I was rooting in the pantry when the back doorbell chimed. Wary, I peeked out.
Galimore was standing on the porch, face bathed in a yellow wash from the overhead bulb.
I closed my eyes. Tried to wish myself gone.
I heard the cadence of the evening news. The cat crunching Iams.
But gone where? What did I really wish for? To let Galimore in? To send him away?
Both Hawkins and Slidell disliked the man. Were they bitter that Galimore had made mistakes?
Had Galimore betrayed the badge? Were their concerns justified?
Had Galimore really taken a bribe? Or had there actually been a frame-up back in 1998? A frame-up in which police officers participated?
Had Galimore impeded the Gamble-Lovette investigation? Was he trying to do so now? Or was he genuinely interested in righting a wrong to the Gambles, which he saw as partly of his making?
Ryan wasn’t exactly burning up the phone line. Nor was Charlie Hunt.
Did I just need a booster? What was this peculiar attraction I felt for Galimore?
I sneaked another look.
Galimore was holding a flat square box. DONATOS was visible in big red letters.
My eyes drifted to the tomato and cuke. Which were now oozing liquid across the sideboard.
What the hell.
I crossed and unlocked the door.
Galimore smiled. Then his gaze dropped.
Too late, I remembered my lack of undies. One hand rose, pointlessly, to my chest.
Galimore’s eyes snapped up. “Totally loaded.” He raised the pizza. “Hope you like anchovies.”
I gestured toward the table. “Let me throw on some clothes.”
“Not on my account.” Galimore winked.
A flush rose up my neck.
Oh, yes, cowboy. On your account.
When I returned in jeans, a sweatshirt chastely concealing my bosom, the table was set. A small bottle of San Pellegrino sat beside each wineglass.
Out of courtesy to me? Or was Galimore also a nondrinker. Given his past, it seemed likely.
Before taking my place, I muted the TV.
“What did you learn?” I started off, wanting to set the tone.
“Not yet.” Galimore slid an overloaded slice of pizza onto my plate. “First, we eat. And enjoy the lost art of conversation.”
In the course of three helpings, I learned that Galimore lived alone uptown, had four brothers, hated processed food, and besides auto racing, enjoyed football and opera.
He learned that I had one daughter and a cat. And that the latter was inordinately fond of pizza.
Finally Galimore bunched his napkin and leaned back in his chair.
“I know where you’re going,” he said. “And I think you’re dead-on.”
“What was Owen Poteat’s middle name?”
“Timothy.”
“And his daughters?”
“Mary Ellen and Sarah Caroline.”
“Yes!” I performed the “raise the roof” pantomime with both hands.
“What I can’t figure is how you got that.”
“First, I spoke to my daughter earlier this evening. She talked about a man who opened tax-advantaged savings plans for his kids’ educations.
“Second, I have a friend who is getting married. Right after my conversation with Katy, she phoned to complain about her bridesmaids.”
“Condolences.”
“Thanks. Both bridesmaids go by double first names.”
“True maidens of Dixie.”
“As I listened to Summer, I was studying Rinaldi’s code.”
“Summer is the lovely bride-to-be?”
“Do you want to hear this?”
Galimore raised apologetic palms.
“The plan Katy described is named after Section 529 of the Internal Revenue Code. 529s are investment vehicles designed to encourage saving for the future college expenses of designated beneficiaries.”
“OK. How do they work?”
“A donor puts money in and can take it any time he or she wants. The main benefits are that the principal grows tax-deferred, and that distributions for higher-education costs are exempt from federal tax.”
Pete and I had considered a 529 when Katy was small. Never followed through.
“A side bennie is that the assets in a 529 plan are not counted as part of the donor’s gross estate for inheritance tax purposes,” I added.
“So a 529 can be used as a sort of estate planning tool, a way to move assets outside your estate while retaining control if the money is needed in the future.”
Galimore was a very quick study.
“Yes,” I said.
“How much is a donor allowed to put in?”
