Slidell had been wrong. Maddy Padgett didn’t work for Joey Logano’s #20 Home Depot team. She was employed by a Nationwide Series driver named Joey Frank.
Joey as in Josephine.
Frank drove the #72 Dodge Challenger for SNC Motor Sports.
The race had begun at eight, as scheduled. Members of Frank’s pit crew were listening to headphones, calling out adjustments, and frantically positioning gear. They looked like an army of droids in their red and black jumpsuits and black caps.
I spotted one form that seemed smaller than the others, maybe female. S/he was under a plastic canopy, inspecting a set of precisely stacked tires, each wider than my shoe size and devoid of tread. Not exactly “stock.”
Not wanting to be in the way, I walked down pit row and peered through a gap between garages. The track looked surreal under its squillion-megawatt lights, the grass too green, the asphalt too black. The grandstands appeared as startling rainbow swaths. Crammed to capacity. I guess the word got out.
The race had been halted because of debris on the track. The cars waited two abreast, engines thrumming, hounds straining at their leashes to reengage in the hunt.
I’d never seen so much product promotion. On the vehicles, the uniforms, the enormous billboards surrounding the track. And I’m not talking one sponsor per team. Every door, hood, roof, deck lid, side panel, and person was plastered with dozens of logos. For some I couldn’t see the connection to auto racing. Tums? Head & Shoulders? Goody’s Fast Pain Relief? Whatever. One thing was clear. No one would confuse a NASCAR speedway with St. Andrews or Wimbledon.
The cars looked similar to the ones I’d seen in the Sprint Cup garages, maybe a little shorter. And they lacked the little shelf that projected from under the place where a front bumper would wrap a regular car. They also lacked the wing-looking thing the cup-series cars had, back where a car for street usage would have a trunk.
After a while I got the hang of the board indicating laps and driver positions. Why the crowd cheered or booed remained a mystery to me.
Just before nine-thirty, I returned to Frank’s garage. A light rain had begun falling. The gracile figure was still under the canopy. Alone.
“Maddy Padgett?” I asked from six feet out.
The figure turned.
The woman’s skin was the color of fresh-brewed coffee. Her eyes were huge, the pupils brown, the sclera white as overbleached cotton. Shiny black bangs curved from the brim of her cap to her eyebrows.
“No autographs now.” Waving a distracted hand.
“I’m Temperance Brennan.”
“Oh. Right.” Quick glance at her watch. “OK. Let’s do this. But it’s got to be quick.”
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
Padgett smiled. “We’ll win the next one.”
“Tell me about Cindi Gamble,” I said.
“Have you found her?”
“Yes.”
“Is she…?”
My look was enough.
“And Cale?” Afraid of the answer.
“Yes.”
Padgett gave a taut nod. “On the phone, you mentioned homicide.”
“Both had been shot.”
Padgett went utterly still. Light sneaking under the plastic sparked droplets of rain on her shoulders and cap
“Do the cops know who did it?”
“A suspect has been arrested.”
“Who?”
“A man named Grady Winge.”
“Why did he kill them?”
“Winge’s motive remains unclear.”
“Cindi could have done it, you know.”
“Driven stock cars?”
“Been a NASCAR superstar. She had … ” Padgett curled her fingers, seeking the right word. “Flash!”
“That’s a racing term?”
“My term.” She smiled ruefully. “Cindi could make love to a car, could sweet-talk all that horsepower into doing whatever she wanted. And she was developing style. Yeah, she had flash. The fans would have worshipped her.”
“Cale’s father disagrees.”
“Craig Bogan.” Padgett snorted derisively. “There’s a piece of work.”
“You don’t care for him?”
“I haven’t seen that jackwagon in over a decade. Thank the Lord.” Padgett tilted her head, throwing shadow from the cap’s brim across her features. “Bogan hated me.”
“Why was that?”
Padgett hesitated. Then gave me the full force of her big brown eyes.
