Dead and Gone Page 8

  Jolted by the accusation, Davis sat back. “Sabotaged?”

  “That crash on Sunday was no accident.”

  Davis rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. “Is there an idiot virus outbreak that I’m not aware of? Geez, I swear if another person tries to sell me that pack of lies today, I’m gonna—”

  “With all due respect, sir, I’m not making this up.”

  “And why should I believe you? Do you have proof?”

  “I know what I saw.”

  Davis slapped his knee and glared at Parker. “Do you have a picture of what you saw?”

  “Not with me.”

  Davis shook his head. “So what do you want? Money? A job?”

  “Fifty grand in cash.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  Parker held his ground. “I’m doing you a favor, sir—and giving you a deal to boot. I could fetch twice that from some news outlet hungry to get exclusive rights.”

  “So, why come to me, oh great Patron Saint of NASCAR Sabotage?”

  “I like you and I think you’ll do the right thing with the information that I give you.”

  Davis leaned back and sighed. “And what do you think is the right thing to do?”

  “Blackball this soon-to-be former employee of yours and quietly remove him before he costs another driver his life—all while avoiding the public relations nightmare that would ensue if I went elsewhere with this information.”

  “Okay, I might agree to your little extortion plan, but I need time to get the money. However, I’m not giving you a dime until I see physical evidence. No picture, no money. Got it?”

  Parker nodded.

  “Meet me back here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning and we’ll make the exchange.”

  Parker exited the hauler and exhaled.

  Maybe I should’ve asked for more.

  He knew that would’ve been greedy, and getting those thugs off his back once and for all would be payment enough. Now all he had to do was find that phone he’d thrown out the window.

  CHAPTER 16

  TODD CASHMAN CLIMBED into his car and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Thanks to his win in Texas, his place in the championship race was secure. There were a handful of drivers with a shot to qualify for the remaining three slots open for the final race in Miami, several of whom Cashman despised. This week’s race was more about bumping some tougher competitors out—and proving a point.

  He revved up his engine and prepared for his pole laps. All he needed was a few good runs and he’d take pole position. It wasn’t like he needed it, but he needed everyone to know that he was there to win, no matter how secure his place was. Winning trumped everything each and every week. If any of the other drivers thought he might be taking it easy, they’d be mistaken.

  His car roared onto the track and hit 143.014 miles per hour on his second lap around the track.

  “New track record,” said one of his spotters over the radio.

  “I like it,” Cashman said. “But I ain’t done yet.”

  Cashman jammed his foot onto the accelerator again and readied for another run.

  “Is this really necessary?” his crew chief asked. “Nobody’s gonna top that.”

  “Just getting a feel for the track and this new set up,” Cashman answered. “Good thing you guys got me on your team.”

  Cashman guided his car around the track three more times before deciding to call it quits, never nearing his record-breaking lap time again.

  He switched over to his private channel as he pulled onto pit row.

  “You want to make some adjustments?” his crew chief asked.

  “I think we’re good.” He paused. “Is Beaumont driving the No. 39 car this week?”

  “Yep.”

  “I still owe that little punk. Remember what he did to me two years ago?”

  “How could I forget? You remind me constantly.”

  “Time to welcome him to the show.”

  His crew chief protested. “Can’t that wait until Sunday?”

  Cashman decided to get in close to Beaumont’s car, which was also pitted. As he veered closer to Beaumont, one of the Davis Motor Sports crew members nearly stepped in his path. Cashman laughed as he blew past them—and all the while unaware that he nearly hit someone.

  Cashman slithered out of his car to find Beaumont’s entire crew standing just a few feet behind his pit. The Davis crew immediately started jawing with Cashman and his team, trading insults and obscene gestures. Before Cashman could get over the wall and find out what was happening, one of his crew members landed a sucker punch on one of Beaumont’s guys. Within seconds, fists and elbows started flying. The crew members brawled for about a minute before NASCAR officials and several other teams’ crew members helped pull the men off each other.

  Cashman shook his head as Beaumont’s crew meandered back toward their pit.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “You,” his crew chief answered.

  “Me? What’d I do?”

  “You almost ran over one of their guys.” He glared at Cashman. “Keep your cool next time. Got it?”

  ***

  OWEN BURNS RUBBED his face and took a deep breath. Managing the fragile egos of all the crew members on his team proved taxing work, far more difficult than rescheduling a pair of flights the day before. While he had cooled down from the previous day’s confrontation and he and Ross had come to an amicable agreement to stay out of each other’s way, now he had to deal with a bunch of hot heads who were ready to trade punches after Todd Cashman’s antics on pit road. He ushered everyone back to the team hauler to deal with the fallout. They all filed into the cramped room.

  “Settle down,” Burns said. “No need in anyone getting suspended over that hot head’s move. Let’s take out our anger by getting our race car in tip-top shape, not in taking shots at Cashman’s crew.”

  Russ Ross stood up. “Well, not everyone was taking shots.”

  Burns furrowed his brow and stared at Ross.

