THE NEXT AFTERNOON BIRDIE AND I WERE RELAXING ON THE terrace. I was reading a book on the history of NASCAR. He was batting a mangled cloth mouse around on the brick.

We were both enjoying a Dr. Hook CD. The cat’s favorite. He actually stops to listen when “You Make My Pants Want to Get Up and Dance” plays.

Hearing a car, I glanced to my left.

A blue Taurus was cruising past the manor house on the circle drive.

“Heads up, Bird. Our day is about to be filled with sunshine.”

The cat stayed focused on his burlap rodent.

The Taurus disappeared behind a stand of magnolias, reappeared, and pulled in beside the Annex. Seconds later, Slidell hauled himself out.

I closed my book and watched Skinny trudge up the walk. He really is a very good trudger.

“Glad to see you’re following doctor’s orders.” Sun shot from the lenses of Slidell’s mock Ray-Bans.

“One more day,” I said. “Then back to work.”

“Yep. The lady’s stubborn as belly fat.”

“Is Bogan talking?” I shifted the subject away from my health.

“Like a cockatiel with a crack pipe.”

Slidell’s metaphors truly are something. Or was that a simile?

“Why?”

“He’s gambling the DA will go south a bump on the charges.”

I raised spread fingers. And?

“The night they died, Cale told his old man he and Cindi were getting out of Dodge. She had some kind of offer down in Daytona. Bogan flew into a rage. Get this. He’s justifying the shooting, saying he was provoked because a broad was taking his son away from him. The son he hadn’t said ten words to in years.”

“And I suppose Wayne Gamble called him mean names?”

“Eeyuh. Hard to sell temporary insanity on that one. Want to hear a sick sidebar?”

I wiggled my fingers, indicating I did.

“Bogan kept their shoes.”

“What?”

“Before the shooting, he made Cindi and Cale take off their shoes and walk down to the pond.”

“The one by his greenhouse.”

“Yeah. All these years, he kept their shoes in a box in his closet.”

I could think of nothing to say to that.

“Has Bogan said how he murdered Gamble?” I asked.

“He was watching, saw the other mechanic leave the garage. When Gamble bent under the hood, Bogan released some thingamajig that dropped the jack. The engine was cranking full throttle, so when the wheels hit the floor, it was sayonara.”

“Bogan had been poisoning Gamble. Why kill him in the garage?”

“Several triggers. First, Bogan was frustrated because the abrin wasn’t working the way he’d expected. Probably because the dumb shit screwed the stuff up.”

“Or the toxin was old and degraded.”

“Or that. Second, Bogan was getting nervous because Gamble seemed to be making progress. You and Galimore showing up at his greenhouse scared the crap out of him.”

“He didn’t let on.”

“No. But he recognized Galimore, both because of the task force back in ’ninety-eight and from seeing him at the Speedway. He knew who Galimore was, felt things closing in.”

“Why didn’t Galimore recognize Bogan?”

“Bogan got the landscaping contract before Galimore hired on at the Speedway. Since he already had his security clearance and employee ID, the two never intersected. Bogan kept an eye on Galimore but never really entered his orbit. Bogan’s on-site man was Winge.”

“So Galimore had little opportunity and no reason to notice Bogan.”

“Bingo. Third, Gamble had confronted Bogan earlier that day, threatened to clean his clock if he didn’t knock off the bird-dog act. Bottom line, Bogan saw an opportunity at the garage and grabbed it. Figured Gamble’s death would pass as an accident.”

Guilt vied with the anger knotting my gut.

Shoving both aside, I asked another question.

“According to Maddy Padgett, Cale was planning to quit the Patriot Posse. Was that true?”

“Eeyuh. And Cale knew a lot of their dirty little secrets. He and Cindi were crapping their shorts to get out of town. They feared posse hardliners might use muscle to keep them from leaving. Or worse.”

“That’s why she had the locks changed. She was afraid of the posse, not Cale.”

“Bogan also gave it up on Owen Poteat. We were right. He paid Poteat to lie about seeing Cindi and Cale at the Charlotte airport.”

“How did Bogan recruit him?”

“Before he got canned, Poteat sold Bogan a sprinkler system for his greenhouse. One day he was checking out a problem and they got to talking. Poteat needed money. Bogan needed the cops thinking his kid was alive and well and living somewhere with his girlfriend. Bogan undoubtedly gave some innocent-sounding reason for wanting to place the two of them at the airport. Poteat bit.”

Reflections from the magnolias moved in shifting patterns across the dark lenses covering Slidell’s eyes. I suspected his emotions were paralleling mine.

“It’s hard to believe a man could murder two young people, one his own flesh and blood, over an outmoded definition of what a sport should be. But I guess with him, it wasn’t a sport. It was a religion carried to the point of fanaticism.”

“There was a time we lobotomized freaks like him.”

“Those were the days.”

Slidell missed my sarcasm. “Well, that’s last season’s pennant race. Here’s a good one. Bogan’s almost sixty, and the asshole’s never left the Carolinas.”

“I guess stock car racing was all the universe he needed. That and his plants.”

Slidell shook his head.