“Sin of sins. I slept with his precious son.”
“YOU WERE CINDI’S FRIEND.”
“Yes. I was.”
“Yet you betrayed her by sleeping with her boyfriend.” I struggled to sound nonjudgmental.
“Awesome, huh?” “More than once?”
She nodded.
Thunder rumbled, long and low.
“Lord almighty, I hope this weather won’t cause a delay.”
“How did that play?” I asked.
“It wasn’t grand romance, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“What was it?”
She sighed. “The usual. I was sixteen. Cale was older, seemed worldly and sophisticated. We were both horny as hounds in heat.”
“Did Cindi know?”
“I don’t think so. She was a trusting person. Very sweet.”
“But not putting out.” Despite my resolve, disgust filtered through.
“You’re right. I was a world-class bitch.”
Rain was drumming the plastic canopy now. Padgett poked her head out, looked up at the sky, then at her watch.
“Bogan learned that you and Cale were cheating on Cindi,” I guessed.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Does that really matter?”
Probably not.
“He resented you because he cared for her.”
Padgett looked at me as if I’d said warthogs could fly. “How much effort have y’all put into this investigation?”
“I’m new to the case.”
Padgett assessed me for a long moment. “Craig Bogan hated Cindi Gamble as much as he hated me. Maybe more.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”
She spread her arms. “What do you see?”
“Ms. Padgett—”
“Seriously.” She held the pose.
Though the jumpsuit was far from slimming, I could tell Padgett’s body was fit and trim. She wore a string of red beads around her neck, probably coral. The subtle touch of femininity showed a flair for fashion that I’ve always admired but never possessed.
Padgett’s makeup was understated and skillfully applied. And completely unnecessary.
“You’re a beautiful woman—” I began, slightly embarrassed.
“Black woman.” She dropped her arms to her sides. “A beautiful black woman.”
“You’re saying Craig Bogan is a racist?”
“The man is a Neanderthal.”
As I’d suspected.
“And Cale wasn’t?”
Padgett shook her head. “Honey, I’m not kidding myself. Wasn’t then. There was no way Cale was going to put a ring on my finger. And my game plan didn’t involve settling for a high school dropout. We were both just sowing our oats.”
Rain was coming down hard. As Padgett continued, I pulled a windbreaker from my purse and slipped it on.
“But it wasn’t totally sex. Cale and I talked. I came to understand his way of thinking. He started out buying in to his old man’s racist horseshit. Why wouldn’t he? As a kid, he’d been brainwashed. And Bogan had a wicked temper. It was good Cale put distance between them.”
“You’re saying Cale became more liberal after getting away from his father?”
“He took up with me, didn’t he?”
“Why the change?”
Padgett didn’t hear my question. She was listening to an announcement coming over the loudspeakers.
“Son of a buck.” She kicked
the tires in irritation. “They’ve raised the red flag.”
“The race is on hold?”
“Yeah. I’m going to have to cut this short.”
“If Cale wasn’t a white supremacist, why did he belong to the Patriot Posse?”
“He was quitting. I told all this to the cops back then.”
“Which one?”
“Big guy, dark hair.”
“Detective Galimore?” I felt a tickle of apprehension.
“I don’t remember the name.”
“Help me understand. You’re saying Bogan hated you because you’re black. What did he have against Cindi?”
“You didn’t catch my second meaning?”
I was lost.
“Black. Woman.”
“You’re saying Bogan hates women?”
“Only us uppity ones.” Delivered with an over-the-top black-girl cadence.
“Meaning?”
“Females who defile the hallowed and sacred.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Padgett. I’m not following you.”
“I can’t speak for now, but back when I was seeing Cale, Craig Bogan lived and breathed NASCAR. Went to all the races. Schmoozed all the drivers. Decked out like a honky fool in all the gear. I think he landed the contract here because he never went home.”
Padgett’s eyes shone with an emotion I couldn’t define. I didn’t interrupt.
