Cal almost told her about the messages, then he stopped. Now wasn’t the time. But if her independent investigation of the crash found something else, he wouldn’t just tell her—he’d tell the world.
CHAPTER 10
THE SUN CREPT OVER the Arizona hills, and Ned Davis was already perched atop his RV. He didn’t care that his team’s car had yet to arrive at the Phoenix International Raceway; it didn’t stop him from getting up early to watch the practice runs of the lowly K&N West Series cars. If anyone recognized him there, they might accuse him of scouting for a new driver. But he already had his man. His presence had less to do with trying to replace Carson Tanner and more to do with his love for the sport.
Nothing like the smell of fuel and burnt rubber in the morning. Beats coffee any day of the week.
Davis watched the cars fly around the track. He stared down at a sheet of paper that listed all the cars trying to qualify for the race later that evening.
With NASCAR imposed limitations that kept the lower level circuit cars from running as fast, David ignored the overall times and watched how the drivers handled the oddly shaped track that once was a road course. A driver who understood how to hold his line was a driver that was destined to succeed.
Davis put a tick by Austin Andrews’ name, as he drove with precision. He didn’t have to check the times to know that Andrews was the fastest driver so far.
Perhaps if Beaumont doesn’t work out …
A loud rapping on the side of his RV startled Davis. He glanced down from atop his RV to recognize Observer reporter Cal Murphy.
He leaned over the side. “Well, if it isn’t the great Cal Murphy.”
Cal nodded. “You’re too kind, Mr. Davis.”
“Call me Ned,” he said as he climbed down.
Cal continued. “Besides, you must not read the comments below my stories posted on the Internet. I can assure you no one there is calling me great.”
Davis laughed. “I never read that stuff. It’s just a waste of time.” He finished climbing down the ladder and jumped off the last step, landing flat-footed. “So, what do you want to talk about today?”
Cal looked down. “Not happy stuff I’m afraid. I wanna talk about Carson Tanner.”
“I expected as much.”
“I’m actually surprised to see you here.”
Davis shook his head. “I don’t mourn well. I hate funerals. The only one I’d go to might be my wife’s—if I actually have one who dies first. Most of them can’t wait for me to die and just try to take all my money now.” He laughed and slapped Cal on the arm. “Know what I mean?”
“Must be a tough life.”
“It is, especially when you’re as rich as I am and you’re trying to figure out who genuinely cares about you and who’s just after your money.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Davis chuckled. “Good. More money, more problems. That’s what I say. But I’m not interested in going back, if you know what I’m sayin’. They’re mostly good problems to have—mostly.”
“We all have our problems,” Cal said.
“Yes, we do. And one of yours is probably a deadline. So, let’s step inside here.” Davis motioned for Cal to proceed into the hauler.
Once inside, Davis led Cal through the narrow passageway leading to the largest meeting space on the truck. It was just large enough for a couple of couches, which surrounded the perimeter. Cal took a seat on one side and Davis settled in opposite him.
Davis dug a can of smokeless tobacco out of his back pocket and jammed a pinch of it between his lip and gum. He brushed his hands together and picked up a cup to spit into. “So, what do you wanna know about Carson Tanner?”
Cal shifted in his seat. “I guess my initial comment was misleading. I know plenty about Tanner. I’m interested in some other information.”
Davis spewed a stream of tobacco juice into his cup and cocked his head to the side. “Such as?”
“Did Carson Tanner have any enemies that you know of?”
Davis chuckled. “Well, this certainly isn’t the direction I thought you’d take for our interview. And to be honest, for a reporter who claims to know plenty about him, that seems like an absurd question.”
“Nevertheless, it begs to be answered.”
Davis sighed and shook his head. “Why do you guys have to dig up dirt on a dead man?”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m not trying to dig up dirt on Tanner. I’m merely trying to put to rest the idea that this was actually murder instead of an accident.”
Davis grunted and sat up straight. “Murder? What kind of cockamamie idea is that? Carson Tanner died in an accident on the track. It’s unfortunate, but it was in plain sight. Who’d even dare to suggest such a thing?”
Cal nodded. “I tend to agree with you, but I have a source that insinuated the accident wasn’t an accident at all, but a targeted attack.”
“Even if it was, how could anyone sabotage a car so dramatically? It’s impossible.”
“Maybe it was just good timing.”
“Bull. There was nothing about that accident that looked suspicious. Anyone who’s been around the sport very long knows what a stuck throttle looks like. It ain’t pretty when it happens, but we’ve all seen the footage of when it’s happened to drivers in the past. Thankfully, it hasn’t happened that often, but it’s unmistakable when it does.”
“Perhaps that was the point.”
Davis spit into his cup and leaned back. “You risk credibility when you levy accusations like this, Mr. Murphy. Nobody is going to believe you.”
“What if NASCAR learns something different?”
“They won’t because it was an accident. They’ll conclude what you already know deep down—that it was an accident.” He paused for a moment. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself for trying to create some scandalous story just to get more eyeballs on your article.”
