Bone to Be Wild (23 page)

“Damn. Let me grab some clothes.”

“Don't.” I cut him off. “Stay where you are. Lock the doors. Be alert. It won't do any good to be at the hospital right now. Stay inside.”

“How about his wife and kid? Are they okay?”

“I'm pretty sure they are. I believe Danni called the ambulance and the sheriff. When I get news I'll call. I promise. Just stay put.”

“This is my fault.” Zeb's voice cracked. “I'm responsible.”

“The person responsible is the person who pulled the trigger. But tell me what you're talking about.” Calm settled over me. “Why are you to blame?”

“I owe money to bad people. A lot of money.” He squeezed the words out.

I'd done the background on Zeb, and I knew he'd once run with a gang, but all indications were he'd made a clean break. “You could have told us this sooner.” I couldn't help the snap in my voice.

“I didn't want Scott to know. I got mixed up with bad people and I owe them money. All of this happened before I hooked up with the band. I thought I'd taken care of this, but about a week ago, I got a call.”

I struggled with the impulse to say something cutting and mean. Koby Shaver was dead. Mike Hawkins wounded, and from the sounds of it critically. Now Zeb was finally speaking up. “Was it a threat?”

“Yeah.” He sounded defeated. “I'm so sorry. I never thought they'd hurt anyone but me. And I assured them I'd have the money for them soon. Once the club opened, Scott said we'd all get big bonuses.”

“If you're dead you can't pay the money back.”

Tinkie had hung up and whipped around, shock on her face. “What's going on?”

I held up a hand to silence her. “Tell me what they said. Exactly.”

“The guy who called said they knew where I was and if I didn't bring them the money I owed, I'd find out what hell was all about.”

“How much do you owe?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“Holy shit, Zeb.” It was a staggering amount. “How did you get in so deep?”

“I stole some dope. Not that much, but I stole it. It was back when I was shooting up and I had to have it. You know, dopeheads don't think. They need the drug and they do what's necessary to get it. So I stole from people I knew would kill me. And then I split town.”

I waved Tinkie to pick up the other phone. I'd called on the landline, and there was an extension right beside her. “Zeb, I'm surprised they didn't track you down and kill you long before now. Nobody steals two hundred thousand from a gang and expects to live.”

“It was only about five thousand dollars' worth of heroin.”

“Then why do you owe—“

“It's the interest. They compound it. I could have gone back to work for the gang, come up with financial plans and ways to move money. I could have paid off the debt, but that's when Scott gave me a chance. I quit using, cleaned myself up. I thought as soon as I saved enough, I'd repay them. I didn't realize how the debt would grow. Then it was too much to ever pay back and we left for Europe.”

“Folks don't walk away from a gang. And you moved right back in their neighborhood. Memphis is two hours north at best.” He was in a mess. Tinkie shook her head, warning me not to speak so rashly. She'd quickly picked up on what Zeb was talking about.

“I've avoided them for over a year. I thought … man, I guess I didn't think clearly at all.”

I had to remind myself I was dealing with a man who'd walked away from a million-dollar income as an outlaw to play the drums in a band. It was the rare musician who earned more than poverty wages.

“Zeb, this is Tinkie Bellcase Richmond. You have to tell this to Sheriff Peters,” she said, but her tone was sympathetic.

“I'll tell Scott at the hospital. I'll turn myself in to the sheriff and he can take me back to Memphis. I'll do whatever I have to do to prevent anyone else getting hurt.”

“Don't go anywhere!” If drug money was truly behind the shootings, the worst thing Zeb could do was run around in the open where he was an easy target. “It may have gone beyond the money you owe, Zeb.”

“Stay where you are,” Tinkie threw in. “Rushing out will only endanger other people. We don't know your debt is behind the shootings.”

“What else could it be? Scott's a great guy. The other band members—” His voice broke.

“Zeb, you have to pull yourself together and stay safe. There's no proof this is the reason Mike was shot. Or Koby. Did any of the gang show up at the club during the performance?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you heard from them?” Tinkie asked.

“Monday.”