“Bogan was obsessed with NASCAR staying true to its roots. The redneck cracker opposed even the tiniest suggestion of change, despised anything or anyone who might”—she hooked finger quotes—“pollute the system.”
“The ladies and the less than white.”
“You’ve got it, girlfriend.”
“Bogan disliked the idea of Cindi driving NASCAR.”
“Loathed the very thought of it.”
“How did Cale feel?”
“He was resentful that Cindi could afford to participate in Bandoleros and he couldn’t.” She smiled at the irony of an old memory. “Made me happy. While Cindi was at the track in Midland, Cale and I were free to get it on.”
“Did you ever see Cale act abusive toward Cindi?”
Padgett shook her head. “He was nuts for that girl. Even as he was screwing me, Cale was crazy in love with Cindi.”
I was about to ask another question when the #72 Dodge roared into its pit. Padgett yelled to be heard over the noise of the engine.
“I’ve got to go.”
“Can we talk again later? I’m willing to wait.”
“Come back when the race ends. Joey won’t be hitting Victory Lane after this one.”
“Where?”
“At the hauler. We’ll be loading up.”
Pulling my hood over my head, I walked back to the gap where I’d stood earlier. Thunder and lightning were putting on quite a performance. Strong winds were whipping the rain into horizontal sheets.
Many fans had abandoned the stands for cover. Those who remained in their seats huddled under umbrellas or sat swaddled in brightly colored plastic ponchos.
Some drivers were still on the track. Others, like Frank, had opted for pulling into the pit.
I looked around for a dry spot to wait out the storm. Seeing few options, I decided to seek sanctuary with Galimore.
As before, he didn’t answer his mobile.
Annoyed, I resolved to find the security office on my own.
As I walked, head down, shoulders hunched against the downpour, disjointed data bytes ricocheted in my brain.
Slidell was certain Grady Winge had murdered Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble and buried their bodies in the nature preserve. But what motive did Winge have? And why would he kill Wayne Gamble? To cover up his earlier crime? Gamble hadn’t died from abrin. He might have eventually, but had someone decided his death needed to be immediate?
Winge had the IQ of a brussels sprout. How had he gotten his hands on abrin? And why use it? Cindi and Cale had been shot, not poisoned.
Eli Hand had been poisoned. With ricin. But had that killed him? Larabee’s autopsy had also revealed head trauma.
Did Hand accidentally poison himself while experimenting with ricin? Were he and other crazies planning to use the toxin in some sort of terrorist assault? Was that what Cale Lovette and the old guy were discussing at the Double Shot?
Winge had access to the track, the barrel, the asphalt. Was he also responsible for Hand’s death?
Had Cindi and Cale discovered that Winge killed Hand? Was that why he shot them?
Had Winge truly been born again? If so, did his conversion spring from guilt?
Waterlogged fans crammed every shelter and filled every canopied or awninged foot of dry ground. At least a hundred huddled under the portico at the Media Center. Dozens had crawled under picnic tables outside concession stands.
Seeing a foot of space between a woman in a tissue-thin Danica Patrick tee and a shirtless old geezer in nothing but cutoffs, I darted under the overhang of a cinder-block restroom building. Thunder boomed as I dialed Slidell’s number.
Sweet Mother of God. Didn’t people answer their phones anymore?
Fine.
I punched 411. Made my request.
A robotic voice provided a number. Even dialed it for me.
“Reverend Grace.” The voice sounded a thousand years old.
“Am I speaking with Honor Grace?”
“Yes, ma’am. Are you troubled? Is your soul in need of salvation?”
“No, sir. Are you aware that a member of your congregation has been arrested for murder?”
“Oh, my, my. Oh. Who is this, please?”
I identified myself, then cut off inquiry into the specifics of my authority by asking if a Detective Slidell had called.
“No. But I’ve been ministering to the sick all day and have yet to check my answering machine.”
