Flash and Bones Page 10

  “About a cover-up back in ’ninety-eight?”

  Slidell ran a hand over his jaw. Did it again. Then, “Those fucking suits picked the wrong cop to screw with.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “First off, another heart-to-heart with your NASCAR buddy.”

  I was approaching my kitchen door, lugging a Harris Teeter bag, when a silver Rx-8 turned in to the circle drive at Sharon Hall. Thinking it was probably my ex, and not thrilled with the prospect of another go-round concerning Summer, I paused.

  The Mazda looped the front of the manor house and headed toward me. As it neared, I could see the driver’s head in silhouette. Oddly pear-shaped, its crown barely cleared the wheel.

  Definitely not Pete.

  Curious and a little wary, I watched the car pull to the same piece of curb occupied by Williams and Randall on Saturday.

  The man who got out had a pompadour that brought his height to maybe five-four. Grecian Formula had turned the do a dead-lemur brown.

  The man’s clothes looked expensive. Ice-green silk shirt. Tommy Bahama linen pants. Softer-than-a-newborn’s-bum leather loafers. Armani sunglasses perched on a hawklike nose.

  “Good evening, Dr. Brennan.” The man proffered a hand sporting a sapphire the size of Birdie’s paw. “J. D. Danner.”

  “Do I know you, sir?”

  “Word is you know of me.” Despite the smile, Danner had a hostile, intimidating air.

  Ping.

  “You were an associate of Cale Lovette. A member of the Patriot Posse.”

  “I was commander of the posse, ma’am.”

  I adjusted my grip on the groceries.

  Danner took a step toward me. “May I help with that?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  Two palms came up. “Just offering assistance.”

  “Do you have information about Cale Lovette or Cindi Gamble?”

  “No, ma’am. Nice kids. I hope they found what they were looking for.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Life. Liberty. Happiness. Isn’t that what we’re all seeking?”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Danner?”

  “Get off our backs.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The Patriot Posse took Cale Lovette under its wing. Provided support. Guidance. A family. When he vanished, we were the first ones in the crosshairs.” Again the insincere smile. “The posse had nothing to do with whatever happened to Lovette and his girlfriend.”

  “Why would Lovette need the posse’s support?”

  “The kid was floundering. High school dropout. Dead-end job. Estranged father. Loony-tune mother.”

  That was the first I’d heard of Lovette’s home life.

  “Making him easy prey for your conspiratorial anti-American ideology,” I said.

  Danner crossed his arms and spread his feet. Which were small, like the rest of him. An image of Napoleon popped in my brain.

  “Back then we were undisciplined, perhaps naive in many ways. But we were far from anti-American.”

  “Were?”

  “The Patriot Posse disbanded in 2002.”

  “What was the group’s purpose?”

  “The posse functioned as an unorganized militia.”

  Typical right-wing fascist-speak. In federal and state law, the term “unorganized militia” refers to the nominal manpower pool created a century ago when federal law formally abandoned compulsory militia service.

  “I prefer the army, navy, air force, and marines,” I said.

  “The Patriot Posse was, like other organizations of its kind, equivalent to the statutory militia. It was a legal, constitutional arm of the government. But the posse was not controlled by the government.” A diminutive finger wagged back and forth in the air. “That’s the difference. The posse existed to oppose the government should it become tyrannical.”

  “You believe the government might become tyrannical?”

  “Dr. Brennan, please. You are an intelligent woman.”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “Recent history speaks for itself. The elections of Bill Clinton and Barack Obama. The Rodney King riots. The North American Free Trade Agreement. The dozens of bills currently under consideration that would rob us of our firearms. The murders at Ruby Ridge and Waco.”

  “Murders.”

  “Of course.”

  “Those compounds were stockpiled with enough firepower to take out a city.”

  Danner ignored that. “The government will stop at nothing to eliminate people who refuse to conform. Independent militias must exist to protect the freedoms that our founding fathers died to ensure.”

  Knowing argument was pointless, I switched topics. “Tell me about Cale Lovette’s parents.”

