“Night patrol,” she said cagily. “I try to keep my eye on the universe.”
“Well, good job, Raydean,” I said, but she’d hung up.
John was peering out a corner of my window, straining to see the car down the street.
“Look, I’m pretty sure it’s ours,” he said, “but I don’t want them to see me.”
“Why? What’s going on? Don’t you think they saw you come in?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” he answered. “I parked somewhere else and walked in, and I didn’t see that car when I got here. Do you have another door out of here, one that doesn’t face the street?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “I think your only option’s going to be the bathroom window. It’s in the middle of the trailer and it’s dark back there. You could walk out and around to get back to your car.”
John nodded. “Shit!” he said, stepping away from the window. “This is all I need.” He was up and moving down the hallway. By the time I reached him he was already clearing a dried flower arrangement off the top of the toilet tank and preparing to open the small window.
He slid it open, moving slowly to keep the sound to a minimum, then turned, saw me, and stepped down to stand beside me.
“We have unfinished business,” he said.
“I have unanswered questions. Starting with why don’t you want them to see you?”
He laughed quietly. “You don’t give up, do you?” He kissed me again. “That’s for next time,” he said. A moment later I was staring at an empty window, the curtains ruffling softly with the breeze.
I went across the hallway to my bedroom and peaked through the curtains out into the street. The brown sedan was still parked by the side of the road. What are they doing watching me? I wondered. And what kind of trouble was John in that he couldn’t risk being seen leaving my house?
Fourteen
Sunlight did not improve the appearance of the Dead Lakes Motor Speedway. Instead it played upon its every imperfection, and there were many. It is a dust bowl surrounded by gravel, burnt grass, and litter. A run-down, rust-infested playground for motorheads addicted to whatever speed they can attain with their patched-together vehicles.
I drove my newly repaired Camaro across the track entrance, shuddering as my tires bounced on the metal plates installed in the clay drive. I expected the track to be quieter than it had been when Ruby and I made our last appearance, but if anything it was noisier. I drove carefully across the track and into the pit, where cars were lined up in front of their trailers and once again men hung over the hoods, gobbled up by the cars’ gaping mouths.
A sign hung over the pit entrance announced: TIME TRIALS TODAY. “Now, that’s an aspiration,” I said to myself. “Time trials my ass—they can’t even keep those wrecks together long enough to make an entire race and they want to tempt fate by timing them?”
I looked through my windshield, which was rapidly becoming covered with road dust, searching for the main office. As near as I could tell, there wasn’t one, so I parked and decided to make the rest of the trip on foot. It was probably better this way, I reasoned. I’d probably find more people to talk to.
I had one goal in mind: I was going to find someone to give me the straight scoop on Roy Dell Parks, and not one of his groupies or pit crew. I needed someone who would tell me about the true Roy Dell, the man I voted most likely to have killed Ruby Diamond.
Because this mission would involve mostly reluctant men, men who wouldn’t want to discuss their feelings and thoughts, especially about someone in their own outfit, I had chosen several Sierra secret weapons: my Superbra, designed to get even the most reluctant male to address at least one part of my anatomy; a micro miniskirt; a tiger-striped spandex bodysuit, with appropriately plunging neckline; and finally, long, long blond hair, arranged so that it would fall softly over my shoulders. I was going for the vulnerable and troubled young-girl look.
I walked up to the first person I spotted, a guy with long, stringy blond hair, bent over a tire rim, efficiently putting on a new tire. He wore a flannel shirt, even though it was easily ninety degrees, baggy khakis, and high-topped black basketball sneakers.
I walked up behind him, straightened my shoulders to enhance my natural attributes, and placed one hand on my hip, ready to put the act into motion.
“Excuse me?” I called. “Could you help me?” I sounded so helpless I could’ve puked, but it was for a worthy cause. So imagine my surprise when the boy whirled around and I saw that he had tits. Not only tits, but he was a she, and she was about seven months pregnant.
“Yeah,” she said, straightening and wiping the sweat off her forehead with a hand that left thick black smudges. “What d’ya need?”
