Flash and Bones (23 page)

“Hold on.” To us. “Sorry. Got to take this.” Galimore set down his soda and stepped out into the hall.

“You’re here because Wayne Gamble got himself killed, right?”

“I thought you didn’t keep up with the news,” I said.

“I don’t. I watch racing. Gamble’s an item because of the Coca-Cola 600. Stupak’s a favorite.
Was
a favorite.”

“Did you know Wayne Gamble?”

“Knew his sister.” Bogan popped the tab on his can. “What do you want from me?”

“Your thoughts on what happened to your son.”

“I’ve got none.”

“Tell me what you remember.”

“Diddly-squat. I hardly saw Cale once he hooked up with Cindi Gamble. Why ask me now? You’ve got my statement.”

“Just trying to see if anything may have been missed. Did you try to find Cale on your own?” I opened and sipped my Pepsi. It was warm, but I wanted Bogan to feel at ease.

“I contacted everyone I could think of. Trouble was, I didn’t know much about the kid’s life. The only thing he and I ever shared was NASCAR.”

“You and Cale were estranged,” I said.

“He blamed me for his mother’s death. Like I could have prevented it? The woman was an alkie and a crackhead.”

“Do you believe your son left the area voluntarily?”

“Yeah. I can believe that.”

“Why?”

“He and his girlfriend were all caught up in that movement.”

“The Patriot Posse.”

“Look, Cale had been living on his own for six years.” Defensive. “He was twenty-four. I had no control over who he hung out with. Not that I disagreed with everything they were saying.”

“Do you know Grady Winge?” I asked.

“Isn’t he the guy who saw Cale and his girlfriend driving off in a ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang?”

“Yes.”

Again, jazz erupted from my purse.

“I’m so sorry. I thought I’d switched it to vibrate also.”

“Blame Daytona.”

I reached in and flicked a button. When I sat back, Bogan was eyeing me oddly.

“Grady Winge?” I asked.

“I knew Winge to shoot the breeze. We talked gardening a couple of times. But I don’t leave home to watch races anymore.” He gestured at the TV. “Got a better seat right here.”

“What about Eugene Fries?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Fries was a concession-stand worker at the Speedway in 1998.”

“That narrows it to a couple hundred people.”

Galimore rejoined us. Again apologized for the interruption.

I let him take over.

“Talk about Cindi Gamble.”

Bogan screwed his lips to one side and shook his head.

“You didn’t like her?”

“Wasn’t much to like or dislike. The word I’d use is ‘ordinary.’ But she had some crazy-ass ideas.”

“Such as?”

“The little girl wanted to drive NASCAR.”

“Why was that crazy?”

“Cindi Gamble was as likely to drive NASCAR as I am to swim naked with Julia Roberts.”

“She did well with Bandoleros.”

Bogan snorted derisively. “I saw a couple of those races. That gal couldn’t steer her way around a toilet bowl. Cale could outdrive her any day of the week.”

Daytona chose that moment to stroll in and jump onto Bogan’s lap.

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude. But I’ve got bougainvillea needs fertilizing.”

I looked at Galimore. He nodded.

I hit Bogan with my standard closer. “What do you think happened back in ’ninety-eight?”

Bogan shrugged.

“At the time, did you agree with the task force finding?”

“Who was I to disagree?”

“Do you still accept it?”

Bogan stroked Daytona for a while before answering.

“All those years, I kept waiting for a call, a letter, a telegram, anything to let me know that my son was alive. Every time I returned to this house, I checked the answering machine. Every time the mail arrived, I looked for Cale’s handwriting. It became an obsession. Pointless, but I couldn’t help myself. Then one day I stopped.”

Bogan drew air into his nose, slowly released it. Then he looked me straight in the eye.

“I don’t know what happened back then. Cale took off to marry his girlfriend? Went into hiding? Got himself killed? You tell me. I gave up trying to figure it out.”

“Herbert Hoover?”

Galimore and I were back in the car.

“I thought Bogan was going all Archie Bunker,” I said.