“Are you familiar with Grady Winge?”
As I spoke, the Danica Patrick girl waved madly and shrieked, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Artie!”
“Are you all right, miss?” Grace sounded worried.
“I’m at the Speedway. Some fans are very energetic. Grady Winge?”
“Of course. Brother Winge has been a member of my church for many years. Is it he who is accused of this sin?”
“Can you comment on Winge’s whereabouts on Tuesday night?”
“Without reservation. Brother Winge was right here with me.”
I felt a chill that didn’t come from the rain.
“You’re certain?”
“Brother Winge comes every Tuesday to help prepare for Wednesday prayer meeting. This week I was taken ill. I don’t know if it was something I ate or a bug—”
“Winge was there for how long?”
“He arrived at six, as is his habit, and stayed all night. It wasn’t necessary. I was well by morning. But I was very thankful for his presence. The Lord does work—”
“Thank you, sir.”
I clicked off and pressed the phone to my chest. Beneath my curled fingers, my heart pounded.
Grady Winge hadn’t murdered Wayne Gamble.
Gamble’s killer was still out there.
I closed my eyes. Breathed deeply.
Did that mean Winge hadn’t shot Cindi and Cale? If not, who had?
Water ran from the eaves and ticked the gravel at my feet. People jostled and joked around me.
Wayne Gamble was killed at Stupak’s garage. Who could get past the barriers surrounding the Sprint Cup garage area?
Suddenly the whole wet world tilted.
Galimore had access to the entire Speedway complex.
Hawkins distrusted Galimore. Slidell hated him. Veteran cops suspected him of impeding the Lovette-Gamble investigation back in ’ninety-eight. But what involvement would Galimore have had with ricin or abrin? Was Galimore in league with others?
Galimore had been missing when I received the threatening call on my mobile at Craig Bogan’s house. He’d been missing when Eugene Fries put a gun to my head.
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He was missing now. Had been since yesterday morning.
I remembered Padgett’s comment about Cale Lovette quitting the Patriot Posse. She said she told a cop back then. A big guy with dark hair.
Had that statement made its way into any report?
The chill spread through my body.
I STOOD PARALYZED WITH INDECISION. IF THE KILLER WAS STILL free, was I in danger? I continued to puzzle over Galimore. Ricinabrin would not be his thing, but had he been protecting others? As a member of a group? As a hired hit man?
That made no sense. Had he simply colluded years earlier to protect the shooter? What was going on today? Was there a new plot in the works that Gamble was going to stumble upon?
Meanwhile, the rain. Where to go?
The security office. Galimore might be there, but so might others. Besides, he knew where to find me. He was not likely to snatch me from his own office.
My sneakers were soaked. My jacket was molded to my torso and head. Though the night was warm, goose bumps puckered my neck and arms.
“Oh, shit.” Slurred, from my right.
The Danica Patrick girl was swaying drunkenly. Dropping her can of Miller High Life, she doubled over and moaned.
I tried shifting left. The shirtless guy was right at my shoulder.
Lightning streaked. Thunder cracked.
Vomit hit the ground at my feet.
Any place was better than here.
Lowering my head against the deluge, I set out for Joey Frank’s hauler.
I was halfway down the Nationwide row when my iPhone vibrated.
Finally. Slidell returning my call.
I stepped between two enormous transporters and dug the phone from my pocket. Tugging my sleeve as low as possible for protection against the rain, I raised the device to my ear.
“Brennan—”
Something ticked my exposed fingertips.
Instinctively, I shook my hand to dislodge the insect.
My thumb accidentally hit the disconnect button, ending the call.
I punched redial. My finger slipped on the wet screen. I noticed that my skin was burning where I’d been stung.
Shoving the phone inside my jacket, I wiped moisture off the screen with my shirt.
I heard movement to my left, glanced sideways. The upraised hood blocked my peripheral vision.
I was dialing again when footsteps squished in the muddy grass. Hurried. Close.