  Danner dropped his chin. Drew a breath. Let it out through his nose. “I don’t like to speak badly, but Katherine Lovette was not what you’d call a lady. She was, how should I put it? A NASCAR groupie. If you take my meaning.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Some women whore themselves to rock stars. For Kitty Lovette, it was NASCAR. Owners. Drivers. Mechanics. Didn’t much matter. She worked the whole circuit back in the seventies.”

  “Meaning she slept around.” Danner’s holier-than-thou attitude irritated me.

  Danner nodded. “Of course she got pregnant. Named the baby after Cale Yarborough. He was winning a lot of races back then.”

  “Are you saying Yarborough was Cale’s father?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. For years Kitty never said. But the baby grew to be the spitting image of a track hangaround name of Craig Bogan. Red hair. Blue eyes. Dimpled chin. By the time he was six, the kid looked like a clone. When Kitty finally fingered Bogan, he moved in with her. But the relationship was doomed from the outset.”

  “How so?”

  “Bogan was in his mid-twenties. But smart. Ambitious. Kitty hadn’t seen thirty in quite some time. And she—” Danner gave a tight shake of his head. “Well, enough said.”

  “How did Kitty support herself?”

  “Sold herbs and vegetables grown at her house. Barely made enough to feed herself and the kid. Bogan actually turned the venture into a reasonable business, eventually bought it from her, house and all. Branched out. Added services like delivering produce to your door, planting flowers and shrubs in your garden.”

  “You knew both of them?”

  Did I imagine it, or did Danner stiffen a bit at my question?

  “I steered clear of Kitty.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “By the time Cale was twelve, Kitty was heavy into booze and drugs. She finally OD’ed his freshman year of high school. Rumor was the kid found her.” Again the head shake. “Things grew tense. Two years after Kitty’s death, Bogan and Cale had a big throw-down, the kid dropped out of school, left home for good.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Cale had a passion for stock car racing, probably the only thing he got from his parents. He’d spent a lot of time hanging around dirt tracks, made some friends. Small-timers, wannabes. He mostly bunked with them.”

  I thought a moment. “Does Bogan still live in the area?”

  Danner shrugged. Who knows?

  “Tell me about Cindi.”

  “Girl-next-door. Real clean and shiny.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “She was smart enough, if that’s what you mean. And focused. All she talked about was driving NASCAR. Seemed her parents spent a lot of money on making that happen. Got her into Bandolero racing.”

  “Which is?”

  Danner gave me a pitying look. “Entry level. A Bandolero car is built like a miniature stock car, with a tube frame and a sheet-metal cage. The driver enters through the roof. I guess you could say it falls somewhere between a kart and a car.”

  I must have looked lost.

  “Like a kart, a Bandolero car has left-foot braking and a centrifugal clutch, so there’s no gearshifting to worry about.
The whole idea is simplicity and economy. Just one hundred and fifty parts make up the whole package.”

  “How fast do theses cars go?”

  “Upwards of seventy miles per hour. But they accelerate relatively slowly.”

  “They’re for kids?”

  “Most Bandolero drivers are from eight to sixteen years old, but there’s no rule against older folks.”

  “They race on real tracks?”

  “One-quarter-, three-eighths-, and four-tenths-mile ovals, some road courses, some dirt tracks. There are three divisions. Cindi Gamble raced Beginner Bandit.”

  I was glad Katy hadn’t learned about this when she was a kid. She’d have loved roaring around at seventy miles per hour.

  But I was off topic.

  “Did Cindi seem committed to Lovette?” I asked.

  “I’d say so.”

  “Where did they meet?”

  “Concord Speedway, out in Midland. That’s where she and Lovette spent most of their time.”

  “How did Lovette treat her?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They came from different worlds. Cindi was a high school kid from the burbs. Lovette’s mother was a dead junkie, and his father was a truck farmer. Cale wanted to race as much as Cindi did, but his folks weren’t footing the bill.”

  “Did Lovette resent Gamble because her parents were supporting her financially?”

  I got another shrug.

