About my conversation with Wayne Gamble.
“Gamble is jackman on Sandy Stupak’s crew?”
“Yes.”
“The Sprint Cup Series driver?” Finally Ryan sounded a wee bit animated.
“Don’t tell me you’re a NASCAR fan.”
“
“Who’s Jacques Villeneuve?”
“Seriously?” Ryan’s shock sounded genuine.
“No. I’m testing to see if you’re bullshitting me.”
“Jacques Villeneuve won the 1995 CART Championship, the 1995 Indianapolis 500, and the 1997 Formula One World Championship, making him only the third driver after Mario Andretti and Emerson Fittipaldi to accomplish that.”
“What’s CART?”
“Championship Auto Racing Teams. It’s complicated, but it was the name of a governing body for open-wheel cars, the kind that race the Indy. The group doesn’t exist under that name now.”
“But you’re not talking stock cars.”
“Hardly.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess Villeneuve is Quebecois.”
“Born in Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, he still has a home in Montreal. You know the course out on Ile Notre- Dame?”
Ryan was referring to a track at Parc Jean-Drapeau on Ile Notre-Dame, a man-made island in the Saint Lawrence River. Each year during Grand Prix Week, you could hear the whine of Formula 1 engines even miles away at our lab.
“Yes,” I said.
“Jacques’s father, Gilles, also drove Formula One. He was killed during qualifying for the 1982 Belgian Grand Prix. That year the track on Ile Notre-Dame was renamed Circuit Gilles Villeneuve in his honor.”
“It’s a road course, not an oval, right?”
“Yes. The Formula One Canadian Grand Prix is run there. So are the NASCAR Canadian Tire Series, the NASCAR Nationwide series, and a number of other events.”
Grand Prix Week in Montreal is like Race Week in Charlotte. Bucks flow like water, making merchants, restaurateurs, hoteliers, and bar owners giddy with joy.
“You surprise me, Detective. I’d no idea you follow auto racing.”
“I’m a man of many talents, Dr. Brennan. Find us a backseat and I’ll race your—”
“Keep me in the loop on Lily.”
After disconnecting with Ryan, I deleted twelve other e-mails, ignored the rest.
I was considering alternate ways to research Cindi Gamble’s disappearance when the landline rang.
“How you doing, sugar britches?”
Great. My ex-husband. Or almost ex. Though we’d been separated for over a decade, Pete and I had never bothered with paperwork or courts. Weird, since he’s a lawyer.
“Don’t call me that,” I said.
“Sure, butter bean. How’s the Birdcat?”
“Totally freaked by the storm. How’s Boyd?”
Boyd is typically the reason I hear from my ex. If I’m in Charlotte, I take care of the chow when Pete has to travel.
“Unhappy with the current divisive climate in Washington.”
“Is he coming for a visit?”
“No. We’re cool.”
A few months back, almost-fifty Pete had slipped a ring onto the finger of twentysomething-D-cup Summer, creating the need for an unmarital status that was legal and official. Currently, that was the second most frequent reason I heard from Pete.
“I’ve yet to receive papers from your lawyer,” I said. “You need to goose—”
“That’s not why I’m calling.”
I know Janis Petersons like I know the inside of my ear. Twenty years of marriage will do that to people. He sounded tense.
I waited.
“I need a favor,” Pete said.