My shoulders slumped, my hand dropped from my hip, and I’m sure my mouth hung down to my chest. A pregnant tire changer? Wasn’t there some law against that?
“Should you be doing this?” I asked.
She rubbed her belly casually and laughed. “Why? ’Cause of this?” I stared at her bulging stomach. “Honey, this ain’t the first and it won’t be the last. I worked right up till Virgil practically fell out on the ground, and it didn’t hurt him none.” I looked at the tire and then back to her. They seemed like mighty big tires, and even though there was nothing small about her, the tires had to be heavy. “I don’t carry ’em, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just fix ’em. Now, was that what you were wanting? ’Cause if that’s it, I’ll be getting back to work.” She turned around and would’ve gone back to the tire if I hadn’t spoken.
“No, no, that’s not it. I didn’t even know you were … when I called to you.” She looked back around, sighed again, and pushed a few stray strands of hair off her forehead.
“Well, then?” she said.
“Well, I was looking for the office, or wherever Mickey Rhodes works.”
“Over there.” She pointed toward the snack shack.
“In the snack shack?”
“No, not exactly in it. There’s two parts to it. Mickey’s offices are in the top, over the shack.”
“Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions about the other night? My name’s Sierra Lavotini,” I said, stepping forward and not giving her a moment to say no. “My friend Ruby was killed here the other night.”
The woman looked around, as if hoping someone might step forward and save her from the conversation.
“Well, I don’t know,” she said.
“What’s your name?” That’s the same thing I always ask the customers when I want to get them into a conversation and eventually into a table dance. Once you get their first name, you’ve got a commitment to a conversation.
“Ann. And I wasn’t here that night, so I can’t help you.”
“Well, Ann, I don’t even know why I’m here, to tell you the truth.” I shrugged my shoulders and bit the inside of my cheek. Tears welled up in my eyes. “You see, Ruby’s mom, well, she don’t think the cops are doing right by Ruby. You know what I mean?”
I suddenly had Ann’s full attention and sympathy. Her hand crept to her stomach and she rubbed absently, putting herself in Ruby’s mom’s place.
“Mrs. Diamond, well, Ruby was her only baby, and I don’t know what it’s like to lose a child, but I can imagine.” I paused, letting Ann have some time to imagine the loss of her little Virgil. She shuddered and I went on. “She asked me to come over here and just see if I couldn’t piece together anything that would help her find out more about her baby’s last moments on this earth. She wants to know if anyone, anyone here, could know who would do such a thing to her only child.”
“Aw, man,” Ann said, sighing, “that’s awful.” Tears had formed in her eyes and all thoughts of tires had vanished. “Well, from what I hear around here, Roy Dell was the last to see your friend, but he wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, everybody loves Roy Dell,” she gushed. “Sure, he likes the ladies, but who c
ould blame him?” Ann frowned and shook her head. “All those female fans, decked out, just trying to get his attention. It can go to a person’s head. Besides, his wife treats him like a dog.”
The image of Lulu Parks dragging Roy Dell out of the Tiffany popped into my head and I laughed. “Yeah, I saw her drag him out of a club one night. She sure gets angry about him and the ladies.”
Ann’s frown deepened. “She did what?”
“She marched right into the Tiffany Gentleman’s Club, where I worked with Ruby, and dragged him right out.”
Ann nodded slowly. “That was for show, pure and simple,” she said. “Lulu doesn’t love him, never has, never will. She loves his name and his sponsor money, but she don’t love him. Why else would she—” Ann stopped talking abruptly.
“Would she what?” Don’t clam up on me now, I prayed. Ann was clearly ambivalent, shifting from one foot to the other and chewing on her bottom lip.
“Well, I don’t think that’s important,” she said, her cheeks turning scarlet.
“Ann, you never know what’s important. It’s just this kind of thing that the police don’t hear that might help Ruby’s mama.”
“Well, I don’t see how,” she said, reluctant, “but all right. I know for a fact that Lulu doesn’t love Roy Dell Parks. She cain’t because Brenda the snack shack girl caught her old man, Frank, with Lulu not one week ago.”
