“As I stated during our initial conversation, the FBI very much wants to know what happened to Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble. The young woman disappeared under suspicious circumstances. Her brother has now met a violent death. Shortly after you reopened her case.”

“I haven’t the authority to reopen a case.” It came out more defensive than I intended.

“You take my meaning.”

I did. And couldn’t disagree. So I said nothing.

“While the bureau has confidence in the competence of local authorities, Special Agent Randall and I have been asked to remain active in the investigation. Any help you can offer will be much appreciated.”

Williams let that hang out there a moment, but I didn’t bite.

“Thank you. We’ll want to see you and Dr. Larabee when he’s finished the autopsy.”

“So you can steal Gamble’s body?” Snarky, but the guy’s prim superiority was pissing me off. And I was exhausted.

“I assume that will take place tomorrow?”

“I don’t determine Dr. Larabee’s schedule.”

Williams did that maybe-smile thing with his lips. Then he and Randall strode into the crowd, blue and red lights slashing their somber dark suits.

Before leaving, I told Larabee about Williams and Randall. He said he planned to autopsy Gamble first thing in the morning. I said I’d be there.

While I was driving home, then lying in bed, different scenarios played in my head. Most, when prodded, showed serious fault lines.

Gamble killed himself. But how could he drop the wheels from the position in which he was found? Plus, the man had given no indication of suicidal intent. He was actively pursuing his job and seeking to learn about his sister.

Gamble fell, dislodging the car from its jack. But I’d read that a NASCAR cup car must weigh a minimum of 3,400 pounds. How could something that heavy accidentally be knocked loose? And it was the rear wheels that had to hit the ground for the car to surge forward. Gamble was at the front.

Gamble made an error. It happens. He was feeling unwell. But what kind of error?

Gamble’s coworker had accidentally caused his death, then lied about being elsewhere. Why? Was the man afraid of losing his coveted position on Stupak’s pit crew?

Gamble was murdered. He believed someone was following him, was intent on confrontation. Had his suspicions been more than paranoia?

One uncertainty blossomed again and again, drowning out other thoughts like a drunken uncle at a family gathering.

Was I somehow responsible for Wayne Gamble’s death, or at least responsible for a killer remaining unknown, because I had not returned a call in which Gamble might have identified the person?