“You’re far too young to remember
All in the Family
.”

“Save the enchantment for Reta.”

“You think Bogan’s a racist?”

“Did you hear how he pronounced ‘diversification,’ as though it were a dirty word?” I hooked quotation marks in the air. “‘Back in the day everyone knew whose sport it was.’ Give me a break.”

“The man likes cats.”

“A point in his favor. I also think Bogan’s a homophobe.” More quote marks. “‘Men were men’? Did the dolt really say that?”

“The line was good enough for Archie and Edith.”

“I know there are rumors, but has anyone in NASCAR actually come out?”

“Evan Darling. He’s a Grand-Am driver. But most stay deep in the closet.”

“If Bogan’s attitude is typical, I can see why.”

“There’s a growing fan base among the gay community. Quite a few websites. Gaytona.com. Queers4Gears.com. GayWheels.com.”

“Who knew?”

“You talked to Bogan more than I did. What was your take?”

“His grief over losing Cale seemed genuine. But his view of Cindi Gamble doesn’t square with what I’ve heard from others.”

“What others?” Galimore turned north onto Providence Road.

“J. D. Danner, the leader of the Patriot Posse. Danner thought Cindi had a good shot at driving NASCAR.”

“Maybe Bogan was biased. Don’t parents always think their kids are better athletes or artists or whatever compared to everyone else’s kids?”

“Maybe.” I thought a moment. “A teacher named Ethel Bradford
said Cindi was highly intelligent. And Lynn Nolan, a high school friend, described her as scary-smart.”

“Bogan wasn’t saying Cindi was dumb. He was saying she was dull.”

I remembered Galimore’s phone interruption. “I hope your call wasn’t bad news.”

“It wasn’t good. There’s a feeding frenzy going on at the Speed-way. I’ve got to get back.”

I checked my watch: 3:20. No wonder I was hungry. There was nothing at home. I’d have to stop for groceries.

Suddenly I remembered something that had fallen through the cracks.

“Lynn Nolan mentioned another of Cindi’s friends. Maddy Padgett. Slidell was going to try to locate her.”

“Did he?”

“I forgot to ask him. When he called, we just talked about the Mustang.”

We wound through town, my thoughts buzzing like wasps in a bottle. So many loose ends. So many unanswered questions.

“Did I tell you that Lynn Nolan thought Cale was abusive to Cindi?”

Galimore turned to me, surprise on his face. “Oh yeah?”

“She thought she spotted bruising on Cindi’s arms.”

“No shit.”

“I think we should talk to Maddy Padgett.”

“We can do that.”

We were almost to the MCME when I remembered the call I’d ignored.

A red dot indicated voice mail.

I tapped the icon and listened.

And felt the tiny hairs on my neck go upright.

I
SUCKED IN MY BREATH.

Checked the list of incoming calls.

“Shit.”

Sensing agitation, Galimore glanced my way.

With a shaky finger, I rejabbed the icon.

Listened again.

“Jesus.”

“What’s going on?”

I hit speaker while extending the phone in Galimore’s direction.

The voice was low and deep, the message short.

“You’re next.”

“Play it again,” Galimore ordered.

I did.

“Again.”

We listened to the same two words. Still the meaning was unclear. “Is he saying ‘you’re next’? Or is he saying ‘your next’ and then getting cut off?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

Galimore was right. I was being a jerk. It’s the game face I wear when frightened.

“If this is a threat, I intend to take it seriously.”

“Thanks, Hulk.”

“Christ, Brennan. Check the number.”

“The call logged in as unknown.”

“Do you recognize the voice?”

“No. Does it sound like the same guy who threatened you?”

“I can’t be sure. But here’s what you’re going to do.”

“I react poorly when people use that opener.”

“Go home. Arm the security system. Stay there. I’ll contact you when I’m done kicking ass at the Speedway.”

“Can I admit strangers if they’re really polite?”

My surgical strike for groceries ended up costing two hundred and forty bucks. But I had provisions to take me into the next millennium.