“Thirteen thousand per year.”
Our eyes met.
“Get the code.” Galimore sounded as jazzed as I was.
I dug the spiral page from my purse and unfolded it on the table.
ME/SC 2X13G-529 OTP FU
Wi-Fr 6–8
Silently, we both translated the first line.
Mary Ellen. Sarah Caroline. Two times thirteen thousand into a 529 plan. Owen Timothy Poteat. First Union.
“First Union National Bank became Wachovia, then Wells Fargo,” I said.
Galimore cocked a brow.
“Right. You knew that. When can you get your hands on Poteat’s financial records?”
“Now that I know what I’m looking for, the job will be easier.”
“Tomorrow?”
A waggled hand. Maybe yes, maybe no.
“So.” Galimore gave me a high-beam smile.
“So.” I smiled back.
“Why did Rinaldi think it was worth writing down?”
“Poteat is the single witness who claimed to have seen Cale Lovette after the night of October fourteenth. The man has no job and no assets. Suddenly he parks twenty-six thousand in accounts for his kids?”
“Someone paid him to lie.” Galimore was right with me.
“Or at least Rinaldi thought so.”
“Who?”
I’d given the question a lot of thought. “The FBI? The Patriot Posse? A party wanting to make it look like Lovette and Gamble were still alive?”
Galimore leaned back and took a swig of his San Pellegrino.
Moments passed. In the dining room, Gran’s clock bonged nine times.
“Big weekend coming up.” Galimore’s eyes had drifted to the TV behind my back.
“Want audio?” I asked.
He shrugged.
As I crossed to turn up the sound, the station cut to a commercial.
We are the champions, my friends?….
“That’s what we are.” Galimore laughed. “The DOD’s going to be recruiting our asses to join some secret cryptography unit.”
“Yep,” I agreed. “We dazzle.”
Shooting to his feet, Galimore sang another line of Queen. “‘No time for losers!’”
“‘Cause we are the champions,’ ” I joined in.
Galimore caught me in a waltz hold and swirled me around.
We finished the lyrics together.
“‘Of the world!’”
More swirling.
I laughed like a kid at a carnival.
Finally we stopped. The emerald eyes caught mine. Our gazes locked.
I smelled Galimore’s sweat and cologne. Traces of tomato and garlic on his breath. I felt his body heat. The hardness of muscle below his cotton shirt.
I experienced a sudden, almost overwhelming yearning.
A memory flashed in my brain. Andrew Ryan and I dancing in this same room. A little black dress dropping to the floor.
Yearning for whom? I wondered. Galimore, who was here? Ryan, who was so far away?
Heat rushed up my face.
Palm-pushing from Galimore’s chest, I turned toward the TV.
A kid from Yonkers was singing about heartbreak, hoping to be America’s next idol. He hadn’t a chance.
As the kid crooned, a crawler appeared at the bottom of the screen. For distraction, I read the words.
My hands flew to my mouth.
“Oh my God!”
“YOU OK?” GALIMORE’S HAND WAS ON MY SHOULDER.
I gestured at the TV.
“Holy shit. Wayne Gamble’s dead? At my friggin’ speedway?”
Galimore grabbed his phone. Flicked a button. Messages started pinging in. Ignoring them, he jabbed keys with his thumbs.
I said nothing. I was already hitting speed dial myself.
Larabee answered on the first ring. Background noise suggested he was in a car. “I was just about to call you.”
“What happened to Gamble?” I asked.
“Some sort of freak accident. I’m heading to Concord now. You’d better join me.”
I didn’t ask for a reason.
“I’ll leave right away.”
“Thanks.” A beat. Then, “Everyone’s looking for Galimore. Any idea where he is?”
Great. Hawkins had told Larabee about the message he’d overheard. Undoubtedly embellished.
“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I said.
When I disconnected, Galimore was no longer in the kitchen. Through the window, I could see him on the porch, talking on his mobile. Exaggerated gestures told me he was upset.
