***
CAL CALLED KELLY to see how she was doing as he headed toward the NASCAR hauler.
“Are you two having fun without me?” Cal asked once she answered.
“Not as much fun as we could be,” she said.
“I wish I was there.”
She laughed. “Don’t lie, Cal. You’re loving this stuff. I read your story. Just the kind of stuff you can’t get away from.”
“Okay, you got me. I’m enjoying this assignment, even if Folsom isn’t.”
She sighed. “No one ever trusts your instincts, do they?”
“You’d think some editor would start to trust me with my track record.”
“Don’t take it personally. They’re just doing their job.”
“And I’m doing mine. They don’t always make it easy.”
“Well, hang in there, honey.”
Cal stopped and looked around while he talked. “I want to give you a heads up that I may need your help with some things here.”
Her voice lightened. “Seriously?”
“I’m still trying to gather all the evidence so I can publish something more definitive, but I’ll need to borrow your critical eye.”
“That’d be a nice change of pace after changing diapers all day.”
“Thanks, sweetie. You’re amazing.”
“Go get ‘em—and be careful.”
Cal hung up and entered the NASCAR hauler. He wasn’t expecting a warm reception and braced himself for some pushback.
Cal knocked on the wall. “Mr. Simpson?”
Simpson stood up. “Well if it isn’t the bur in my saddle, Cal Murphy.” He reluctantly offered Cal his hand to shake.
Cal shook it and remained standing. “I know I’m probably not your favorite person right now, but—”
“You’re just a notch above Osama Bin Laden right now in my book.”
Cal put his hands up and hung his head. “I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble, but I’m just doing my job.”
“I didn’t think your job consisted of rumors and innuendos.”
Cal cocked his head. “Well, I’m here with a little more than that today.”
“What’d ya mean?”
“I got the report back from Mrs. Tanner’s independent investigator and he found the return spring was artificially stressed.”
“And?”
“Well, first of all, you missed it—if that’s true, of course. And secondly, it seems like somebody was trying to sabotage his car.”
Simpson put his hands up and shook his head. “Now, I’ve already told you that you just can’t go wandering around the garages messin’ with cars whenever you want. As a result, I seriously doubt that’s what happened.”
“But if it did?”
“I’d be very careful about making any accusations.”
“I’ve got several people lining up to tell me what happened, including an eye witness.”
“I’d be leery of anyone making such proclamations, Mr. Murphy. This is a cut throat business and people will do anything to get ahead.”
“Even falsely accusing someone else of murder.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I promise to handle this wisely, but you must know I have to write about these findings. And I wanted to give you the courtesy of commenting on the findings.” Cal pulled out a file and handed it to him.
Simpson sat back down and scanned the summary page before flipping through several other pages and looking at a couple of photos. Cal noted the glistening “Duke Dad” bumpersticker beneath his Tennessee paperweight. He then handed the file back to Cal.
“This definitely warrants another look by our investigators,” Simpson said. “We are aware of the matter and will address it once we’ve had time to reopen an investigation.”
“Thank you.” Cal turned to leave.
“Wait,” Simpson said. “When are you planning on writing about this?”
“Tomorrow’s paper, tonight’s blog.”
Simpson sighed. “Is there any way you can hold off on this, at least for another week and a half until the season’s over? I’d hate for something like this to overshadow some driver’s championship season.”
“I doubt that’s possible. My editor wants this story now. I suggest you get out in front of it before it’s all you’re talking about for the next few days. I’m not interested in ruining your season, but somebody’s dead—and it looks like it was murder. NASCAR didn’t do this, but you sure as heck better not try to cover it up.”
Cal exited the hauler and called Folsom.
“I’ve got a story for you, but I’m warning you that it’s not going to be pretty. Get ready for some phone calls,” Cal said.
“If it wasn’t stirring the pot, where would the fun be in that?” he answered.
CHAPTER 22
RON PARKER GLANCED at his watch and tried to ignore the pain. If he was in the Phoenix area, at least he could tell his wife that he went for a hike and got bit then. It would bring plenty of questions, but none he couldn’t answer creatively to assuage her concerns.
He checked his rearview mirror and wiped the sweat beading up on his forehead. Twenty more minutes until the nearest hospital.
I can make it.
Then he looked in his mirror again. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? He squeezed them shut and opened them again, squinting at the sight. The headlights of the car behind him seemed to be double. He repeated the process. Still double.
He felt like he might faint. He rolled all the windows down to get more air in the car and help him stay conscious.
That’s when he felt a jolt.
What the—
Parker turned around to see the headlights from the SUV behind him just inches away from his car. He stomped on the gas, but to no avail. Another jolt.
The sweat started to pour off his forehead, stinging his eyes. He took one hand off the steering wheel and tried to clear his face. He lurched forward again.
When he realized his escape tactic was failing, he decided to try something else. He started to veer into the other lane only to see another car there. The window was down on the passenger side and the man driving trained his gun on him. He motioned for Parker to pull over.
