picnic tables outside concession stands, chowing on corn dogs, burgers, fries, and ’cue.
Harley glided to a stop beside a gray and blue building bearing the words MEDIA CENTER. Enormous haulers sat side by side in a fenced area opposite the building’s main entrance.
Alighting, I heard Harley tell Slidell that the haulers belonged to Nationwide drivers. Not interested or not comprehending, Slidell offered no response.
Entering the Media Center was like stepping from a blast oven into a cooler. Harley indicated a man seated at the farthest in a cluster of round plastic tables off to the right. “That’s Grady Winge.”
Winge was enormous, perhaps six two, three hundred pounds, with thin brown hair tied into a pony at the nape of his neck. His khaki shirt was mottled with soil, its underarms darkened by large half-moons.
“Here’s my cell phone number.” Harley handed me a card. “Call when you’re finished.” Flashing a smile, he headed off into the building.
Slidell and I took a moment to observe our target. Winge’s face was tanned and creased from hours in the sun, making it hard to pinpoint age. His cap lay on the table, sweat-stained to the belly of the number 3 centered over its brim. A cross hung from a chain around his neck.
In addition to size, the man’s other striking feature was his stillness. Winge sat with fingers laced, eyes down, perfectly motionless.
Slidell and I approached. “Grady Winge?”
When Winge glanced up, Slidell badged him.
Winge looked at the shield but said nothing.
Slidell and I sat in the plastic chairs facing Winge.
“You know why we’re here.” Slidell laid it out as statement, not question.
Winge said nothing.
“I see you’re a Dale Earnhardt fan.” I gestured at the cap.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He was the best.” I wasn’t really sure.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette disappeared from this Speedway on October 14, 1998.” Slidell was in no mood for small talk.
“According to the file, you were the last person to see them that day.”
Again Winge offered nothing.
“You stated that Gamble and Lovette argued with a man around six that evening. The three then drove off.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you recognize the man?”
“I’d seen him around.”
“Are you sure the couple was Gamble and Lovette?”
A moment passed. Then, “I’m sure it was Lovette.”
“How’s that?”
“Lovette worked here.”
“You ever see Lovette outside of the track?”
Winge shrugged. “I mighta.”
“And where was that?”
“A place called the Double Shot.”
“The Double Shot Tap in Mooresville?”
I figured Slidell knew the name from Rinaldi’s notes.
“I had my trailer up by the lake, so I’d catch a beer there now and again.”
“Lovette was a regular?”
“He’d drink with his buddies.”
“Militia types.”
Winge said nothing.
“Well?” Gruff.
“Well what?”
“Give me an answer.”
“Give me a question.”
“Don’t screw with me, asshole.”
