I drew a calming breath.
“Williams and Randall confiscated the John Doe.”
Slidell drew in his feet and leaned forward at the waist. “No shit.”
“No shit.”
“Where’d they take him?”
“That’s unclear. Larabee is phoning the FBI now.”
“Any idea why?”
I told Slidell about the ricin.
“They thinking terrorism?”
I raised both palms. Who knows?
“How ’bout you?”
I debated. Share my conjecture? Why not.
“Ted Raines is employed by the CDC,” I said. “Raines came to Charlotte for Race Week and vanished. Shortly thereafter a body turned up in a landfill smack next to the Speedway. That body is contaminated with a biotoxin.”
Slidell’s eyes narrowed in thought. Then, “How about this? Cale Lovette hung with right-wing loonies. Lovette disappeared in ’ninety-eight, the year anthrax threats started dropping into mailboxes at women’s clinics. The same year Barnett Slepian was murdered.”
“The abortion doctor.”
“Yeah.”
Not bad, Skinny.
“I think the landfill John Doe is too old to be Lovette,” I said.
“You sure?”
“No. Age indicators vary from person to person. Lovette could fall at the extreme upper end of his chronological range.”
For a few moments no one spoke. Finally Slidell placed his forearms on his thighs, leaned on them, and looked up at me from below puffy lids. The black tie dangled between his knees.
“Tracked down Grady Winge.”
It took me a moment to make the connection. “The man who saw Cindi and Cale leave the Speedway the night they vanished.”
“Yeah. Winge hasn’t blazed what you’d call a fiery career path.”
“Meaning?”
“The mope’s still at the same job he had back then. I’m heading to Concord now.”
I opened the drawer and grabbed my purse.
“Let’s go,” I said.
The Charlotte Motor Speedway accommodates a whole lot more than racing. In addition to the 1.5-mile quad oval track, the two-thousand-plus-acre complex contains grandstand seats, food concessions, restroom facilities, and campgrounds for the masses. The affluent enjoy luxury suites, a fifty-two-unit condo complex, and the Speedway Club, an exclusive dining and entertainment facility.
For drivers, there is a twenty-thousand-square-foot Sprint Cup garage area, a 2.25-mile road course, and a .6-mile karting layout in the infield. A quarter-mile oval utilizes part of the front stretch and pit road, and a one- fifth-mile oval sits outside turn three.
The seven-story Smith Tower is home to ticket and corporate offices, and a small industrial park houses motor-sports-related businesses.
The Speedway grounds also contain a natural wildlife habitat. And, of course, the landfill.
Grady Winge tended flowers throughout all but the latter two areas.
Given that it was Race Week, traffic was reasonable, and Slidell and I made it to Concord in forty minutes. A young man met us outside the Smith Tower and offered to take us by golf cart to the infield. His name badge said Harley.
Slidell stated his preference to drive.
Harley explained the impossibility of maneuvering the Taurus through the throngs of people jamming the grounds. Slidell argued. Smiling but firm, Harley restated his willingness to transport us.
I resolved the issue by hopping onto the cart’s backseat, the rearward-orienting position, so Slidell could at least face forward. Snorting in disgust, Skinny deposited his substantial bulk in front. Harley popped the brake, wove through the crowd, then plunged downward into the underground tunnel leading into the infield.
At midpoint, I glanced over my shoulder toward the front seat. Slidell was haloed by sunlight pouring through the opening at the tunnel’s far end. One beefy hand gripped the upright as though bracing for passage through a 20-G centrifuge.
The infield campgrounds were crammed with the tents and motor homes of the devoted. Fans sweated on lawn chairs and atop trailers, many wearing far too little clothing and needing far more sunblock. Others crowded
