Flash and Bones (28 page)

“Shrewd questions. For which I intend to get answers.”

Maddy Padgett had a voice like my grandma Daessee, smooth and Southern as fatback gravy.

I apologized for the early hour, then gave my name and reason for calling. “I’d like to talk to you about Cindi Gamble.”

“How did you get this number?”

“From a Charlotte PD homicide detective.”

“Homicide?”

“Yes.”

“Finally.”

“What do you mean?”

“Honey, you tell me.”

“I’d like to meet with you. Today, if possible.”

“You follow NASCAR?”

“Sure.” Sort of.

“You heard they moved the race forward to tonight?”

“Yes.”

“And now there’s a freakin’ sinkhole.”

“Yes.”

“The new start time is causing major-league havoc, so Joey wants me at the Speedway all day. Garages open at nine. We’ll be fine-tuning the car all morning. Joey’s got an autograph session from one to two. Qualifying takes place at three, followed by a crew-and-driver meeting at the media center at six. The drivers are introduced at seven, then the Nationwide flag drops at eight.
If
it drops. What a nightmare.”

“It’s urgent that I speak with you.”

I held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t blow me off.

“I could give you a half hour around nine-thirty tonight.”

“Tell me where.”

“Come by Joey’s garage. I’ll arrange for a hot pass.”

She gave me the location and we disconnected.

I phoned Galimore’s mobile to tell him I’d be at the Speedway that night. As usual, he didn’t answer the phone.

What the flip? Was he monitoring calls, ignoring mine? Or was he just too busy to pick up?

I considered dialing Galimore’s office, instead left a message saying I’d be in the Nationwide garage area at nine-thirty.

After dressing, I went to the MCME to analyze Wayne Gamble’s reconstructed skull. I noted in the file that all fracture patterning was consistent with failure due to rapid loading caused by compression between the Chevy’s front end and the concrete wall.

I also updated the dossier on the landfill John Doe, adding that a positive identification had been made by the FBI based on dental records.

After lunch, I ran to SouthPark Mall to buy a birthday present for Harry. Then I returned home, washed several loads of laundry, and read the new issue of the
Journal of Forensic Sciences
.

At six I ate a dinner of lamb chops and peas. Then, out of ideas, I did a little more research on abrin. Printed out a few articles. Stuffed them in my jeans pocket in case I ended up having to wait for Padgett.

Throughout the endless day, I listened for the phone to ring. It didn’t. No Galimore. No Slidell. No Special or Special.

I also checked the clock. A lot. Each time, ten to twenty minutes had passed.

By seven, I was climbing out of my skin.

I decided to head to Concord early to see what all the fuss was about.

A mauve dusk was yielding to thunderheads mounding like enormous eggplants. The evening was electric with the feel of an impending storm.

The Speedway was another Hatter’s tea party of noise and turmoil. The sweaty, buggy air reeked of hot rubber, exhaust, sunbaked flesh, and fried food. Amplified announcements barely carried over the ear-splitting whine of engines screaming around a mile and a half of asphalt.

My pass was waiting at the gate, as promised. Again I was taken to the infield by golf cart.

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.”

“Y
OU 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.”