“Did they give you a deadline?” It wouldn't matter if they gave him until the cows came home. He'd never raise that kind of money unless he sold his own organs.

“Yeah. Friday.”

“Not much time to raise two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Tell me about it.” Fear and self-loathing lingered in his tone. “At this point I don't care if they kill me. I just want them to leave the band and my friends alone.”

“Now you listen to me,” Tinkie said. “You stay right where you are. We'll send a patrol car to get you just as soon as an officer can break loose. An officer will escort you to the hospital so you can talk to Scott. Do not
move
until a deputy shows up. If you care about your friends, do as I say. Stay put. We don't need to waste manpower chasing after you. Understand?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'll be right here.”

“Good. Now there's no proof any of this traces back to you. Keep that thought. The calls Scott received seemed to point to an enemy who wants to wreck the club, not a debt you owe. Try not to beat up on yourself and just hang tight.”

Tinkie put me to shame. Instead of heaping guilt on Zeb, she offered compassion and possible absolution. And she was right. We had no evidence a Memphis gang was picking off club employees to settle a drug score.

“We'll call you as soon as we have word about Mike,” I added.

“Thank you.” He sounded like a kicked dog.

Tinkie and I hung up. We didn't need to talk. We were running on raw nerves and anger. “What's the story on Davy Joiner?” I asked.

“Jump in the shower and change clothes, then we'll take Sweetie Pie and Pluto to Oscar at Hilltop and I can freshen up. On the way, I'll fill you in on Davy.”

“Give me fifteen minutes,” I said.

Tinkie slumped in her chair. “I'll snatch a few winks while I wait for you.”

*   *   *

The hot shower helped, but fatigue had settled over both of us. We were dragging as we pushed ourselves down the stairs and toward the car.

Tinkie's conversation with Davy Joiner had been simple and to the point. The kid had never been in any trouble and he understood that keeping himself safe kept others from risking injury. He agreed to stay in his room at The Gardens, a rather expensive place for a twenty-one-year-old musician to be staying.

“His father's a doctor,” Tinkie explained, covering a yawn with her hand. “He's a good kid. I suggested he might want to visit his parents for a few days.”

“And?”

“He's a young man with more sense than most, but he won't run away from this. He's staying to support Scott and the band.”

I couldn't blame him, though I wanted to pack his bags and send him home to his mama before he got hurt. “Are you sure he isn't hiding any dark secrets. Like that he builds bombs for a terrorist group? He does have an engineering degree.”

The news about Zeb and his drug debt to a gang had kicked me in the gut. I should have been on top of that. My blas
é
attitude and superficial sleuthing might have cost Mike Hawkins his life.

“Davy's exactly what he appears to be. A talented young man. My gut tells me he's not part of this.” Tinkie pushed me out the door and into the car.

At Hilltop, Tinkie accomplished a quick toilette and settled the pets in an interior bedroom upstairs. No one was going to drive by Hilltop and shoot our critters. We were ready for action.

I'd retrieved my pistol from the Roadster. I generally kept it in the trunk of the car, but I put it in my purse. I'd had enough. Settling things with a gun had never been my first choice, but if it was forced on me, to protect those I cared about, I would do whatever was necessary. Tinkie, too, retrieved her gun.

Oscar was sound asleep, and Tinkie kissed his cheek and left him, safe in an upstairs bedroom. I was impressed that he trusted her enough not to fret and worry when he knew she was working a case. Somehow, after a rocky patch in their marriage, they had become the power couple.

Tinkie hadn't really wanted to marry Oscar. Her marriage had, essentially, been arranged—the melding of two families with great wealth. Tinkie was a princess and Oscar a prince, and the marriage brought her more money and security and him a wife who was a social asset, which translated into more wealth and security. I'd thought the whole idea of such a marriage abhorrent—until I saw them together. Call it fate or luck or kismet, but they had grown to truly love each other.

