One Track Mind (13 page)

“At this moment, it’s all pie in the sky,” she sniffed.

“Your track needs NASCAR,” he pointed out. “Not just for a race or a couple of races. For the prestige. NASCAR’s the crème de la crème of auto racing. With more attractions at Halesboro, more people come, and more seats are filled. It’s good business.”

She didn’t look happy, and she didn’t look convinced.

“You saw how people flocked here to see Dean and Kent Grosso? NASCAR’s a magic word for racing fans. It can’t be denied.”

“I’m not denying it,” she said, putting her wineglass on the ground. “I’m just tired. I need to go home.”

He set aside his own glass. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

They both rose and walked toward the Mustang. He could think of nothing to say. He still regretted the kiss. Had it confused her as much as it did him?
Impossible,
he thought. Old desires and new conflicts swam through him.

She unlocked the car, and he opened the door for her. “Thanks for all your work,” he said. “You did a sensational job. Really.”

She gave him a wan smile. “Thanks. You did a sensational job yourself. Getting the Grossos here, coming up with the ideas, the autographing, the barbecue and fireworks.”

Her praise touched him. He wanted to take her in his arms again and just hold her close, very close, for a long time.

He didn’t touch her. He closed the door, and when she drove off, he went back to the bench and picked up the wine bottle and the glasses.

He stared off at the mountain and the pale spires and towers of Uncle June’s castle.
I shouldn’t have come back here,
he thought. It made him remember what it felt like to be a lonely boy who’d lost everything.

Well, he’d set this scheme in motion. He would see it through. And Halesboro and Lori would owe everything to him, the town’s most prodigal son. They would owe him whether they liked it or not. Whether they liked
him
or not.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Kane pulled into the speedway’s parking lot and saw a sight that made his skin crawl with apprehension. Two Halesboro police cars and a state police cruiser were parked near the entrance.

He got out, frowning in concern, when Lori came running toward him. “Kane!” she cried. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She came so fast that she almost bumped into him, and he reached out to steady her, grasping her by the upper arms. “What’s wrong? What’s with the police cars?”

“Something terrible’s happened,” she said, looking up at him, blinking back tears. “Kent’s motor home and hauler were vandalized, the tires slashed, brake fluid splashed on the motor home.”

Kane swore. “How’d that happen? You said you had extra security people.”

“I
did,
” she said, looking desperate and frightened. “They all claim they didn’t see a thing.”

“Show me,” he said. Without thinking he seized her hand, but she didn’t flinch, only hurried toward the entrance, leading him.

In the infield, he stared at the motor home, surrounded by the Grossos, Kent’s team, track workers, as well as the security men, and three policemen.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Kane said in disgust. He took the lead and walked over to Kent and Dean, who both looked stunned by disbelief and anger. Kent’s wife, Tanya, clung to his arm, tears in her eyes. Patsy Grosso kept shaking her head in dismay.

Kent had one of the handsomest motor homes on the circuit, only two years old, repainted last winter in a rich café au lait color. It had cost him a fortune, Tanya had decorated it and he loved it. Now it seemed to crouch crookedly on its deflated tires, and the café au lait on the driver’s side looked as if it had been laced with streaks of sour milk.

The hauler, too, had mangled tires and runny patches of ruined paint. Kane heard one of Kent’s crewman say, “Somebody’s got a vendetta against us. Somebody’s out for Kent.”

That was paranoid, Kane thought. Kent was one of the best-liked drivers in the business. He didn’t get caught up in feuds and rivalries. Who could dislike him enough to sneak into the speedway and do this?

Lori tugged her hand free from Kane’s and moved from his side. He missed her touch immediately.

Old Morrie, the night maintenance man, said to Clyde, “People used to say there was a jinx on this track. That’s why it went downhill. It was built on a Cherokee burial ground—”

“That’s nothing but superstition,” Lori snapped. “My father
couldn’t believe people latched on to that silly story. He was here when they broke ground and bulldozed the place.
Nobody
was buried here.”

Kane turned to the state policeman. “What’s the story? When did this happen?”

“Probably sometime early this morning, while it was still dark,” the man said. “But none of the security people admit seeing anything. Or noticing anything until the shift changed at seven.”

“Good grief,” Kane said in frustration. “Not see how these vehicles are listing? Not see the paint damage? Were they
blind?
”

“Blind or catching a few winks,” said the officer. “But it doesn’t make sense. Unless it was an inside job.”

“Inside job? Who’d want it done?”

“Ms. Garland said you outbid some developers for this place at the last minute. Stole it right from under their noses. That so?”

“I didn’t steal it. I made a better offer.”

Clyde spoke up. “This ain’t the first time there’s been vandalism here. Somebody kept shooting out the lights. Spray painted the walls. We need to
really
tighten security, is what.”

The officer kept his attention on Kane. “Ms. Garland said the developers wanted to put condos here. Did they ever contact you about the property?”

“No,” Kane answered. “And if they wanted to strike back, why do it in such a blatant, stupid way?”

“It had to be an inside job,” Clyde put in. “You can’t sneak into this place. No way.”

“I used to sneak in all the time when I was a kid,” Kane retorted. “And I can show you where. This place is old and in disrepair. I bet now there’s a half a dozen ways to get in.”