So this is how it ends? I don’t think so.
Parker headed toward the shoulder and watched the two vehicles fall in line behind him and slow down. Then Parker slammed his foot on the gas and took off.
The nearest hospital was only two minutes away off the next exit. It’d take more explaining to do, but he preferred that to the obvious alternative.
However, he underestimated his assailants. Within seconds, they had boxed him in and forced him off the road.
Moments later, Parker staggered out of the car with his hands in the air.
One of the men swaggered up to him and jammed a 9 mm Glock into his chest. “Well, if it isn’t Ron Parker. You’re a hard man to find.” He laughed and turned around to look at the three other men accompanying him. He stopped laughing and lunged back at Parker. “Where’s my money?”
Parker cowered. “I’m going to have it for you tomorrow.”
The man laughed. “Tomorrow? You think I’m stupid enough to fall for that Ronny boy? You’ve been running from us for quite a while. We blew it off for a while, but things are tight and it’s time to collect. At least you quit making excuses.” He grabbed Parker by the scruff of his neck and shoved him farther away from the highway shoulder.
“Please! I’m serious. I’m going to collect in the morning and get you your money, if I live.”
The man grunted. “I was told to either get the money or extract a pound of flesh. It’s bad for business if everyone thinks they can get away with stiffing us. Sometimes, it’s worth fifty G’s to send a message. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Parker started to wobble.
“Are you okay, man? You don’t look too good,” the man said before bursting out into laughter again.
Parker
reached down to scratch his leg.
“Hey, now. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“It’s a snake bite.” Parker said, and slowly tugged on his pants leg to reveal a swollen calf. “I’m gonna die if I don’t make it to the hospital in the next twenty minutes or so.”
“You’re makin’ my job easy for me tonight.” He turned toward the other three men. “Get him in the car.”
Parker squirmed in protest, but he was so weak he could barely get out a word.
“One of you get his car. I love it when I can get my hands dirty without getting them dirty.”
The man led the caravan back onto the Interstate toward Phoenix.
CHAPTER 23
CAL MADE HIS WAY through the mass of RVs covering a large swath of desert just below the Arizona foothills surrounding the raceway. While college football fans prided themselves on their pre-game tailgate, NASCAR fans made them look like they were hosting a 5-year-old’s birthday party in comparison. Rotating spits dripped juice into fire pits. Country music blared over high-tech sound systems. Fans clinked beer bottles over toasts about their favorite drivers.
Now, this is a party.
And it stretched on for what seemed like miles to Cal.
He checked and rechecked his surroundings again to make sure he was going in the right direction.
Three blocks west of the store.
Cal looked behind him and counted. He’d gone two blocks since he came across Safeway’s infamous tent grocery store.
One more to go.
He dodged fans whose parties had spilled out into RV city’s main thoroughfare. One man bumped into Cal and nearly knocked him down. The man apologized and then offered Cal a beer.
“Thanks,” Cal said as he took the man up on his offer.
“Who you think’s gonna win this weekend?” the man asked.
“My money’s on Cashman right now. That guy is driving lights out.”
The man shot him a look. “You do realize what flag is flying over this RV right here, dontcha?”
Cal glanced upward to see a No. 39 flag waving in the light evening breeze. “Carson Tanner fans, I see.”
“Dadgum right. That Cashman is trash, celebratin’ like he did last week while Tanner was fightin’ for his life just down the track. I wouldn’t be surprised if Cashman was the one who sabotaged Tanner’s car.”
Cal chuckled. “Why would he do that when he could’ve just put him into the wall?”
“You gotta point,” the man said as he nodded.
Cal held up the beer. “Thanks for the drink.”
He continued on until he came to what looked like the RV at the location described by Ron Parker. No one was outside so he walked up the pair of steps and knocked on the door.
“Ron Parker? Are you there? It’s me, Cal Murphy, the reporter from The Observer.”
He stepped down and waited for a few moments. Nothing.
Just as he was about to leave, Cal noticed a light flicker on in the back of the RV. He spun back toward the door and waited.
Then he yelled again. “Mr. Parker, are you in there? It’s me, Cal Murphy.”
A few seconds later, the door unlatched and Mrs. Parker— at least who Cal hoped was Mrs. Parker—emerged, clothed in a bathrobe.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m supposed to meet Ron Parker. Is this his RV?”
She nodded. “I’m not sure where Ron is, but he’s been gone for hours. I’m starting to get a little worried. He should’ve been back a long time ago. It’s not like him to disappear like this.” She stuck her hand out. “Nancy Parker. And you are?”
Cal offered his hand back. “Cal Murphy. I’m a reporter for The Observer.”
“Oh, a reporter. What business do you have with Ron?”
“Not sure. He told me that he had something he wanted to show me. Have you tried calling him?”
“His phone just keeps going directly to voicemail.”
“Would you mind giving me his number so I can try him?”