  Ross continued. “Some people just stood back and let everyone else do the dirty work.” He fixated his gaze on Pat Walters. “Dirt decided not to join his teammates.”

  “Now, wait a minute, Ross,” Burns interjected. “The last thing we need is for you to start slinging around accusations.”

  “Too late that for that, boss. Didn’t you read that article this morning? Apparently someone on this team isn’t exactly a team player and sabotaged our car last week.”

  Burns sighed and shook his head. “Yeah, I read it. It’s horse crap, and you know it, Ross. Just chill out, okay?”

  Ross sat down. “I doubt I was the only one who noticed.”

  “I noticed,” Jackson Holmes chimed in. “Nice to know who’s got your back—and who doesn’t.”

  “You guys are crazy—” Dirt said.

  “All right, all right. Settle down, everyone. It’s not worth getting upset about it at this point.”

  Ross stood up again. “Oh, yeah? Well, I take issue with anyone who tinkers with one of my cars.”

  Then Dirt stood up. “What are you tryin’ to say?”

  “If the message isn’t coming across loud and clear by now, you’re deaf as a doorpost.”

  Dirt didn’t bother responding. Instead, he reared back and took a swing at Ross, who landed an uppercut that spawned a bloody lip for Dirt.

  Burns stepped in and pushed them back to opposite sides of the room. “Enough, you two. This is no way to treat your teammate.”

  Ross felt his jaw. “It’s no way to treat your driver either, no matter how many races he chokes away.”

  Burns stamped his foot. “Shut up—both of you. We all know that report was a lie. Tanner died in a tragic accident, but no one here had anything to do with it. We can blame each other and point fingers, or we can grab each other around the neck and hug. We’re a team—let’s act like it.”

  After delivering a pep talk for several more min
utes, Burns stepped out of the hauler to check his phone. It had been buzzing for the past several minutes.

  He noticed an abnormally high amount of voice mail messages. He growled as he listened to the first two—both of them identical in nature. They both sought his opinion on the fight that happened on pit road and wanted to know if he noticed if Dirt chose not to get involved in the fracas.

  Then he opened his Twitter app. It was lit up with links and comments about a blog pointing out how Dirt had sat out the fight.

  “Is This the Saboteur?” one blog post link asked.

  Given the circumstances, Burns thought it was a fair question—but one he already knew the answer to.

  CHAPTER 17

  CAL GLANCED AT THE final results from that afternoon’s pole as he strolled along pit road. After the fracas, he couldn’t help but smile at the two drivers occupying the top slots: Todd Cashman and J.T. Beaumont. Can the drama get any better than this? He knew it couldn’t, and it added another scintillating storyline to Sunday’s upcoming race.

  Not that he needed more storylines to cover. NASCAR got what it hoped for when it changed the way it determined its champion. Culling pretenders from contenders each week during the final ten races led to more competitive driving and created tension the sport had never before experienced. The previous format of adding up points based on where a driver finished over the long grind of a season fell short in creating the kind of winner-take-all atmosphere that resonated with American sports fans.

  And Cal enjoyed the changes—except when it meant more work.

  His phone buzzed. It was Folsom.

  “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon,” Cal said as he answered.

  “We’ve got some early deadlines tonight and I need your stories within the hour.”

  “What? No lecture about how my article created a firestorm of work for you and an impromptu chewing out from your boss?”

  Folsom chuckled. “It’s still early.”

  “Well, let the record show that I was right. I’m sure you have plenty of web traffic statistics to soften the blow.”

  “That story set a record for our NASCAR coverage,” Folsom mumbled.

  “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

  “All right, enough gloating. You know I was more concerned with how it would affect your relationships with the people you’re covering.”

  Cal shook his head. “That’s what you said, anyway.”

  “Well, did it?”

  “So far, so good,” Cal said. “But I’ve got to get a few comments from some drivers for my pole story, so I guess I’ll find out shortly.”

  “And comments about the clash on pit road as well, I hope. I’m counting on a sidebar from you on that.”

  “Has anyone ever called you a slave driver?”

  “Every single day. Now get to work.”

  “Later.” Cal hung up and climbed the steps leading to the second floor of the media center. He scratched down a few notes and questions on his pad before heading downstairs and toward the garage.

  As he attempted to enter the garage area, a security official stopped him.

  “Excuse me, sir, but you’re not allowed into the garage area at this time,” the official said.

  Cal furrowed his brow and watched as another journalist slipped past him into the garage. He gestured toward the person who walked past him. “But he gets to go in?”

  “Sorry, man. I’m just doing my job. You need a hot pit pass to get into the garage right now.”

  “The garage isn’t hot,” Cal protested. When cars were still on the track, the garage area was considered “hot” and access was restricted. Cal understood the distinction but didn’t hear any cars roaring around the track.

  The man pointed toward the yellow flashing light affixed to the top of the fence above his head. “If that’s blinking, it’s hot. Just doin’ my job.”

  Cal held up his press credential and shook it. “I haven’t had a problem with this all week.”

