“No doubt about it. We’ve got a murder on our hands.”
“Send me what you’ve got as soon as you can.”
Cal sighed. “As much as I want to, I want to wait.”
“For what?”
“I want to take this to NASCAR and see what they say about it.”
Folsom moaned. “Come on, Cal. Let’s get this out there now. We don’t want to get scooped on this story. You know it’s gonna be a firestorm when it hits.”
“Exactly. So, let’s give NASCAR a chance to respond. Besides, who else is going to find out about this unless you’re the one spreadin’ the news?”
“You trust Jessica Tanner that much? You think you’re the only journalist she’s talking to?”
“I’m not sure, but I wanna get a story, not a headline.”
“Fine, but I’m giving you a deadline of eight o’clock your time to get me something so I can fit it on the front page. Otherwise, I’m running the headline and calling Jessica Tanner myself.”
“You’ll have a story—don’t worry.”
Cal hung up and looked at his phone, which had buzzed during his call with Folsom. A number he didn’t recognize appeared on his caller ID—and there was a message.
“Hi, Mr. Murphy. This is Alexa Jennings, Ned Davis’ girlfriend. I know you’ve spoken with Ned about the possibility that someone tampered with Carson’s car before the race last week. Please don’t tell him I told you this because he’d kill me, but I just can’t stand to see him stick his head in the sand about this. I need you to meet me because I have some information about who might have done this. Call me back.”
Cal scrolled through his phone to find her number and dialed her number.
“Hi, Ms. Jennings, this is Cal Murphy. You left me a message earlier. Is this a good time for you to talk?”
“Hang on a second, let me step outside,” she said.
Cal waited for several moments as he heard the scuffling of feet and then the clink of a hauler door latching shut.
“Okay, now I can talk.”
“So, what’s this all about.”
“It’s about Owen Burns,” she said. “I think he’s the one who did it—and I’ve got proof.”
CHAPTER 19
OWEN BURNS CRACKED OPEN a beer and slumped into his chair inside the Davis Motor Sports hauler. He was ready for the season to be over. With nothing to race for but pride, he wished his boss would’ve just ended the season two weeks early and let everyone grieve and rest.
“We’ve got contracts to fulfill,” Davis had told him a few days earlier.
“It’s always about the money, isn’t it?” Burns smacked his hand against the wall and walked out.
He didn’t need to wait around for Davis to tell him the answer he already knew. NASCAR was the king at making money, innovators in professional sports. While the rest of pro sports relied on ticket sales to make money in the early days, NASCAR had figured out a way to monetize everything, all for the good of the sport. Tracks sprang up and became iconic monuments around the country. Racecars were designed to run faster. Drivers became more intelligent. Crews grew more equipped.
“Things have changed, Burns,” Davis yelled after him. “This ain’t your granddaddy’s racing.”
Burns drained the beer and went for another. As he did, Alexa Jennings stomped on top of the cooler, stopping him short of his intended goal.
“Sure you wanna drink another one?” she asked.
He eyed her cautiously. “My liver wouldn’t mind a break.”
She slipped her foot off. “Good. You get into all kinds of trouble when you start drinkin’ around here.”
He rolled his eyes and sat back down. She reached for the door and looked back at him once more before exiting the room.
Burns got up and grabbed another beer. “What’s her problem?” he asked aloud.
Ross walked into the room. “Were you sayin’ something?”
Burns shook his head. “Nah, just tryin’ to deal with that overbearing girlfriend of Ned’s.”
“I know how I’d like to deal with her,” Ross said.
Burns waved him off. “You’re sick, you know that? I bet if she got close enough to a fire, her face would melt. She ain’t real—and she’s old enough to be your mother.”
“Fine by me. I’m a cub.”
“You’re an idiot—that’s what you are, especially if you attempt to put the moves on your boss’s girlfriend.”
“To each his own,” Burns said before finishing the rest of his beer.
They sat in silence for a moment before Burns spoke again.
“Sorry about all that drama on the plane.”
“Aww, forget about it, man. I don’t care what you do now as long as you keep me on this team.”
“Why’s that?”
Ross scratched his chest and took the last swig of his drink. “Because we finally got a driver who can win us a championship.”
Burns shot him a look. “Don’t go celebratin’ just yet. We ain’t won a title, much less a race. We don’t know how the kid’s gonna do on Sunday or how he’ll handle an entire season of racing next year.”
“I doubt he’ll choke like Tanner, God rest his soul.”
“Hey!” Burns threw a crumpled can at Ross. “Don’t speak ill of the dead. You know that’s bad luck.”
Ross laughed and stood up before tossing the can back to Burns. “We make our own luck in this world.”
“Tanner never hurt anybody,” Burns quipped. “He was a good man and he didn’t deserve to die.”
“True—but it might be the best thing that ever happened to this team.”
***
SYLVIA YATES CROUCHED against a door inside the hauler and glanced around. With no one in sight, she strained to hear the conversation taking place in the room next door. She looked around again and decided to better position herself to hear more clearly. Before she could rethink her decision, she pressed her ear against the door and could hear the entire conversation between Russ Ross and Owen Burns. After a few minutes, she’d heard enough. She then took a deep breath and dialed the number for Alayna French.