“Sure, just a minute.” She disappeared inside the trailer to fetch her phone. When she returned, she read off the number for Cal.
She waited while he called it.
After half a minute, he shook his head. “Same thing. Straight to voicemail.”
“He’s a popular guy tonight,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, this is the second time tonight people have come by looking for him. I gave his number to some other gentlemen who said they had a meeting set up with him for tonight.”
“Who were they?”
“They didn’t say.”
“What’d they look like?”
“You sure ask a lot of questions.”
Cal forced a smile. “I’m a reporter—that’s what I do. If I somehow track him down before you do, I’ll tell him you are wondering where he is.”
She smiled. “I’d appreciate that. I’m really starting to get worried. And I’ll do the same for you. Do you have a card?”
Cal handed her his card. “Tell him to give me a call once he gets back, if you see him first.”
“Will do,” she said as she closed the door.
Cal walked away and sighed. He knew something didn’t add up.
Maybe Ron Parker had more damning information than I thought.
CHAPTER 24
EDDIE SIMPSON GRUMBLED as he walked through the garage area toward the media center at the Phoenix International Raceway. The report that Cal Murphy filed about Jessica Tanner’s independent investigator’s findings ruined his dinner. The higher ups suggested he quell the furor with a press conference. Handling the media wasn’t part of his skill set. If it had been, there likely would not be a swarm of reporters standing outside the media center awaiting his arrival.
He lumbered along until he felt a sharp tug on his shirtsleeve. Turning to his right, he saw Ned Davis.
“Come here, Eddie,” Davis said, pulling him toward his hauler.
Simpson shrugged him off. “I ain’t got time for this, Ned. I’ve got a press conference in five minutes.”
“It can’t wait.”
“It’ll have to.” He continued to rumble toward the media center.
Simpson arrived to find the building jammed with reporters and cameramen waiting to capture the event. Several media outlets were streaming the event live.
Simpson sighed as he opened the door and surveyed the scene.
Oh, brother.
Once he stepped up to the lectern, he arranged his papers and looked across the sea of faces. He’d dealt with most of these press members individually on at least one occasion—and he considered them all friends. They’d talk about their families, the demands of being on the road, sports, restaurants, movies. But at the moment, Simpson saw what looked like a pack of hungry wolves ready to shred him the second he opened his mouth.
Deep breath, Eddie. You can do this.
He cleared his throat and then spoke. “I have a prepared statement that I’m going to read before I take questions.”
He shuffled the papers again and began reading.
“The entire NASCAR community was saddened at the passing of Carson Tanner last week at the Texas Motor Speedway. Everyone involved in this sport is aware of its inherent danger, which is why we work so hard to put safety first in everything we do.
“Our initial investigation into Carson Tanner’s accident was that the throttle got stuck due to a faulty part, causing the unfortunate crash. Carson Tanner’s widow, Jessica, sought permission to have a second look at the debris from the crash to determine if there was another explanation. Her investigator has claimed that the return spring on the throttle was artificially stressed with heat prior to the race.
“Our investigative team noted that part, but we determined that it was due to other race-related wear and tear on the spring. We will reopen our investigation at the request of Jessica Tanner and reexamine the part. We remain confident in our initial findings, but we rec
ognize the importance of due diligence in this situation to allow us to close this tragic chapter in our sport’s history with full knowledge of what actually happened.”
Simpson drew a deep breath. He was about to take the first question when an aide tapped him on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Simpson’s face fell, and everyone in the room noticed it.
“I’m sorry, but we’re not going to be able to take any questions at this time. Something more pressing has come up,” he said as he climbed down from the platform and raced toward the door.
A buzz filled the room as reporters looked quizzically at each other.
“This is bush league, Eddie,” one of the reporters yelled at him.
Simpson stopped just short of the door. He turned around and stormed in the direction of the insult.
“Watch your mouth, son,” Simpson said as he wagged his finger. “You have no idea what’s going on.”
“Exactly,” the reporter said. “So, why don’t you tell us?”
“I don’t have all the details right now, but when I do, I’m sure someone from our press team will brief you.” Simpson spun around and resumed his upstream trek through the sea of reporters blocking his way to the door.
“Seriously? That’s it?” the reporter asked.
Simpson turned around. “The police just found someone dead on Rattlesnake Hill. There. You happy now?”
He hustled down the steps and muttered a string of expletives under his breath. This wasn’t how the last few weeks of the NASCAR season were supposed to go. He didn’t think there was any way it could possibly get worse than what happened a week ago in Texas. But somehow, it had.
CHAPTER 25
CAL HUSTLED TOWARD the impromptu press conference, not that he needed to. He already knew everything Eddie Simpson was going to say—and he could gather the filler quotes from the official NASCAR press release later in the media center. But he wanted to see the action for himself. He needed to see how Simpson handled himself in front of the cameras.
But he never got the chance.
As he entered the gate to the media center, a host of reporters and cameramen stormed out following Simpson. They were shouting questions to him, but he waved them off.
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