Palm-pushing from Galimore’s chest, I turned toward the TV.

A kid from Yonkers was singing about heartbreak, hoping to be America’s next idol. He hadn’t a chance.

As the kid crooned, a crawler appeared at the bottom of the screen. For distraction, I read the words.

My hands flew to my mouth.

“Oh my God!”

Chapter 21

“YOU OK?” GALIMORE’S HAND WAS ON MY SHOULDER.

I gestured at the TV.

“Holy shit. Wayne Gamble’s dead? At my friggin’ speedway?”

Galimore grabbed his phone. Flicked a button. Messages started pinging in. Ignoring them, he jabbed keys with his thumbs.

I said nothing. I was already hitting speed dial myself.

Larabee answered on the first ring. Background noise suggested he was in a car. “I was just about to call you.”

“What happened to Gamble?” I asked.

“Some sort of freak accident. I’m heading to Concord now. You’d better join me.”

I didn’t ask for a reason.

“I’ll leave right away.”

“Thanks.” A beat. Then, “Everyone’s looking for Galimore. Any idea where he is?”

Great. Hawkins had told Larabee about the message he’d overheard. Undoubtedly embellished.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I said.

When I disconnected, Galimore was no longer in the kitchen. Through the window, I could see him on the porch, talking on his mobile. Exaggerated gestures told me he was upset.

In seconds the door opened.

“I gotta go.” Galimore’s face was taut.

“Me, too. Larabee wants me at the scene.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No.”

“See you there.”

For the second time that day, I made the long trek out to the Speed-way.

As the finding of the landfill John Doe demonstrated, the Charlotte media monitor police frequencies. And word spreads fast.

Every local station was there, one or two nationals, each positioned to provide an appropriately cinematic backdrop for sharing news of tragedy. A major NASCAR event is in full swing. Violent death strikes the pit crew of a favored son. I could hear the lead-ins in my head.

I had no doubt other reporters were barreling toward Concord. By morning not a millimeter of space would remain unoccupied.

I showed ID at the main gate. Was asked to wait. In moments a deputy climbed into my passenger seat. Wordlessly we looped around the stands toward the tunnel.

Along our route, reporters spoke into handheld mikes, expressions grim, hair and makeup perfect under portable lights. Others waited, smoking alone or sharing jokes with their camera and sound technicians. Media choppers circled overhead.

Barricades had been erected since my morning visit. Sheriff’s deputies, Concord cops, and Speedway guards manned them to keep the frenzy at bay.