After working together for several years in the NASCAR corporate office, Sylvia and Alayna both landed jobs with race teams. Alayna intended to stay on longer with NASCAR, but she couldn’t resist the opportunity to brag about her prominent promotion on Twitter. The next morning, she was asked to pack up her belongings six weeks before she planned on it.
Sylvia, however, kept her mouth shut. She recognized the volatility of the industry as soon as she entered it and vowed to avoid scorching bridges during her transition from one job to the next. But Alayna still hadn’t learned that lesson, a fact Sylvia remembered when she needed to leak some important information.
However, this wasn’t information she wanted to leak; rather, it was a message. She wanted to let Cal Murphy know that his hunch was right. It wouldn’t take much to entice Alayna to pass the cryptic message along.
“What’s up, Syl?” Alayna answered.
Sylvia bit her tongue. She hated it when Alayna called her by that lame nickname. “Have you seen Cal Murphy from The Observer around?”
“Yeah, I spoke with him this afternoon. What’s up?”
“Oh, I haven’t seen him today, but I’m looking for him. I wanted to let him know that he’s got the green light on that story we were talking about earlier, but I can’t reach him.”
“And you’ve tried his cell?”
“Yeah, but I can’t get an answer.”
“Hmmm,” Alayna said. “That’s weird. I saw him texting on his phone today at lunch.”
“Well, if you see him, tell him to give me a call, will ya?”
“Sure thing.”
Sylvia hung up and turned her phone off. She never intended to answer a call from Cal Murphy. No need to leave a trail back to her once Ned Davis flushed out who might have told him the truth about what his team was really up to.
CHAPTER 20
RON PARKER CHECKED his mirrors and set his cruise control for the highest acceptable speed without getting caught. If he was honest with himself, he was less worried about getting stopped by the Arizona State Highway Patrol than he was someone else.
Just breathe, Ron.
He took a deep breath and shifted in his seat. With a long ride ahead of him, he decided to turn on the radio and get lost in a song or two.
Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” blared on the first station he tuned into. He hit scan to search for another channel. Pink’s “So What” came on the next one.
He found himself singing along to the catchy tune. I’m gonna start a fight. And then he stopped.
Parker wanted to end the possibility that he might get into a fight, the kind of fight where only one person won. And he doubted it would be him.
He turned the radio off and checked his rearview mirror again. A light flickered in the distance as he switched lanes.
Am I being followed?
Parker resigned himself to the fact that he was nothing more than paranoid, not that he blamed himself. Gambling was a bad habit with dire consequences—if you didn’t keep winning. He couldn’t remember the last time he won, which led to his sad state of affairs. In a matter of months, he rolled up $40,000 in losses just prior to his retirement. Foolishly, he believed he could double or triple the money, padding the modest nest egg he’d managed to accumulate for Nancy and himself. Reality was coming back to extricate payment—and pain.
He glanced again in the mirror. The car behind him seemed to speed up as the traffic exiting the city thinned with each exit. Before too long, he passed the last bedroom community to Phoenix and was headed deep into the desert in search of his cell phone.
At least it will all be over after this.
He checked his watch. He doubted he’d make it back in time to meet the reporter. That was his backup plan. Cal Murphy wouldn’t have time to write a story until after he’d received his money from Ned Davis. And even if Davis suspected him, it’s not like he’d make that public or complain about it. Parker surmised that even more suspicion would be cast Davis’s way if he tried to do something to him.
Ninety minutes into his errand, Parker decided he needed some coffee. He eyed his mirror again. There were a few cars way behind him. He exhaled and relaxed. When the next exit rolled up on him three miles later he pulled off, glancing once more into his mirror to see if any cars followed him. They didn’t.
This ought to be simple enough.
He pulled into a truck stop and trudged inside. The coffee choices turned Parker’s stomach, but this wasn’t about luxury—it was about survival. He needed a warm cup to keep him company for the remaining drive ahead that night.
To pass the time, he recalled aloud the drivers who had won the championships in chronological order.
1978, Cal Yarborough. 1979, Richard Petty. 1980, Dale Earnhardt. 1981, Darrell Waltrip. 1982, Darrell Waltrip. 1983, Bobby Allison.
He stopped. Exit 303.
Parker put his flashers on and got out of his car. Armed with a flashlight, he began combing the desert brush along the I-10 for his phone. Calling the old phone would do no good since the battery was surely dead.
For ten minutes, he walked over the area in search of the phone until he finally spotted it.
Bingo!
As he reached down to pick it up, Parker heard a sound he dreaded. A rapid clicking sound. He froze and slowly turned to look behind him with the phone securely in his hand. He shined the light on the ground behind him and confirmed his suspicions. A rattlesnake.
Parker slid the phone into his pocket and contemplated his next move. He knew rattlesnakes weren’t the world’s fastest animals, but there weren’t many things slower than him. He decided to back up slowly and keep the light trained on the snake. After several steps backward, the snake didn’t move. Just a few more steps. It didn’t move. Confident that he had the head start he needed to reach his car about twenty yards away, Parker decided to turn and run.