In seconds the door opened.
“I gotta go.” Galimore’s face was taut.
“Me, too. Larabee wants me at the scene.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“No.”
“See you there.”
For the second time that day, I made the long trek out to the Speed-way.
As the finding of the landfill John Doe demonstrated, the Charlotte media monitor police frequencies. And word spreads fast.
Every local station was there, one or two nationals, each positioned to provide an appropriately cinematic backdrop for sharing news of tragedy. A major NASCAR event is in full swing. Violent death strikes the pit crew of a favored son. I could hear the lead-ins in my head.
I had no doubt other reporters were barreling toward Concord. By morning not a millimeter of space would remain unoccupied.
I showed ID at the main gate. Was asked to wait. In moments a deputy climbed into my passenger seat. Wordlessly we looped around the stands toward the tunnel.
Along our route, reporters spoke into handheld mikes, expressions grim, hair and makeup perfect under portable lights. Others waited, smoking alone or sharing jokes with their camera and sound technicians. Media choppers circled overhead.
Barricades had been erected since my morning visit. Sheriff’s deputies, Concord cops, and Speedway guards manned them to keep the frenzy at bay.
On the infield, campers stood beside tents or atop trailers, talking in lowered voices, hoping for a glimpse of a celebrity, a shackled suspect, or a body bag. Some held flashlights. Some drank from cans or longneck bottles. Curving high above the gawkers, the glass-fronted luxury suites loomed dark and empty.
The deputy directed me toward the Sprint Cup garage area. In my mind’s eye, I pictured Wayne Gamble. In my office at the MCME the previous Friday. In Sandy Stupak’s trailer with Slidell just twelve hours earlier. Now the man was dead. At age twenty-seven.
Gamble had reached out to me, and I’d ignored him. Failed to return his call.
The guilt felt like a cold fist squeezing my chest.
Shake it off, Brennan. Focus. Help find what he wanted to tell you.
Once past the Media Center I could see the usual grouping of cruisers, civilian cars, and vans. One of the latter was marked Crime Scene Unit. The other was our own morgue transport vehicle. Behind the wheel was a silhouette I knew to be Joe Hawkins.
I parked off to one side and got out.
The night was still and muggy. The air smelled of rain, gasoline, and concession-stand grease.
“I need to find Dr. Larabee,” I said to my escort.
“I’ll take you to him.”
Grabbing my recovery kit from the trunk, I followed the deputy.
On the edge of the hubbub, a man leaned against a Cabarrus County Sheriff’s Department cruiser, face pale in the pulsating blue and red lights. He appeared to be trying hard for composure.
I knew from the logo on his shirt that the man was a member of Stupak’s crew. I guessed from his expression that he’d been the one who found Gamble.
Larabee was outside Stupak’s garage, talking to a guy in a shirt and tie whom I didn’t recognize. Experience told me they were standing at ground zero.
Every scene shows the same people-dispersal pattern. You can read it like a map. The ME near the vic, maybe a detective or death investigator nearby. Moving outward, the uniforms, speaking to no one. Sitting in or near their trucks, the CSU and morgue techs, idle and bored until called into action.
Despite the oppressive humidity, Larabee was wearing a Tyvek jumpsuit. Behind him, in the garage, I could see the #59 Chevy, its trunk end raised at an odd angle. The painted-on taillights looked dull and flat in the garish illumination of the overheads.
“Tempe,” Larabee said upon seeing me. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course.”
Larabee tipped his head toward the shirt-and-tie guy. “Mickey Reno. He’s with Speedway security.”
Reno had seen too many barbecues and too few barbells. Once muscular, his body was stalwartly moving toward fat.
I offered a hand and we shook.
“Why am I here?” I asked Larabee.
“You got a suit?”
I raised my kit in answer.
“Put it on. And bring what you need. It’s tight in there.”
Larabee’s tone told me it was bad.