“No!” I looked shocked. “Are you sure?”
“Sure? Hell, yes, I’m sure. Brenda and me are tight. I was one of the first ones she told.”
“Brenda caught them together?”
Ann’s eyes widened and she looked behind her, as if ensuring that no one would overhear her. “You wouldn’t believe the mess! See, Brenda was the closer that night at the snack shack, so she was here late. She wasn’t in any hurry to get home, either, ’cause Frank had lost his race. He’s bad to drink when he loses. And when he drinks he always takes it out on poor old Brenda.”
I remembered the two women at the snack shack talking about their husbands. One of them must have been Brenda. Frank had to be the same Frank who seemed to be so loyal to his buddy Roy Dell. Go figure, playing up to Roy Dell and boinking his wife for good measure.
“Well, Brenda was on her way out to the Dumpster, carrying out the trash, when she hears this kinda laughing, moaning sound. She figures it’s a couple of kids fooling around by the picnic tables, so she coughs and tries to make some noise so they can hear her coming and break it off.”
I nodded understandingly. Sure, that’s what anybody’d do. I was picturing the area with the picnic tables, an ideal rendezvous spot for a couple of teenagers looking to neck before they went home.
“Well, you can just imagine. The sound wasn’t coming from a picnic table. It was coming from the corner behind the Dumpster.” A chill ran up my neck. Just like Ruby, I thought. “When Brenda rounds the corner to heave the sack of trash into the bin, she flat trips over her husband and Lulu. Frank’s pants were down around his hairy legs, his butt shining in the moon, and Lulu was minus her top. Let me tell you, I wouldn’t never want to see that sight! It’s been all I can think of, every time I’ve seen Frank since!” Ann shuddered again.
“What did she do?” I asked.
Ann looked sad and shook her head. “You got to know Brenda and Frank. I don’t know why she stays with him. Got a bad case of the ‘But I love hims,’ I suppose. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Frank just turned his head and looked over his shoulder at her. Then he told her to get on home or he’d beat her ass.”
“You have got to be kidding!” I would’ve skinned the asshole alive.
“No. Brenda said she just started crying and left. She sat up all night, waiting for him, and when he finally got in, he was knee-walking drunk and mean as a snake. By the next morning, he acted like it never happened and they went on just like always. Brenda swears she loves him, and that if it weren’t for the alcohol, he’d be a faithful man. I say that’s a load of crap.” Ann was clearly disgusted.
“I thought Frank was Roy Dell’s friend?” Ann looked at me as if I were a stupid child.
“Around here, ain’t nobody your friend. Racing’s a tough business. You can be drinking with somebody one night and pushing them up the wall at a hundred miles an hour the next. It’s just business. Frank’d skin his mother to be where Roy Dell is. Maybe screwing his wife is just a way of moving in on his territory.”
But what was in it for Lulu? I wondered. I turned to ask Ann about that, but she was quickly grabbing a tire iron and starting to work. Another man was approaching us, wheeling a tire.
“You ain’t got that yet?” he yelled to Ann.
“Keep your pants on,” she snarled. “I’ll have it in a minute.” Our conversation had ended and I knew she wouldn’t risk saying any more. Not now at least. The man was staring at me and starting to smile. Time to move along, I thought, heading for the snack shack.
Lulu and Frank. Go figure. What would Roy Dell have done if he’d known that? What if he did know and started messing with Ruby to pay his wife back? No, I couldn’t see that. He was too nice to Frank and intimidated by Lulu. He was clueless, I knew that for certain.
As I rounded the straightaway, about a football field away from the snack shack, I had a hallucination. It had to be a hallucination, because there was no other way to explain what I was seeing. A familiar chestnut-skinned figure drove slowly past in a beat-up old Ford pickup. Her hair was hidden by a ballcap, but the profile was unmistakable. Carla Terrance—John Nailor’s ex, former DEA agent, and my sworn enemy—was here in the Panhandle.