“I keep seeing Bogan’s den in my mind,” I said. “The place was a shrine to NASCAR. Model cars, auto parts, clothing, signed posters, a zillion framed pictures. Yet not a single snapshot of Cale.”

“Freak,” Slidell repeated.

“Here’s the craziest part. The dumb wang claims to love NASCAR history but knows little of it. Women have been pushing the accelerator since before Bogan was born.”

“Yeah?”

“Sara Christian drove in the inaugural Strictly Stock race at the Charlotte Motor Speedway. You know what year that was?”

Slidell shook his head.

“1949. qualified at number thirteen, finished fourteenth in a field of thirty-three.”

“Get out.”

“Janet Guthrie participated in both the Indianapolis 500 and NASCAR. In the late seventies she drove in thirty-three cup-level races. At the 1977 Talladega 500, she outqualified the likes of Richard Petty, Johnny Rutherford, David Pearson, Bill Elliott, Neil Bonnett, Buddy Baker, and Ricky Rudd. And not one of them said anything derogatory or resentful, at least not publicly.”

“She win?”

“Turn one, first lap, another car’s driveshaft went through Guthrie’s windshield. After it was replaced, the engine blew.”

“Ouch.”

“Louise Smith. Ethel Mobley. Ann Slaasted. Ann Chester. Ann Bunselmeyer. Patty Moise. Shawna Robinson. Jennifer Jo Cobb. Chrissy Wallace. Danica Patrick. And that’s hardly the full list. Women drivers are still a small minority, but they’ve always been there. And the numbers are growing each year. Did you know that approximately forty percent of NASCAR fans today are female?”

“How’d you get to be such an authority?”

I waggled my book.

“Ain’t that grand.”

“What’s going to happen to Lynn Nolan and Ted Raines?” I asked.

“Shacking up for naughty boom-boom is adultery for him, alienation of affection for her, but those gripes are largely for family courts. No one ever prosecutes.”

“She and lover boy were the unfortunate victims of bad luck and bad timing.”

Neither of us laughed at my joke.

Slidell toed the pansies bordering the brick walk. Suspecting he had more to say, I waited.

On the boom box, Dr. Hook segued into “Freaker’s Ball.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Birdie’s favorite group.”

Slidell shook his head at the puzzle of feline taste, then, “Just FYI. Padgett didn’t tell Galimore about Lovette quitting the Patriot Posse.”

“She didn’t?”

“The guy she talked to was FBI. Retired now. It’s in the file.”

“They finally let you see it?”

“Ain’t the specials special?”

“I’m still not clear on how Galimore ended up in that shed.”

“Bogan saw him poking around Gamble’s trailer before the race Friday night. He told him he’d remembered something that could shed light on what happened back in ’ninety-eight, said Galimore had to go with him to see it. Galimore had no reason to be suspicious, so he went along. In the shed, Bogan nailed him with a dart. The dose was enough to knock Galimore out but not enough to kill him, as Bogan intended.”

“Thanks for letting me know that Padgett’s dark-haired cop wasn’t Galimore.”

“Don’t mean the guy ain’t a douchebag.”

“Galimore is aware he failed a lot of people. Says he was focused on his own problems back then.”

“A cop don’t get that luxury.”

“No. And he’s beating himself up with guilt.”

Slidell didn’t respond.

“I understand how you feel.” I spoke gently. “But it is possible that Galimore has changed.”

A moment passed as Slidell studied the pansies. Then, “I did a little checking. When Galimore got tagged, there was a guy living in his building name of Gordie Lashner. Two months after Gali-more went down, Lashner got popped for dealing smack, ended up doing a fifteen-year swing.”

“You think it was Lashner’s money in Galimore’s storage bin?”

“All I know is Lashner’s a lowlife.”

“You’ll look into it?”

“I ain’t saying I think Galimore was framed.”

“Just the unfortunate victim of bad luck and bad timing.”

Same joke. Same reaction. Not so much as a smile.

Slidell watched a cyclist pedal past Myers Park Baptist across the way. He made no move to leave.

Dr. Hook started singing about Sylvia’s mother.

When Slidell spoke, his words surprised me.

“I took a fern by the hospital.”

“For Galimore?”

“No. For Dr Friggin’ Pepper.”

“That was a very nice gesture,”

I said. “I didn’t visit his bedside or nothing like that.”

“Still, it was a considerate thing to do.”

A beefy finger shot the air. “The fern business stays between you and me.”

I pantomimed a key on my lips.

“Don’t want people thinking I’m going all gooey.”

“Bad for the image.”

Slidell pulled an object from his pocket and tossed it to me.

“Galimore had that sent over to my office. Note said it was something you asked him for. Said he never had a chance to give it to you.”

The object in my lap was a NASCAR cap. On its bill was a signature scrawled in black Magic Marker. Jacques Villeneuve.

A grin tugged the corners of my mouth. Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, quebec cop and Villeneuve groupie, would be thrilled.

“So.” Slidell straightened his phony cool-guy shades. “Erskine Slidell still your favorite badass?”

“Yes, Detective.” My grin widened. “You are still my favorite Charlotte badass.”