We stepped into the darkness with extra care. A long, curved drive led to the Richmond home, and from the front door we had a fair view of the terrain around us. No strange cars lurked near Hilltop. In fact, the roads were empty as we drove to the hospital. The solitude evaporated as we turned in to Sunflower County Hospital. The place was a zoo. About twenty blues fans had heard about the shooting and were in the waiting room, weeping and wailing. Emo women! Coleman and Mike's wife, Danni, waited with Scott to hear the doctor's verdict.

Tinkie assessed the situation and took charge. “Ladies, you have to leave this area.”

They reacted as if she'd turned into an ogre.

“We're here for Mike,” a plump young lady said. “You can't force us to leave. We're holding a vigil for him. We love him.”

Tinkie bit her lip. “If you want to help him, pack it up and take it home.”

“You can't make us.”

Now the plump woman was joined by another tall, thin young fan.

“Oh, I think I can.” Tinkie leaned forward so she could whisper. “Scott Hampton told me if you ladies would go home, he'd arrange a dinner for you all with Mike and the whole band when he recovers. We need to clear this room right now.”

They whispered for a minute and the first woman nodded. “Okay.”

Tinkie pulled a pad from her purse. “Sign your names and as soon as Mike is well enough, we'll have a friendly dinner and you can tell him how you all stood vigil at the hospital, praying for his recovery.”

Tinkie was a damn genius.

As soon as the ladies cleared the room a nurse, who worked the sign-in desk, brought us coffee. “Thank you. I was about to commit bodily harm on those weeping Wandas.”

“How is Mike?” Tinkie asked.

“We can't share medical information. It's against the law. But I can tell you he's in surgery. And he's in good hands. Doc Sawyer stabilized him and Mr. Bellow flew in a thoracic surgeon from Memphis. They're working on him now.”

“Yancy Bellow flew a doctor here?” He was a rich man, but this really went over the top.

“Yes. On his private plane.”

We thanked the nurse and took a seat beside Danni, Mike's slender young wife. Her hazel eyes were red from crying. After expressing our condolences, I asked about the black truck.

Still torn up by witnessing her husband being gunned down, Danni gathered herself. “Mike called me to say he was headed home, and the night had been a huge success. I was so worried. I'd just gotten a phone call saying someone would be hurt—”

“What phone call?”

“Mike forgot his cell phone. He must have dropped it beside the bed. I heard it ringing and answered. This man said Scott and the band had been warned and now someone would suffer the consequences.”

Tinkie and I exchanged glances. This was nuts. Why was a man calling Mike's cell phone and a woman calling the club?

“Are you sure it was a man?” Tinkie asked.

“No doubt about it,” Danni said. “He was very clear. I was so worried about Mike. Then he called to say everything was okay. I didn't tell him about the threat. I wanted to wait until he was home. If I'd told him, he might have been more alert. He might—”

“Don't do that to yourself,” Tinkie said. “The person to blame is the person who pulled the trigger. Not you.”

“Why didn't you come to the opening?” I asked.

“I'm pregnant and I'm at the stage where everything makes me queasy. I wanted Mike to play and not constantly be worried about me. So I stayed home with our little girl, Kiley.” She inhaled and fought to steady her voice. “I heard Mike pull up, so I went to the front door to welcome him. I was standing there as he crossed the lawn. I heard the truck—it was loud, like a diesel. But I didn't think anything about it. To me, the club had shut down for the night and the danger was over. I convinced myself the caller was pulling a prank.”

“We should have sent security to every band member's house,” Scott said.

“No.” Danni put a hand on Scott's arm. “It isn't your fault. How could you know what a maniac will do? There's no way to predict crazy.”

I hadn't had a chance to really talk with Danni before, but I liked her. A lot. “Can you remember any more details?” I asked.

“The truck roared up to the house and then slowed. There was a very bright cue-beam aimed out the passenger window, like illegal night hunters use. It came on, highlighting Mike. He yelled at me to get inside and he dove to the right. The truck jerked, like the driver lost control for a minute. Otherwise Mike would have taken the shot directly in the chest.”

“And what happened next?” I asked.

“The truck drove off. I went to Mike. He was hurt so bad. I called 911. They must have called the sheriff's department.”