He didn’t make it back to his car before he felt a searing pain shoot up his leg.
Parker shook his leg and flung the snake into the road. He hurried into his car and checked his leg. It hurt but it didn’t look like the bite was too deep or long.
He turned the ignition on his car as it roared to life. Without another thought, he drove across the median and headed back toward Phoenix. He knew he needed to have it looked at by a doctor in an emergency room just thirty minutes west of his location in Tucson.
Nancy would never understand … or forgive me.
He’d just grit it out. He stomped on the accelerator and clenched his teeth.
CHAPTER 21
CAL GROWLED WHEN HIS CALL to Sylvia Yates went straight to voicemail. She always had her phone on, so something seemed off other than just her phone. If she wanted to talk to me, she wouldn’t be avoiding me, so what gives? He climbed the steps of the media center and sat down at one of the outside tables.
He reviewed what Alayna French told him. Alayna had said, “Sylvia told me to tell you that you had the green light to continue working on that story and to call her.”
Not that he needed her permission, but her blessing on a story of this nature made for a more desirable working relationship.
Cal mulled over what to do for a few minutes before deciding to make a visit to the Davis Motor Sports hauler. Perhaps he could talk to her in person or—even better—talk to Alexa Jennings.
When Cal inquired as to Sylvia’s whereabouts, no one knew. The driver for the hauler said he’d seen her a few minutes ago, but she left for some sponsorship appearance.
Cal put his hands on his hips and surveyed the garage. Crews scurried around making final adjustments or cleaning up for the day. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Some of the haulers looked desolate, apparently finished for the afternoon. He continued scanning the garage when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
He spun around to find Alexa Jennings behind him.
“Lookin’ for a scoop, Mr. Newspaper Man?” she said.
Cal stepped back and stared at Alexa. He figured she must’ve been a raving beauty at one point in her life and manipulated men to get what she wanted through a variety of conniving methods. Now, she relied on thick makeup, Botox, hair extensions and several obvious enhancements to continue getting her way. Cal wouldn’t be beguiled.
“I’d settle for the opportunity to show my editor that I wasn’t crazy with the accusations I levied about what happened to Carson Tanner,” he said.
She smiled and stepped forward, infringing on his personal space. She straightened the collar on his Oxford shirt and patted his chest several times. “I bet you would.”
Cal took another step back. “Look, Ms. Jennings, I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re doing, but I am interested in what you told me earlier.”
She wagged her finger at him and clucked her tongue. “All work and no play makes for a dull Cal Murphy.” She encroached on him again.
Cal stepped back twice and laughed. “No one ever accused me of being a barrel of fun.” He paused. “Except my wife, to whom I’m happily married.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Be that way.” She turned around and started walking in the opposite direction.
“If you don’t want to give me that proof you told me about, that’s fine by me. I only come by my information honestly.”
She cackled. “Is that so? People just bare their souls to you and you make them anonymous sources.”
He nodded. “That’s kinda how it works—and I’m not ashamed of it. I’ve prided myself on handling sources that way for years in touchy situations. I can offer you that same sort of protection, if that’s what you need.”
“There’s only one person who’s going to need protection once this story breaks.” She stopped and continued in a whisper, “Owen Burns.”
Cal sighed. “So, tell me about this proof.”
“Last Sunday morning before
the race, we all ate together as a team,” she said. “Ned thinks it’s a great way for us to bond before we go to war.”
“We?”
She waved him off. “Honey, I’m the glue behind this team, the team mom. They’d be nothing without me.”
Cal nodded. “Fair enough—go on.”
“Well, everyone was there, except Burns. So, Ned sent someone to check on him in his room. He wasn’t there either. We called his cell phone, too. Nothing. Then about halfway through breakfast, he showed up. Claimed he went for a run and got lost. He was sweatin’ up a storm.”
“And so you have proof that he snuck into the garage?”
“Not exactly, but it’s a process of elimination. Everyone else was there.”
Cal folded his arms and eyed her carefully. “What if someone snuck into the garage and sabotaged the car before breakfast? Did you ever think of that?”
“If they did, I would’ve seen ‘em,” she shot back. “I get up at five a.m. and park my butt down in the lobby and read the newspaper. It’s my race day ritual. Nobody would’ve gotten out of there without seeing me.”
“Does everybody know you do this?”
“Depends on if you get up early enough or not. The ones who are early risers have seen me down there before, I’m sure.”
“So, they’d know to avoid you?”
“Exactly. And Owen Burns was one of those early risers.”
“Could’ve been any of the other ones, too.”
“Now, you’re overthinking things. Don’t you know that the simplest answer is often the right one?”
“This isn’t a Hardy Boys novel.”
“Well, you keep sniffin’ around and you’ll find out what I told you to be the truth.”
“Okay,” Cal said. “Thanks for the lead. I’ll follow up on this and see what I can find out.” He turned to walk away before stopping when she called out his name.
“Yes?” he answered.
“Keep my name out of this, okay? I know Ned doesn’t want this story getting out, but we can’t let a killer walk free—no matter what it might do to the integrity of Ned’s team. Burns needs to go to jail.”
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