“I assure you, Mr. Davis, my creativity does not extend to fabricating stories. I don’t deal well in the fiction genre. I stick to facts and evidence and corroboration from witnesses. I have two out of the three so far and it’s only a matter of time before the evidence I need will surface.”
Davis rubbed his face with one of his hands, closing his eyes as he did. He shook his head. “Mr. Murphy, you live in a different world from the rest of us. People in this world want to read about what you know for sure, not about what you think happened.”
“I’m sorry that I can’t share with you everything I know, but I often trust my gut in these situations—and my gut is telling me that my cockamamie theory is dead on.”
“I admire your tenacity—I truly do. But you’re missing it on this one. And this isn’t the kind of story you want to miss it on.”
“Why? Because someone died?”
“No. It’s because of the people who are still living. Carson Tanner was beloved by all and he died in a tragic accident on the track. Everybody knows it. It’s not worth ruining your career over because you have a hunch about something. Just think about it.”
Cal nodded. “I have thought about it—which is exactly why I think I need to pursue this story more. Something happened out there far beyond a simple stuck throttle. That throttle got some help. And if you’re not going to assist me in finding out who did this, I have my ways of figuring it out myself.”
“Enter at your own risk, Mr. Murphy.”
Cal stood up. “Are you threatening me?”
Davis stood as well, bowing his chest out and pointing at Cal. “I’m warning you that you’re venturing into dangerous territory—both professionally and personally. Consider what you are implying and who your lies might hurt.”
“I consider that the truth might actually free some people—and put the villain behind bars for good.”
Davis’ eyes narrowed. “We don’t need people running around thinking such non-sense, Mr. Murphy. Let’s preserve Carson Tanner’s memory the way it should be—with honor, di
gnity, and respect.”
“What I find disrespectful is your refusal to discuss that what happened was even possible by the right person with the technical know-how and the opportunity to make it happen.”
Davis spit into his cup again. “People don’t want to hear about that. They want to hear about what an amazing person Carson Tanner was—because he was. Attempting to convince everyone else that this was some elaborate murder plot is beyond ridiculous. That’s the last thing I need right now.”
“Exactly. It’s the last thing you need right now, especially since you had plans to replace Tanner with Beaumont at the end of the season anyway. It keeps the suspicion off of you, even after you had already drawn up a contract to terminate Tanner.”
Davis froze. “How’d you know about that?”
Cal laughed. “I didn’t. But I do now.”
Davis pointed toward the door. “You can see yourself out.”
He waited until Cal left before burying his head in his hands. The stress was already taxing him. He picked up a pillow and slung it across the room.
That no-good reporter.
Were he not an owner, perhaps he would feel different and demand to know the truth. He picked up his phone and dialed a number. He had to make sure Cal’s crazy theory remained unsubstantiated by NASCAR authorities—even if the meddling reporter was right.
CHAPTER 11
OWEN BURNS BOARDED the plane with his head down. He felt guilty that he wasn’t mourning Carson Tanner more. Life would go on without his driver, but it was a stark reminder that tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed. He would’ve preferred to cancel the remaining two races and take some time to reflect. But the rest of the world didn’t live according to his druthers. It seemed to move faster than a race—and there was no time to stop.
He shuffled toward his row and settled into his assigned seat against the window. He glanced behind him to check on the rest of his crew.
“Where’s Walters?” he asked.
“He upgraded to first class,” Jackson Holmes said.
“What a punk.”
If truth be told, Walters would rather sit in first class. He had the mileage to upgrade every time he set foot on a plane. But they were a team—and they needed to stick together, today more than ever.
The rest of the travelers piled onto the plane, while Burns tried to ignore the nagging in his mind. He wanted to get into the latest hot-selling novel sitting on his lap, but he couldn’t. Not with Pat Walters acting pretentious. Today wasn’t the time to bask in luxury—it was the time to be together. It was the time to share memories and lament. Maybe even laugh about good times with Tanner. But it wasn’t the time to be isolated from everyone else.
Burns waited until it appeared the last passenger had boarded the flight. He waited another minute to calm down before he stormed toward the first class cabin.
A flight attendant blocked him a few rows shy of his intended destination. “Sir, I’m sorry, but you need to take a seat. We’re about to take off.”
He turned sideways and slipped past her. “This will only take a minute.”
Burns located Walters and leaned over his seat. As he did so, he scanned the text message that Walters was busy hammering out on his phone.
“With Tanner finally out of the way…”
He’d read enough. Burns knelt down beside Walters. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Walters turned and shuddered. With Burns just inches from his face, Walters was caught off guard. He turned off his phone and jammed it into his pocket.
“No need for discretion,” Burns said. “I read what you wrote.”
Walters glanced at his boss and rolled his eyes. “So what? Am I some kind of monster now?”
“You’re definitely not a team player.”
“And what makes you think that?”
Walters sighed. “You, sitting here. This is not the time to separate from everyone else. We need to stick together more than ever.”
“What for? So we can cry about our driver who was never going to win a championship?”
