THAT NIGHT BROUGHT ANOTHER STORM. AS USUAL, BIRDIE RODE it out in the crook of my knee.

Tuesday morning dawned gray and soggy. Outside the kitchen window, the brick in my garden looked dark with moisture. Mist coated the spiderwebs draping the ivy and ferns.

Slidell phoned at eight. The Coca-Cola 600 was fast approaching, and issues with Stupak’s car required Gamble’s presence in the pit. We’d meet him at the Speedway.

By nine we were in the Taurus, rolling toward Concord. Before picking me up, Slidell had hit a Bojangles’. The air was thick with the smell of biscuits and sausage.

As he drove one-handed, I described my encounter with J. D. Danner. Slidell said he’d check out the Loyalist Movement. He’d already located Lovette’s father. CB Botanicals sold flora from a Weddington property once deeded to Katherine Lovette.

Since it was Tuesday and between races, the scene at the Speedway was much calmer than on the previous Thursday. Though tents and trailers still packed the campgrounds, few fans were in evidence. I guessed a lot of moms were hitting the outlet malls, and a lot of dads were sleeping off hangovers.

Wayne Gamble met us outside the Smith Tower and drove us by car to the Sprint Cup garage area. His face looked sallow. The console sole between us held Pepto-Bismol and a mound of wadded tissues. Empty water bottles lay on the floor at my feet.

Great. Microbes coming my way. Without being obvious, I kept my head turned toward the window.

Gamble’s fellow crew members were busy with the #59 Chevy, so we settled in the empty lounge in Stupak’s hauler. Gamble slumped on the built-in sofa as if his muscles were linguine.

After introducing himself, Slidell recounted our conversation with Lynn Nolan. Then he got straight to the point. “Nolan thinks Lovette was knocking your sister around.”

A flush blossomed in the hollow at the base of Gamble’s throat.

“She thinks Lovette killed her.”

The flush spread up Gamble’s jaw and across his face. Still he said nothing.

“Nolan saw bruising on Cindi’s arms. You ever notice anything along those lines?”

“Oh, Jesus.” Gamble shot to his feet. “Oh, Jesus.”

“That mean no?”

“I’d have killed the guy.”

Seeing Gamble’s agitation, I spoke in a tone I hoped would be calming. “Did Cindi change her habits that summer and fall? Alter her normal routine?”

“How would I know?” Gamble threw up both hands. “She was sixteen. I was twelve. We traveled in different galaxies.” He began pacing.

“How about her demeanor? How did she act?” I asked.

“Scared of her own shadow.”

I gestured for him to continue.

“She was always looking around, you know? Like she was afraid someone was following her. And sometimes she’d bust my balls for no reason. That wasn’t like her.”

“Go on.”

Gamble stopped. To gauge our reactions? “Looking back, I always suspected she might have kicked Lovette to the curb.”

“What makes you think that?”

“A couple weeks before she vanished, Cindi told our mother she’d lost her keys and asked to have all the locks changed at home.”

“And?”

“She hadn’t lost her keys. I saw them in her backpack. Why would she make up a story like that?”

“Why do you think?” I asked.

“I think she dumped Lovette, and it pissed him off. That’s what was making her jumpy. She was afraid he’d come for her. She invented the key thing to be sure the house was secure.”

Gamble resumed pacing, moving like a caged animal in the small space.

“Sit down,” Slidell said.

Unable to stand still, Gamble ignored him.

“You report all this to the cops back then?” Slidell.

“I told some big guy.”

“Galimore?”

Gamble shrugged. “Beats me. I was a kid. I learned later that Galimore was on the task force. I don’t know the guy, but I hear he works security here.”

“Did the cops follow up?”

“Who knows?”

“How about the FBI?”

“I keep telling you. I was a kid. And my parents weren’t on anyone’s speed dial.”

Footsteps clanged up metal stairs, then a door opened at the far end of the hauler. A jumpsuited man leaned in. He was sweating and breathing hard. “We’ve got a problem exiting turn three. The right-rear pressure needs tweaking.”

“Gimme five,” Gamble snapped.

“Stupak’s going apeshit.”

“Five!”

The man withdrew.

“Did you discuss Cindi’s nervousness with your folks?” I asked.

“You think they sought my middle school views on my high school sister’s mood swings?”

Point taken.

“Your parents have passed on, that right?” Slidell asked.

Gamble nodded. “Mom blew an aneurysm in 2005. Two years later Dad was killed in a hit-and-run on the road outside our house. That was fucked up. He’d walked that stretch every day for ten years.”

Slidell’s mobile sounded. Without looking, he reached to his belt and clicked the silencer.

“What do you know about J. D. Danner?” Slidell changed direction.

“Never heard of him. Who is he?”

“Guy ran the Patriot Posse.”

Gamble’s forearm muscles flexed as his fingers curled into fists. “I’m going to find the bastards who did this.”

“Just calm down. You know anything about Danner and his cronies?”

“Look. I keep telling you. I was twelve. I was mostly focused on not getting zits.”