  “Look, mister, if you don’t like it, go get the appropriate pass,” the man said as he fished a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. He unfolded it and pointed to a row of passes that granted access to the garage area when it was hot. “This is yours,” he said, pointing to a row of passes that were not allowed to access the garage area when it was considered hot.

  As the security official began to fold up the paper, another sheet of paper fell out of his pocket. Before he could bend down to pick it up, another voice squawked on his walkie-talkie with a question for him.

  Cal knelt down and picked up the piece of paper. But when he did, he noticed something.

  This handwriting looks familiar.

  With his phone in his hand, Cal snapped a quick photo before returning it to the security official.

  The man nodded and mouthed a “thank you” to Cal as he continued to listen to the official on the other end.

  Once the man finished his conversation, Cal put his arm on his shoulder. “I’ll be back with the proper pass.”

  Cal headed for the media center to request a hot pit pass. While he was waiting to get clearance, he pulled out the note someone slipped into his pocket after the race and compared the handwriting to the picture he’d taken of the piece of paper that fell onto the ground.

  A perfect match.

  Pulled back to the present when a media relations assistant handed him a pass, Cal thanked the man and returned to the gate.

  Cal held up his new pass for the security official to see.

  The man pointed to the yellow light above the gate that was no longer on. “It doesn’t matter now.” He smiled and waived Cal through.

  But Cal stopped. He whispered in the man’s ear. “I know who you are. You mind telling me why you slipped that note into my pocket last week in Texas?”

  The man froze as Cal stepped back. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. I know it was you.” Cal grabbed the man’s identification badge. “Mr. Parker. Mr. Ron Parker.”

  Parker snatched the badge out of Cal’s hand and covered it with his hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do. It’s written all over your face. You thought Carson Tanner’s crash wasn’t an accident. And you left me a note that told me so.” Cal held up the note between his fingers. “But you wanted to do so anonymously. It’s too late for that now. So, tell me, Mr. Parker, what did you see?”

  Parker glanced around as if he was looking for someone. “Look, I can’t talk right now.” He paused and looked down at his feet. “But you’re right—I did see something. I even have proof.”

  Cal leaned in close and spoke through his teeth in a hushed voice. “Do you have any idea what you’re suggesting?”

  Parker leaned back and nodded. “You obviously do too since you wrote about it.”

  “That’s a thread to this story I can’t tug on without more proof. Do you want to let some killer just roam free—if that’s really what happened?”

  Parker waived through several journalists. “I’ve got proof and I can get it to you. But not right now. Meet me tonight at my RV and I’ll show it to you.” He proceeded to give Cal directions.

  “What time?” Cal asked.

  “Late. Let’s say ten o’clock. I’ve got some business I need to take care of first.”

  Cal nodded. “Fair enough. And don’t worry, Mr. Parker. I’ll protect you—and I can protect you more so than if you go to the cops.”

  Parker scanned the area behind Cal. “The cops are the least of my concern at this point.”

  Cal’s eyes narrowed as he tilted his head. “Are you in some kind of danger?”

  “Just a little nervous—that’s all.”

  CHAPTER 18

  JESSICA TANNER STARED at the piece of paper in front of her in disbelief. A couple of tears trickled off her cheeks and splashed onto the document. It was the result she wanted to see—but she didn’t want to s
ee it either.

  She looked up from the paper and wiped her eyes. “Artificially stressed? Does that mean what I think it means?”

  The investigator nodded. “If you look close enough, you can determine if someone stressed a part or if it was just due to the rigorous wear and tear of a long race. The return spring that’s supposed to make the throttle come back was exposed to far more heat than it should have been.”

  She sniffled. “Even after the fire?”

  “The fire was out before it got started. And that kind of heat looks different. I think someone stressed this with heat before the race.”

  She nodded and started crying again.

  “I’m really sorry, m’am.”

  Jessica nodded. “Thank you. I think I need to be alone now.”

  She ushered the investigator out and locked the door behind him. Then she collapsed onto the floor in a blubbering mess.

  After regaining her composure, she picked up her cell phone and called Cal Murphy.

  “Hi, Jessica. How are you?” he said as he answered.

  “I don’t know,” she said, trying to keep from falling apart again. “I just got the report back from the investigator.”

  “And?”

  “He found evidence that the return spring was artificially stressed.” She broke down and started bawling.

  He waited until she regained her composure. “Can you email me a copy of it so I can look at it and take it to the NASCAR officials here?”

  She took a deep breath. “Sure.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see what I can do with this information and keep you posted.” He paused. “You’re a brave woman, Jessica. I know this isn’t easy for you, but if this is true, we need to catch this person and stop him from doing it again.”

  ***

  CAL IMMEDIATELY DIALED Folsom’s number to tell him the breaking news.

  Folsom picked up and Cal barely waited for him to utter a word.

  “Tanner’s widow just called me with the findings of the independent investigator.” He didn’t wait for Folsom to comment. “The return spring was tampered with.”

  “I’m assuming you think that’s what caused the wreck then?”