THAT NIGHT’S STORM MADE THURSDAY’S LOOK LIKE A Fairyland sprinkle. I awoke to windows papered with soggy magnolia leaves and blossoms.

And a Chet Baker ringtone.

Relocating Birdie to my left side, I picked up my iPhone. Through one half-raised lid, I could see that the caller was Larabee. I clicked on.

“Hello.” I did that thing you do when trying to sound wide awake.

“Were you sleeping?”

“No. No. What’s up?”

“We didn’t get a chance to talk before you left.”

“I had errands to run.”

“Listen, a guy came to see me yesterday. He’s wondering if the landfill John Doe could be this Ted Raines guy who went missing earlier this week.”

I sat up and stuffed a pillow behind my head. Birdie stretched all four legs and spread his toes.

“I seriously doubt that drum went into the landfill this week. What’s Raines’s story?”

“He’s a thirty-two-year-old white male. Married, one kid. Lives in Atlanta, works for CDC.”

Larabee was referring to the government’s Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

“How tall is he?”

“Five-eight.”

Males tend to embellish their actual height, and measurements taken from corpses are often inaccurate. The extra inch wasn’t a problem. Raines fit my profile. But Larabee knew that. So why was he calling?

“Didn’t Mrs. Flowers give you my prelim?” I asked.

“I wanted your take.”

“Given what you say, there’s nothing to exclude him based on physical characteristics.”

Birdie recurled into a very small ball.

“What about PMI?” Larabee wanted to know how long I thought the John Doe had been dead.

“Other than Molene’s speculation that the drum came from a sector of the landfill active during the late nineties, and the fact that the thing is old and rusty, I’ve nothing more to go on. Could be a month. Could be a decade. But I doubt it was less than a week.”

“Do you have a gut?”

“You were right about the asphalt. It created an airtight envelope and kept scavengers away from the body, so the vic is in pretty good shape. But the drum is toast. Given its condition and location, I think the guy was in there a while.”

“He have anything with him? Clothes, personal items, maybe a social security number?”

“Zip.”

“Guess I can rule out natural death.”

“Did Hawkins manage to get prints?” I asked.

“Six. I’ll have them run through AFIS.” The Automated Fingerprint Identification System, a national database.

“Can Raines’s wife get dental records?”

“I wanted to be sure there was a point before asking.”

“Was he a smoker?”

“I’ll find out.”

“You’re doing the autopsy this morning?”

“As soon as I hang up.”

I remembered the man in Larabee’s office the previous afternoon. “Who was the next of kin?”

“Big guy, arms like caissons?”

“Yeah.”

“He wasn’t family. That was Cotton Galimore, head of security for Charlotte Motor Speedway.”

That surprised me. “What’s Galimore’s interest?”

“Damage control.”

“I’m sure you’ll explain that.”

“Think about it. Raines tells his wife he’ll be at events connected with Race Week. He goes missing. A body turns up spitting distance from where two hundred thousand fans will be parking their butts.”

“NASCAR wants to avoid distractions. Especially negative distractions.”

“NASCAR. The Speedway. The Chamber of Commerce. I can’t name the prime mover. But if there’s a chance Raines went to the Speedway and ended up dead, the powers that be want to spin the situation in the best light possible. Galimore was ordered to get the lowdown.”

Birdie got up, arched his back, and began nudging my chin with his head.

“I’ve got to go,” I said.

“One other thing.” I heard paper rustle. “A guy named Wayne Gamble has left four messages for you.”

“Saying what?”

“‘I need to talk to Dr. Brennan.’ Who is he?”

“A member of Sandy Stupak’s pit crew.” I told Larabee about Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette.

I waited out a pause. Then,

“You think the age is too far off for our John Doe to be Lovette?”

“Probably. But I can’t exclude him.”

“Give Gamble a ring,” Larabee said. “I’m going to need a cold hose for Mrs. Flowers if she keeps taking his calls.”

Larabee read off a number. I wrote it down.

“Phone if you need me.” My tone set a new standard for insincere.

“I’ll do some cutting, see what the John Doe’s got going inside.”

After disconnecting, I threw on jeans and a tee and headed downstairs. Birdie padded behind.

While Mr. Coffee did his thing and Birdie crunched little brown pellets, I retrieved the paper from the back stoop. Even the Observer had gone Race Week–crazy. The front page featured photos of Richard Petty, Junior Johnson, and Dale Earnhardt. Hall of Fame candidates or some such. Full color. Above the fold.

Point of information. My hometown is Mecca for NASCAR fans.

Why Charlotte, you ask?

During Prohibition, moonshiners in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina used innocent-looking sedans to distribute illegal hooch produced in their stills. To outrun the cops, they modified their vehicles for greater speed and better handling. Many got a rush driving breakneck down twisty mountain roads.

So they started racing each other for fun.

Though the repeal of Prohibition eliminated the need for illicit booze, it seems Southerners had developed a taste for “shine.” Drivers who continued “runnin’” now needed to evade revenuers trying to tax their operations.

More tinkering.

More speed.

More competition.

By the 1940s, tracks had sprung up all over Dixie. In places like Wilkes County, North Carolina, stock car racing became the hottest entertainment in town.

But things were messy back then. Schedules weren’t organized, so fans never knew where their favorite drivers would be. Neither cars nor tracks were subject to safety rules. And some promoters were less than honest.

Bill France, Sr., a driver and race promoter himself, thought this was a lousy way to run a sport. In 1948 he founded NASCAR, the National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing.