  “Did Cindi have potential?”

  “Oh, yeah. She was good. Won her share of races.” Danner wagged his head. “Gal probably could have made it.”

  “How did you come to know Craig Bogan and Kitty Lovette?” I asked.

  “In those days I went to the track now and then.”

  Danner glanced at his watch. Which resembled a ship’s barometer.

  “I hope this has been helpful. But the purpose of my visit was to reiterate what I said back in ’ninety-eight. The Patriot Posse had nothing to do with whatever became of those kids.”

  Danner pulled a brochure from the pocket of his Tommy Bahamas and held it out. I repositioned the bag and took it.

  The thing had been printed on a home computer. A cheerful logo topped the front page, an eagle holding the American flag in its beak. Above the eagle were the words LOYALIST MOVEMENT.

  Below the eagle was the phrase: DO THE RIGHT THING. Below that was a photograph showing young men standing in very straight lines. Each wore camouflage fatigues and held a rifle on his shoulder.

  “I head an organization that represents almost four thousand citizens in twelve states,” Danner said. “Every one is a patriot.”

  Every one is white and male, I thought, glancing at the faces.

  “We have nothing to hide, Dr. Brennan. Didn’t then. Don’t now. We’re proud of what we do.”

  “Which is?”

  “We protect this country from those who would destroy it.”

  With that, Danner turned and walked to his car.

  THAT NIGHT BROUGHT ANOTHER STORM. AS USUAL, BIRDIE RODE it out in the crook of my knee.

  Tuesday morning dawned gray and soggy. Outside the kitchen window, the brick in my garden looked dark with moisture. Mist coated the spiderwebs draping the ivy and ferns.

  Slidell phoned at eight. The Coca-Cola 600 was fast approaching, and issues with Stupak’s car required Gamble’s presence in the pit. We’d meet him at the Speedway.

  By nine we were in the Taurus, rolling toward Concord. Before picking me up, Slidell had hit a Bojangles’. The air was thick with the smell of biscuits and sausage.

  As he drove one-handed, I described my encounter with J. D. Danner. Slidell said he’d check out the Loyalist Movement. He’d already located Lovette’s father. CB Botanicals sold flora from a Weddington property once deeded to Katherine Lovette.

  Since it was Tuesday and between races, the scene at the Speedway was much calmer than on the previous Thursday. Though tents and trailers still packed the campgrounds, few fans were in evidence. I guessed a lot of moms were hitting the outlet malls, and a lot of dads were sleeping off hangovers.

  Wayne Gamble met us outside the Smith Tower and drove us by car to the Sprint Cup garage area. His face looked sallow. The console sole between us held Pepto-Bismol and a mound of wadded tissues. Empty water bottles lay on the floor at my feet.

  Great. Microbes coming my way. Without being obvious, I kept my head turned toward the window.

  Gamble’s fellow crew members were busy with the #59 Chevy, so we settled in the empty lounge in Stupak’s hauler. Gamble slumped on the built-in sofa as if his muscles were linguine.

  After introducing himself, Slidell recounted our conversation with Lynn Nolan. Then he got straight to the point. “Nolan thinks Lovette was knocking your sister around.”

  A flush blossomed in the hollow at the base of Gamble’s throat.

  “She thinks Lovette killed her.”

  The flush spread up Gamble’s jaw and across his face. Still he said nothing.

  “Nolan saw bruising on Cindi’s arms. You ever notice anything along those lines?”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Gamble shot to his feet. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “That mean no?”

  “I’d have killed the guy.”

  Seeing Gamble’s agitation, I spoke in a tone I hoped would be calming. “Did Cindi change her habits that summer and fall? Alter her normal routine?”

  “How would I know?” Gamble threw up both hands. “She was sixteen. I was twelve. We traveled in different galaxies.” He began pacing.

  “How about her demeanor? How did she act?” I asked.

  “Scared of her own shadow.”

  I gestured for him to continue.

  “She was always looking around, you know? Like she was afraid someone was following her. And sometimes she’d bust my balls for no reason. That wasn’t like her.”