Placing the metal suitcase on the ground, I flipped the levers, pulled out and zipped a jumpsuit over my clothes. After hanging a camera around my neck, I stuffed latex gloves, plastic specimen containers, Ziplocs, tweezers, and a Sharpie into one pocket.
Satisfied, I nodded that I was ready.
“I’ll go in on the left, you go on the right,” Larabee directed.
Tight was an understatement. The garages assigned to NASCAR drivers at tracks are microscopic. The car takes up most of the space. The crew works around and under it.
Larabee entered and sidestepped toward the garage’s far end, his back to the wall. I did the same, opposite and facing him, the Chevy between us.
I noted familiar smells blending with the stench of gasoline and oil. Urine. Feces. A sweet coppery odor.
Again, icy guilt gripped my chest.
Shake it off.
I’d gone maybe five feet when I felt slickness below the soles of my sneakers.
I looked down.
It seemed more blood than could come from one human body. The pool stretched from wall to wall and half the length of the floor.
Breathing through my mouth, I continued.
When I reached the car’s hood I understood the reason for the hideous carnage. And the reason for my presence.
Wayne Gamble’s body lay off the right front tire, supine, legs crooked to his left, arms outstretched and tossed to his right.
Wayne Gamble’s head had been detached when the Chevy fired forward with great speed and force, slamming his head and neck into the garage’s back wall, crushing them. On impact, bone and brain matter had exploded in all directions.
Feeling a tremor beneath my tongue, I swallowed and drew several deep breaths.
Emotions in check, I dropped onto my haunches for a better look. Larabee did the same on the other side of the car.
I could see stuck to the mangled metal that had been the Chevy’s hood and engine front more bloody tissue, tufts of hair, isolated teeth, and bone fragments that included segments of upper and lower jaw, with dentition in place, and several large sections of skull.
“No chance of a visual ID,” Larabee said.
“No,” I agreed.
“He got family?”
“Not that I know of. His p
arents are dead.”
As Larabee watched, I took photos.
“I wouldn’t let them move the car until you’d had a chance with this mess.”
“Good call,” I said, pulling on the latex gloves. “If there’s no relative who can provide DNA for comparison, the dentition might be critical for a positive ID, even though we have anecdotal evidence who this is. What happened here?”
“Gamble was working with another mechanic, performing some test where you lift the rear wheels up, then rev the accelerator to hell and back. I forget what it’s called, but apparently it really stresses the engine.”
Larabee watched me tweeze up a molar and place it in a Ziploc.
“The other guy left to pee and grab coffee. Says he was gone maybe twenty minutes. When he got back, the car was against the wall, Gamble was down, and his brain was hamburger. His phrasing, not mine.”
“The rear wheels must have made contact and engaged, and the car fired forward, smashing Gamble’s skull against the concrete.”
“Yeah. Body position suggests he was leaning over with his head between the wall and the front grille. Only the guy says there’s no way something like that can happen. Says he and Gamble run this test before every race. Swears it’s safe.”
“So is swimming. Still, people drown.”
“Amen.”
Every few minutes Reno would shout through the open door, anxious to cue the tow truck.
“What’s with Reno?” I asked Larabee, voice low.
“Stupak’s people no doubt want immediate access to the car to see if it can be repaired for the race or if they need to go to a backup.”
“Seems cold. What time was he found?”
“Just past nine.”
“Jesus. Word travels fast.”
“You’ve got that right. News teams were already shouldering for real estate when I arrived. Apparently some reporter cold-called Stupak’s trailer and questioned one of his kids who happened to be there.”
“That’s ghoulish.”
“You need me for anything?”
“Anything new on Ted Raines?”
“Not yet. Legally we can’t get dental records until an MP actually turns up dead. But Raines’s wife allowed the Georgia authorities to search his computer’s hard drive and his cell phone records.”
I nodded. My thoughts weren’t really on Raines at that moment.
“I’m good here,” I said.
“I’m going to step out to talk to Hawkins.”