No way. I shook my head and stared harder at the slow-moving vehicle. Our eyes met for a brief second, hers narrowing to tiny slits while mine widened. No doubt about it. Carla was back in town, up from Miami, and if I was any judge, she wasn’t here for pleasure. So what was the DEA doing here? I wondered. And could it have anything to do with John?
Carla gunned the truck and shot off out of the pit, probably worried that I’d blow her cover. Well, at least I had something to go on with Nailor.
The snack bar was closed, a metal partition pulled tight from the ceiling to the countertop. I looked at the metal fire escape steps leading up to the roof deck and Mickey Rhodes’s office. Maybe Mickey had something to say. I started climbing, my high heels clicking noisily against the metal steps. The noise from the pit seemed louder the higher I climbed, and the smell of exhaust filled the air.
The deck was a tribute to excess and was clearly the track owner’s sanctuary. It was much larger than it had seemed from the ground, with wrought-iron tables and chairs, padded stadium seats lining the rail that overlooked the track’s finish line. There was even an all-weather bar sheltered by a tin roof. What Mickey didn’t spend on the track, he poured into his entertainment center. The same was true of his office. I pulled open the thick wooden door and entered an empty reception area that was so thickly carpeted and insulated that the outside track sounds vanished as the door swung shut.
There were different sounds coming from one of the two rooms that branched off the short hallway behind the reception area. I could hear a woman’s high-pitched laugh and a man’s voice bantering and clearly enjoying himself. Before I could stop myself, I had moved to the edge of the doorway. I’d know that voice in my sleep. I’d heard it in the darkness of my trailer. John Nailor was perched on the edge of a desk. Behind it was the brunette he’d kissed.
I opened my mouth to speak, staring from her to him and back to him again. He had stiffened, but his face hadn’t changed. It was the same as always, inexpressive, but was that a flicker of fear that I saw in his eyes?
“May I help you?” the brunette asked, tossing her head and slowly removing her hand from its resting place on John’s thigh. She wore bright red lipstick and had huge brown eyes, but her skin was tight and little lines marred the edge of her mouth and eyes.
“You know, if you’re looking for Mr. Rhodes to pa
y you, it won’t happen before the thirtieth. No exceptions. I’ll sign checks then and not a day sooner.” She was a prissy little thing, I thought. And that is fear I see in his eyes.
“Well, I’d hoped to—”
“Look,” she said, not waiting to hear what I really wanted, which was a good thing, since I was having trouble remembering my name or breathing. She rolled her eyes at John, as if to say “See what I have to deal with all day?” “You’ve got to be patient. Mr. Rhodes will see to it that everyone gets their money, but not until the thirtieth. I know the money’s late in coming, but it will be here and griping won’t get it here any faster.”
I might’ve said any one of a thousand things, but I didn’t. I let the little snip believe I was another wife there to collect her husband’s money. I looked at John one last time and managed to gasp out “Fine,” before I turned and walked away. Give him the benefit of the doubt, my head said. Kill the bastard, said my heart.
Fifteen
I had just passed the Dead Lakes, heading for Chipley, when I noticed the car in my rearview mirror. I was going fast, but it was moving even faster. It was a black sports car with tinted windows, the kind you expect to roar past you with the thumping beat of a bass line throbbing out over the sound of the engine. A hothead. A young kid with a big stereo, always in a hurry, zooming up behind you and then pulling out across the double yellow line and passing you in a blaze of speed, never mind that there might be a car coming from the opposite direction.
I didn’t need the aggravation, so I accelerated, pushing the Camaro out to almost eighty, expecting the kid to follow at a distance. It didn’t seem to phase him. He kept up, creeping closer, until his bumper was a few feet from mine.
“Asshole,” I muttered into the rearview mirror. “If that’s the way you want it, the road’s all yours.” Gradually I slowed down, but he didn’t pass. He stayed on my tail, almost touching me. I slowed down more, until I was doing under forty, but he stayed on my tail. I rolled down my window, motioning for him to pass me, but he didn’t. When I slowed to thirty, he hit me.
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