Burns shoved his finger in Walters’ face. “Watch your mouth, son.”
Walters slapped Burns’ hand to the side and scoffed. “If you think Tanner was your meal ticket, you’re dumber than you look. You know good and well he was never going to win a title.”
“Maybe he would have if his throttle hadn’t gotten stuck,” Burns said and then paused. “And that was your responsibility to check, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, fine. You wanna blame me now for a freak accident? You’re a piece of work.”
Burns refrained from taking a swing at Walters, but he didn’t think twice about grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and getting in his face.
“Do you think this is some kind of joke?” Burns didn’t wait for an answer. “Our driver died on the track and you’re sending text messages about ‘getting him out of the way.’ This isn’t a game, kid. This is real life with lives on the line. We don’t play around when it comes to safety.”
“If you want to accuse me, just come on out and say it, old timer,” Walters snarled. “I don’t have time for veiled accusations and innuendos.”
Burns reared back and prepared to lunge toward Walters with a punch before a flight attendant tapped him on the shoulder.
“Sir, it’s time to take your seat.”
Burns nodded. “In a minute.”
He knelt down next to Walters and got eye level with him, glaring at him the whole time. “You sorry, son of a gun. You disgust me.”
With that, Burns rammed his fist into Walters’ face.
Walters unbuckled his seat belt. He leapt to his feet and took a swing at Burns. It missed as his fist collided with another passenger’s seatback.
“Gentlemen, please,” the flight attendant barked.
Burns stopped to look at the woman, but Walters gave no such reprieve. Instead, the break in action was an opportunity for him to land a punch on an unguarded Burns.
Once Burns regained his bearings, he charged toward Walters, putting his head down into the middle of Walters’ chest. He drove Walters all the way down the aisle and didn’t stop until Walters’ back rammed against the cockpit door.
One of the pilots flung the door to the cockpit open. “What’s going on here? Enough!”
“I’m going to have to ask both of you to exit the plane,” the flight attendant said.
Neither Walters nor Burns paid her any heed as their tussle led to the floor, where Burns landed on top of his subordinate. The two traded punches with Burns getting the better of Walters due to his position on top. Burns leaned back to avoid several punches from Walters before he landed a jarring right hand to the left side of Walters’ face.
Burns stood to his feet and watched as Walters attempted to stand up. A few passengers gasped while other voiced their contempt for the altercation and belittled the two men. Obviously woozy from the hit, Walters staggered as he tried to get up before collapsing again. Burns then towered over his crew member.
“Is this how you wanna play this, son?” Burns said. “I can end your career right now with a couple of emails. Right now, this isn’t about winning a championship—this is about respecting the dead. It’s about respecting your friend. He may not have been the world’s greatest driver, but he was a heckuva human being.”
Walters looked up at him as he felt the blood oozing out of the corner of his mouth. “As bad of a driver as he was, Tanner was still a better human being than you’ll ever be.”
Burns pulled his hand back to unleash another punch before a pair of TSA security guards stormed on board and stopped him. They jerked Walters to his feet and led both men off the plane.
“Drivers don’t just die in their race cars,” Burns said. “That doesn’t happen unless somebody is negligent.”
Walters struggled to shake loose from the agent holding him. It was a fruitless attempt. “If you wanna blame me, just say it. I may not have seen eye-to-eye with Tanner, but I
would never wish anyone dead. And I would’ve never acted negligently.”
Burns sighed and shook his head. He stumbled forward at the urging of the guard behind him. “Maybe not, but you have a knack for overlooking things.”
“Perhaps, but I’m not responsible for Tanner’s death,” Walters said.
“We’ll see about that,” Burns said, staggering forward at the behest of the guard behind him.
CHAPTER 12
CAL SLUMPED INTO THE CHAIR next to Eddie Simpson’s desk and waited for him to end his phone conversation. Simpson held up his index finger to Cal and gave him a knowing nod. Cal tried not to look impatient as he glanced at his watch. He was only a few minutes early to his appointment with NASCAR’s lead investigator on the Carson Tanner accident.
Never one to let an opportunity to glean information slip away, Cal tuned into Simpson’s conversation. He pretended to ignore what was being said as he studied the cramped quarters of the NASCAR hauler and Simpson’s makeshift office. It included a desk barely large enough to hold a framed family photo along with a University of Tennessee paperweight, which sat atop a mountain of haphazard files.
“Yes, I know it’s a lot of money, but Emily would be heartbroken if I told her no,” Simpson said to the person on the other line. “She might not be so heartbroken when she gets the bill for her student loans.” He laughed. “Maybe I’m just delaying her outrage—but at least in four or five years from now she’ll have a diploma from Duke to go along with her anger.”
Simpson exchanged goodbyes and ended the call.
“So, Mr. Murphy, what can I do for you?” Simpson said as he folded his hands and leaned forward.
“I’m here to get some comments on the record about your investigation into the Carson Tanner accident,” Cal said.
“There’s not much to say, to be honest.”
“Anything you care to go on record as saying?”
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