  “Go on.”

  Gamble stopped. To gauge our reactions? “Looking back, I always suspected she might have kicked Lovette to the curb.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “A couple weeks before she vanished, Cindi told our mother she’d lost her keys and asked to have all the locks changed at home.”

  “And?”

  “She hadn’t lost her keys. I saw them in her backpack. Why would she make up a story like that?”

  “Why do you think?” I asked.

  “I think she dumped Lovette, and it pissed him off. That’s what was making her jumpy. She was afraid he’d come for her. She invented the key thing to be sure the house was secure.”

  Gamble resumed pacing, moving like a caged animal in the small space.

  “Sit down,” Slidell said.

  Unable to stand still, Gamble ignored him.

  “You report all this to the cops back then?” Slidell.

  “I told some big guy.”

  “Galimore?”

  Gamble shrugged. “Beats me. I was a kid. I learned later that Galimore was on the task force. I don’t know the guy, but I hear he works security here.”

  “Did the cops follow up?”

  “Who knows?”

  “How about the FBI?”

  “I keep telling you. I was a kid. And my parents weren’t on anyone’s speed dial.”

  Footsteps clanged up metal stairs, then a door opened at the far end of the hauler. A jumpsuited man leaned in. He was sweating and breathing hard. “We’ve got a problem exiting turn three. The right-rear pressure needs tweaking.”

  “Gimme five,” Gamble snapped.

  “Stupak’s going apeshit.”

  “Five!”

  The man withdrew.

  “Did you discuss Cindi’s nervousness with your folks?” I asked.

  “You think they sought my middle school views on my high school sister’s mood swings?”

  Point taken.

  “Your parents have passed on, that right?” Slidell asked.

  Gamble nodded. “Mom blew an a
neurysm in 2005. Two years later Dad was killed in a hit-and-run on the road outside our house. That was fucked up. He’d walked that stretch every day for ten years.”

  Slidell’s mobile sounded. Without looking, he reached to his belt and clicked the silencer.

  “What do you know about J. D. Danner?” Slidell changed direction.

  “Never heard of him. Who is he?”

  “Guy ran the Patriot Posse.”

  Gamble’s forearm muscles flexed as his fingers curled into fists. “I’m going to find the bastards who did this.”

  “Just calm down. You know anything about Danner and his cronies?”

  “Look. I keep telling you. I was twelve. I was mostly focused on not getting zits.”

  “Your folks ever talk about it?”

  A frown creased Gamble’s forehead. Which looked clammy despite the AC.

  “I may have heard the name during one of their screaming matches with Cindi.”

  “What was said?”

  Gamble gave a tight shake of his head. “There was a lot of fighting going on that summer. I used video games to tune it out. All I know is the scenes were always about Lovette.”

  “How about a guy named Grady Winge?”

  “He works here at the track. Not too bright but OK. Why? Was Winge involved?”

  “Cool down. We’re just working the names.” Slidell stifled a pork-sausage belch. “How about Ethel Bradford?”

  “She taught chem at A. L. Brown. You found Mrs. B.? What’d she say?”

  “She doubts Cindi left on her own.”

  “Look. I’m not crazy. Everyone thought the same thing. Didn’t matter. The FBI was telling the cops what to do. And for them, the flag had already dropped.”

  Slidell asked a few questions about Maddy Padgett and Lynn Nolan.

  Gamble had no memory of Padgett, only a vague one of Nolan. While not flattering, his recall seemed spot-on. Body by Playboy, brains by Mattel.

  * * *

  Rather than hopping onto I-85, Slidell wound through town on Sharon Amity Road en route to the MCME.

  Note about Charlotte. At least a zillion streets are named for a person or place called Sharon. Sharon Road. Sharon Lane. Sharon Lakes. Sharon Oaks. Sharon Hills. Sharon View. Sharon Chase. Sharon Parkway. Don’t know the gal’s story, but it must be a doozy.

  For several miles the only sound in the car was radio static. Slidell and I were both turned inward, considering what Gamble had said.