surrounding the track. And I’m not talking one sponsor per team. Every door, hood, roof, deck lid, side panel, and person was plastered with dozens of logos. For some I couldn’t see the connection to auto racing. Tums? Head & Shoulders? Goody’s Fast Pain Relief? Whatever. One thing was clear. No one would confuse a NASCAR speedway with St. Andrews or Wimbledon.
The cars looked similar to the ones I’d seen in the Sprint Cup garages, maybe a little shorter. And they lacked the little shelf that projected from under the place where a front bumper would wrap a regular car. They also lacked the wing-looking thing the cup-series cars had, back where a car for street usage would have a trunk.
After a while I got the hang of the board indicating laps and driver positions. Why the crowd cheered or booed remained a mystery to me.
Just before nine-thirty, I returned to Frank’s garage. A light rain had begun falling. The gracile figure was still under the canopy. Alone.
“Maddy Padgett?” I asked from six feet out.
The figure turned.
The woman’s skin was the color of fresh-brewed coffee. Her eyes were huge, the pupils brown, the sclera white as overbleached cotton. Shiny black bangs curved from the brim of her cap to her eyebrows.
“No autographs now.” Waving a distracted hand.
“I’m Temperance Brennan.”
“Oh. Right.” Quick glance at her watch. “OK. Let’s do this. But it’s got to be quick.”
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
Padgett smiled. “We’ll win the next one.”
“Tell me about Cindi Gamble,” I said.
“Have you found her?”
“Yes.”
“Is she…?”
My look was enough.
“And Cale?” Afraid of the answer.
“Yes.”
Padgett gave a taut nod. “On the phone, you mentioned homicide.”
“Both had been shot.”
Padgett went utterly still. Light sneaking under the plastic sparked droplets of rain on her shoulders and cap
“Do the cops know who did it?”
“A suspect has been arrested.”
“Who?”
“A man named Grady Winge.”
“Why did he kill them?”
“Winge’s motive remains unclear.”
“Cindi could have done it, you know.”
“Driven stock cars?”
“Been a NASCAR superstar. She had … ” Padgett curled her fingers, seeking the right word. “Flash!”
“That’s a racing term?”
“My term.” She smiled ruefully. “Cindi could make love to a car, could sweet-talk all that horsepower into doing whatever she wanted. And she was developing style. Yeah, she had flash. The fans would have worshipped her.”
“Cale’s father disagrees.”
“Craig Bogan.” Padgett snorted derisively. “There’s a piece of work.”
“You don’t care for him?”
“I haven’t seen that jackwagon in over a decade. Thank the Lord.” Padgett tilted her head, throwing shadow from the cap’s brim across her features. “Bogan hated me.”
“Why was that?”
Padgett hesitated. Then gave me the full force of her big brown eyes.
“Sin of sins. I slept with his precious son.”
“YOU WERE CINDI’S FRIEND.”
“Yes. I was.”
“Yet you betrayed her by sleeping with her boyfriend.” I struggled to sound nonjudgmental.
