“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.