“Your folks ever talk about it?”

A frown creased Gamble’s forehead. Which looked clammy despite the AC.

“I may have heard the name during one of their screaming matches with Cindi.”

“What was said?”

Gamble gave a tight shake of his head. “There was a lot of fighting going on that summer. I used video games to tune it out. All I know is the scenes were always about Lovette.”

“How about a guy named Grady Winge?”

“He works here at the track. Not too bright but OK. Why? Was Winge involved?”

“Cool down. We’re just working the names.” Slidell stifled a pork-sausage belch. “How about Ethel Bradford?”

“She taught chem at A. L. Brown. You found Mrs. B.? What’d she say?”

“She doubts Cindi left on her own.”

“Look. I’m not crazy. Everyone thought the same thing. Didn’t matter. The FBI was telling the cops what to do. And for them, the flag had already dropped.”

Slidell asked a few questions about Maddy Padgett and Lynn Nolan.

Gamble had no memory of Padgett, only a vague one of Nolan. While not flattering, his recall seemed spot-on. Body by Playboy, brains by Mattel.

* * *

Rather than hopping onto I-85, Slidell wound through town on Sharon Amity Road en route to the MCME.

Note about Charlotte. At least a zillion streets are named for a person or place called Sharon. Sharon Road. Sharon Lane. Sharon Lakes. Sharon Oaks. Sharon Hills. Sharon View. Sharon Chase. Sharon Parkway. Don’t know the gal’s story, but it must be a doozy.

For several miles the only sound in the car was radio static. Slidell and I were both turned inward, considering what Gamble had said.

Had Cindi been murdered? According to Nolan, Cale had treated her badly. Because he resented the support she was getting from her parents? Had she finally rebelled? Had Cale killed her because she’d broken off their relationship? Had Cale then disappeared, perhaps assumed a new identity? Had the Patriot Posse helped him slip underground?

Had Cindi and Cale both been murdered? If so, by whom? The Patriot Posse? Why?

Had the task force conclusion been correct? Had Cindi and Cale disappeared voluntarily? If so, why? Where had they gone? Was the Patriot Posse involved?

Were Gamble’s suspicions legitimate? Had the FBI controlled the investigation? Concealed the truth about Cindi and Cale? If so, for what reason?

I thought about the question marks in Rinaldi’s notes. Had Eddie known that something was off? Had Galimore?

My mind bounced like an untethered balloon on the wind, bobbing from one conjecture to another.

I finally broke the silence.

“Cindi was a kid. Cale was far from worldly. If the two left willingly, how did they cover their tracks so effectively? I mean, think about it. Not one single slipup or sighting in all these years?”

“Except for Owen Poteat.”

“The guy at the airport.”

Slidell nodded.

“You learn anything about him?”

“I will.”

“Suppose Gamble’s right. Why would the FBI initiate a cover-up?”

“I’ve been poking at that.”

Slidell made a right onto Providence Road before continuing.

“Say the FBI turned Lovette.”

“Got him to work as a confidential informant?”

Slidell nodded. “Maybe the posse discovered he’d been flipped and capped him and his girlfriend.”

I rolled that around in my head.

“Or maybe the CI was Cindi,” I said. “Maybe she’d had it with Lovette’s abuse and agreed to spy on the posse for the FBI. That would explain her nervousness.”

“Eeyuh.”

“Or what about this? Cindi or Lovette is working from the inside. Their cover is blown. The FBI pulls them both and pipes them into witness protection.”

Slidell didn’t answer.

“We should talk to Cotton Galimore,” I said.

Slidell made that throat sound he makes when disgusted. He disliked Galimore. So did Joe Hawkins. Why?

“What’s Galimore’s story?” I asked.

“He dishonored the badge.”

“By drinking? Other cops have had issues with the bottle.”

“That was part of it.”

“Galimore was bounced from the force. Isn’t that punishment enough?”

The faux Ray-Bans swiveled my way. “That asshole betrayed all of us. And what did he get? A deuce and out.”

“Galimore spent two years in jail?” I hadn’t heard that. “On what charges?”

“Accepting a bribe. Obstruction of justice. The guy’s scum.”

“He must have straightened himself up.”

“Once scum, always scum.”

“Galimore is now head of security at a major speedway.”

Slidell’s jaw hardened, but he said nothing.

I remembered seeing Galimore in Larabee’s office. Recalled his interest in the body from the landfill. The body later confiscated by the FBI.

Coincidence?

I don’t believe in coincidence.

I reminded Slidell. As I was speaking, his cell rang again. This time he answered.

Slidell’s end of the conversation consisted mostly of interrogatives. How many? When? Where? Then he clicked off.

“Sonofabitch.”

“Bad news?”

“Double homicide. You want I should take you home?”

“Yeah. Then I’ll head over to the MCME, tell Larabee about the Rosphalt, and see what else he’s learned about the missing John Doe.”

Though I went, that didn’t happen.

But another issue resolved itself.