But not until he’s done kissing me.

On bad days (and truth be told, most of them are bad) I pictured me dropping the bombshell—and Quinn laughing his ass off.

All of this explains why I had to give him credit when Alistair did the bombshell dropping and all Quinn did was eye me carefully.

“So…” One corner of Quinn’s mouth thinned. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but it was close enough. I curled my hands at my sides. I couldn’t vouch for my temper, not if he laughed. “Vinnie told you the band was in trouble. Vinnie Pallucci. After he was already dead.”

“Something like that.” Yes, I’m touchy about my Gift. Who wouldn’t be? That would account for my voice being caustic. That, and the fact that Quinn had that same look in his eyes he’d had when he instructed the patrolman to cart Belinda away.

I sighed my frustration. “I went on a ghost hunt, all right? I wasn’t sure anything would happen, but the ghost hunters…well, they contacted Vinnie’s spirit.” Yes, I left out the part about Dan entirely. This was not the time. “If you need proof…”

I fished the digital recorder out of my purse, and found it soaked with slime. I’m not a techno-junkie, but I knew what was what when it came to equipment casualty. I shoved the recorder back where it came from. “What difference does it make, anyway? Even if I played the recording for you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe it makes plenty of difference.” Quinn looked me up and down. “Maybe it explains—”

“What the fuck is going on around here?”

Gene Terry had arrived, and even though he was being detained over at the main door, his voice echoed like thunder through the warehouse. I turned just in time to see him stomp one sneaker-clad foot against the wet concrete. His cheeks were
as red as the flashing lights on the police cruiser outside the door. His eyes bulged.

Quinn didn’t give the situation a chance to get any more out of control than it already was. He motioned the cop to let Gene in. The moment the agent was near enough, he dropped the briefcase he was carrying and raced from bandmate to bandmate. “Are you guys all right? Nobody’s hurt? Nobody’s bleeding?”

“My damned glasses are broken again.” Alistair’s expression was sour.

“We nearly died, Gene.” Pete started up with the waterworks again.

“And damn, but I am bleeding!” Mike looked down at the scrape on his arm and then over at the paramedics who were shuffling around near the door. “Somebody want to come over here and take care of this?”

“And she…” Ben pivoted to include me in the conversation. “She knew all about it. Before it happened. She told us, Gene. She told us she talked to Vinnie. He’s the one—”

“Is that so?” The agent whirled around, and I guess I couldn’t blame him for being mad. His meal ticket had nearly been blown to smithereens. That would tend to make a guy a little testy. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded. “First you’re with Vinnie when he dies, then you’re at the Rock Hall when Al has a light fall on him. Now you’re here when somebody’s shooting? Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious?”

I set him straight with a sneer. “I wasn’t at the Rock Hall when the light fell. I was there after the light fell. And yes, I was with Vinnie when he died.
And I was here for the shooting. But that’s the whole point, don’t you see? That’s what I came to warn you about.”

“I allowed you access to the band because you told me you were writing a book. If you think you can disrupt—”

“Pepper? Disruptive?” Surprise, surprise, Quinn really did have people skills after all. As smoothly as if he’d been corralling angry agents all his life, he closed in on Terry, put a hand on his arm, and took him aside. “Don’t worry about her. She’s harmless. A little crazy, but harmless. For now, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover and a lot of questions to ask. We’ll talk about Ms. Martin’s wild imagination another time. Let’s start at the beginning. Who knew Mind at Large would be recording here today?”

They talked as they walked away, and I knew I wasn’t missing anything because I already knew Gene Terry’s answer. Who knew? Everybody! I’d seen the recording session mentioned online and in the morning’s
Plain Dealer
.

Left to my own devices and with the cops who were swarming the place too busy to worry about me, I decided to do a little sleuthing. There was no use trying to talk to the band again. They were each too engrossed with their own troubles to worry about mine. There was no use looking around the warehouse, either. The cops would find whatever evidence the shooter might have left behind, and besides, I wasn’t about to go exploring the place on my own. I had my standards as well as my common sense. Even if I don’t always show it.