France’s idea was simple. NASCAR would establish racing series, sort of like baseball leagues or football conferences. In each series, a group of drivers would compete in a set number of events and follow a common set of rules. At the end of each season, using a uniform scoring system, one champion would be crowned.

Out of chaos came order.

Today NASCAR sanctions the Sprint Cup, the Nationwide Series, and the Camping World Truck Series. There are also some touring competitions, but I’ve no idea their names.

In 1948 the first NASCAR race took place in Daytona Beach, Florida, using the beach for one straightaway and a narrow blacktop highway for the other. Fourteen thousand fans showed up.

NASCAR’s top races were originally known as the Strictly Stock Car Series; then for twenty years as the Grand National Series; then for thirty-plus years as the Winston Cup Series. It was the NEXTEL Cup Series from 2004 to 2007 and has been the Sprint Cup Series ever since. In 2007 nearly 250 million viewers tuned their TVs to watch Sprint Cup events. Those numbers place NASCAR second only to the NFL in popularity.

A lot of the players set up shop in Charlotte.

In May 2010 the NASCAR Hall of Fame opened its doors just a few miles from where I was sitting. The project cost the Queen City two hundred million dollars and hosted ten thousand visitors its first week of life.

All because Americans love their cars and their booze.

I know the names of some drivers. Jimmie Johnson, Jeff Gordon. And some former drivers. Richard Petty, Junior Johnson. Hell, many of them live in and around my zip code. Otherwise, that’s the extent of my NASCAR knowledge.

Normally I’d have skipped the Race Week hype in favor of NBA playoff coverage. Because of the landfill John Doe, I flipped to the racing section.

That day the Charlotte Motor Speedway was hosting a barbecue. That night, in addition to the All-Star Race, events would take place, the nature of which was a mystery to me.

I skimmed the paper’s front and local sections. There was no mention of Raines or the landfill John Doe.

I ate some cornflakes. Gave Birdie the milk leavings. Took my bowl and cup to the sink, rinsed, and placed them in the dishwasher. Wiped the table. Watered the small cactuses that live on my windowsill.

The clock said 10:08.

Out of excuses for further delay, I phoned Summer.

“Hello. I’m Summer’s answering machine. Please tell me your name. I’m sure Summer would love to call you back.”

Eyeballs rolling, I disconnected and dialed the number Larabee had provided.

Wayne Gamble picked up on the first ring.

“This is Dr. Brenn—”

“Any news?” In the background I could hear the roar of engines and the tinny sound of electronically enhanced announcements.

“Dr. Larabee will perform an autopsy this morning. But I can tell you that the victim from the landfill is male.”

“I’m being followed.” Gamble spoke in a hushed, clipped way.

“Sorry?” Surely I’d heard incorrectly.

“Hang on.”

I waited. When Gamble spoke again, the background noise was muted.

“I’m being followed. And I’m pretty sure my back door was jimmied last night.”

“Mr. Gamble, I realize you’re anxious—”

“It happened then, too. To my parents, I mean. I used to see guys hanging around outside our house. Odd cars parked on our street or following us when we drove.”

“This occurred when your sister disappeared?”

“Yes.”

“Did your parents tell the police?’

“My parents contacted the Kannapolis PD and the Cabarrus County Sheriff. And the FBI. Maybe the Charlotte PD. The local cops had asked Charlotte for help. No one took them seriously. Everyone wrote it off as paranoia.”

“Why the FBI?”

“The feds took part in the investigation.”

“Because?”

“It was the nineties. Lovette was hanging with right-wing wackos.”

It took me a moment to grasp Gamble’s meaning.

In 1995 Timothy McVeigh blew up the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. In 1996, during the summer Olympics, a bomb exploded in Centennial Olympic Park in Atlanta. In 1997 the target was an abortion clinic in Sandy Springs, Georgia. That same year bombs were planted at the Otherside Lounge, a lesbian bar in Atlanta. A year later it was an abortion clinic in Birmingham, Alabama.

In 1998, when Gamble and Lovette disappeared, the FBI was focused full-bore on domestic terrorism. If Lovette was known to associate with anti-government extremists, I wasn’t surprised the bureau was keeping an eye out.

“Regretfully, I see no link between your sister and the victim found in the landfill. As I stated, my preliminary findings suggest that the individual is male and that he was older than twenty-four.”

“Then why is some jackass tailing me?” Very angry.

“Calm down, Mr. Gamble.”

“I’m sorry. I feel like crap, probably some kind of flu. Really bad timing.”

“If you’d like to reopen the investigation into your sister’s disappearance, you could try contacting the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD Cold Case Unit.”

“Will they admit to the cover-up back in ’ninety-eight?”

“What do you mean?”

“The cops formed a task force, made a public show of looking, then shoved the whole thing under the rug.”

“Mr. Gamble, I’m a forensic anthropologist. I’m not sure how I can help you.”

“Yeah. That’s what I expected.” Coating his anger with disdain. “Cindi wasn’t a congressional intern or some bigwig’s kid. No one gave a rat’s ass then, no one cares now.”

My first reaction was resentment. I started to respond.

Then I thought of Katy, just a few years older than Cindi. I knew the agony I’d feel if my daughter went missing.

How much time could a little poking around take?

“I can’t promise anything, Mr. Gamble. But I’ll ask a few questions.” I reached for pen and paper. “Who was lead on the investigation into your sister’s disappearance?”

The name shocked me.