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.