While I placed cans and boxes in the pantry, fruit in a bowl, and veggies and dairy products in the refrigerator, Birdie chased empty bags across the floor. Periodically, he’d roll to his back and claw the plastic with four upraised paws.

I ate a carton of yogurt, a peach, and two Petit Écolier cookies. Then I went upstairs to peel off my sweaty clothes and shower with my impulse purchase of pomegranate energizing body cleanser.

When I returned to the kitchen, pits, stems, and tiny globs of pulp littered the floor. Great. The little bugger had eaten three cherries and mangled four more.

While waiting for Galimore, I decided to see what I could scare up on abrin. An hour on the Internet taught me the following.

Abrus precatorius
goes by many common names, including but not limited to Jequirity, Crab’s Eye, Rosary Pea, John Crow Bead, Precatory Bean, and Indian Licorice.

The plant is a slender perennial climber that twines around trees, shrubs, and hedges. Its leaves are long and pinnate-leafleted. Its seeds are black and red and contain the toxin abrin.

Though native to Indonesia,
Abrus precatorius
is now found in many tropical and subtropical areas of the world, including the United States. When introduced to new locales, the species tends to become weedy and invasive.

Known as
Gunja
in Sanskrit and some Indian languages and
Ratti
in Hindi,
Abrus precatorius
is used as a traditional unit of measure, mostly by jewelers and Ayurved doctors. The seeds are
valued in native jewelry for their bright coloration. In China, they are a symbol of love. In Trinidad, they are worn to ward off evil spirits.

Jewelry-making with
Abrus precatorius
is considered dangerous work. Death by abrin poisoning has resulted from finger-pricking while boring the seeds for beadwork.

Symptoms are identical in abrin and ricin poisoning. But abrin is more toxic by almost two orders of magnitude.

Abrin is a macromolecular complex consisting of two protein subunits termed A and B. The B chain facilitates abrin’s entry into a cell by bonding to certain transport proteins on the cell membranes. Once inside, the A chain shuts down protein synthesis.

I was eyeballing pictures of the assassin legume when my iPhone started bouncing across the table. I’d forgotten to switch it from vibrate.

“You’ll never guess what I caught.”

“Scabies,” I said.

“What the hell’s scabies?”

“I’m good, Detective Slidell. How are you?” Why couldn’t the guy ever open with a greeting?

“I was up, so I caught your NASCAR pal.”

It took me a moment to translate. “You’re working the Wayne Gamble investigation?”

“Concord asked for help in sorting the thing. You been watching the news? It’s a shitstorm.”

“Galimore said a lot of media were camped out at the Speedway.”

Slidell did the throat thing. At mention of the media? Of Gali-more?

Disregarding Slidell’s censure, I recounted my visit with Craig Bogan.

“And?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy keeps a spare bedsheet in his closet.”

“Meaning?”

“I think he’s a bigot.”

“Who don’t he like?”

“Anyone who’s not white and straight.”

“Uh-huh.”

I described the phone threat. If it was a threat.

“Where was Galimore?” Stony.

“Right there with me.”

As the words left my lips, I realized that was wrong.

“So what are you doing?”

I knew Slidell was referring to the call. Chose not to acknowledge.

“Researching abrin,” I said.

“You know what you are, Doc?”

“Crafty on the Internet.”

Slidell clucked disapproval but let it go.

“Looks like Gamble was doing some research of his own.”

I waited for him to explain.

“Grady Winge talked about a ’sixty-five Mustang, right?”

“Right.”

“I found a folder in Gamble’s trailer. He’d traced every ’sixty-five Mustang registered in the Carolinas back in ’ninety-eight.”

“Through NCIC?”

“Hell, no. That’s just for people on the job. You gotta take a class, get a user name and password. It’s mandated by the FBI. If the system was open to every Tom, Dick, and Harry—”

“What about DMV records?”

“No.”

“So how did Gamble do it?”

“Maybe he had inside help. Maybe he requested the original file and was given access. Before some FBI spook snatched the bloody thing, of course.”