“Is it possible that one or more of the guests at the barbecue could have slipped off and hidden until everyone was gone?” asked the officer.

“I suppose,” Kane said. “Damn!”

Lori’s cell phone rang. She flipped it open and put it to her
ear. Then she put her hand over it and said, sotto voce, “Word’s out. It’s the Asheville paper calling.”

“Let me talk to them,” said Kane.

He put himself in damage control mode. But he knew the story would spread. It would probably be all over the Internet racing sites by noon.

Kent pulled Tanya to his chest and held her. Dean muttered a few swear words. Patsy stared at the six security men with suspicion.

“I
T’S MY FAULT
,” Lori said, shamefaced. She stood with Kane in the parking lot.

Kane leaned against her car and locked his hands behind his head. The muscles under his pale blue polo shirt rippled, and she had too good a view of his biceps. She struggled to pay no attention to them. He was a handsome devil, even more handsome than in high school.

He said, “It’s not your fault. It’s the security company’s. How did somebody get past them and do all that damage? Either the guards were incompetent, or the cop was right. It was an inside job—and a good chance it was a guard who did it.”

“It’s my fault,” she repeated, running a hand over her tousled hair. “I hired them. I’ve used that company before. But our security system isn’t what it should be. I should have thought. I should have checked out who they were sending and double-checked to see if it was enough.”

He gave her a sideways glance that was almost sympathetic. “No. Blame me. I gave you too much to do. I should have brought in a firm I knew. We’re lucky that nothing worse happened.”

She shook her head in misery. “I can’t believe everybody in the motor home slept through it.”

“The tires weren’t actually slashed clear through,” he told her. “The leakage was slow. The brake fluid looked poured on, not splashed. Somebody knew what he was doing.”

“I can’t get over the sheer
meanness
of it,” Lori said sadly.

“Buck up. It’s meanness that can be undone. Kent’s got comprehensive insurance. It covers vandalism. Come on, he doesn’t blame you. I’m responsible for this track now, remember? He came up here partly as a favor to
me.
”

“This is hardly good publicity for you, then. Or for the track.”

“Try to subscribe to the idea that there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

She frowned and tilted her head. “You don’t suppose this was aimed at you, do you? Somebody trying to sabotage you?”

He looked at her and, maddeningly, seemed amused. “Me? Who could dislike me? I’m not your typical blood-sucking leech of an agent. I am
beloved.
”

He’d done it. He’d made her smile. He looked so innocent and righteous, she had to.

“Aha,” he said, pleased. “Saw your dimple. Good. I’ve missed it. How about tonight I buy you supper, and then I need to hit the road and get back to Charlotte.”

Her smile faded. “I don’t know…”

“I owe it to you. You got everybody fed last night. Tonight you shouldn’t have to lift a finger. We’ll go someplace nice for a change.”

“No,” she said. “That’d just be more driving for you. We can go to The Groove.”

“I like to drive and I’ve got a different car. We’ll zip over to Asheville and back. I’m tired of being stared at in The Groove. Aren’t you?”

She had to agree. Few people would recognize them in Asheville. And although she’d vowed not to get any more involved with him, the vandalism had shaken her badly. It would be good to get away, if only for a few hours. “Okay,” she said, only half-reluctantly.

He opened the Mustang door for her, but suddenly a tall, dark man appeared. “Kane Ledger,” the man said in a take-command voice. “And this, I take it, is your new partner, Lori Garland.”

Lori eyed the man, who stared back, a slightly cocky sneer on his lips. “Lucas Haines,” Kane said, clearly unimpressed.
“I didn’t recognize you without your trench coat. This is Ms. Garland, my assistant. Lori, this is Lucas Haines, New York homicide detective. What brings you here, Lucas? We’re fresh out of corpses up here, far as I know.”

Lucas’s mouth took on a smug twist. “But you’ve got trouble. I heard about the vandalism. I wanted to talk to you—and the Grossos and the team.”

“The Grossos are on their way back to Mooresville. You’ll have to settle for me. What happened? The department boot you down to property damage cases?”

“No, Ledger. There’s been a murder, remember? Alan Cargill.”

Kane’s nostrils flared at the ridiculousness of it. Alan Cargill, former owner of Cargill racing, had been stabbed to death the night of the NASCAR Awards Banquet. Nearly seven months later, the case was still unsolved, and Lucas had proved beyond a doubt that he wasn’t super cop.

“What’s Halesboro got to do with Alan Cargill?” Kane demanded. He noticed that Lori, still standing by the car, looked worried.

Lucas shifted, putting his hands on his hips. His light jacket fell apart enough to show his shoulder holster. He said, “Brent Sanford used to be Cargill’s driver—and your client. Brent Sanford got kicked off the Cargill team for sabotage. The word is he’s bitter.”

“Of course, he’s bitter,” Kane shot back. “He was innocent. Contaminating somebody’s fuel tank? That’s not his style. He’s a competitive guy. But not a cheater.”

“But Brent never thought Cargill—or you—defended him enough. His career was over.”

Anger rose in Kane. “We did everything we could to help him. He knows that. Any man who says different is a liar. And his career
was
over, but not because of us. Rules were violated, and nobody could prove his innocence. It’s a dirty shame, but it happened. And what’s it got to do with me?”

Lucas gave him a knowing smile. “Four years ago, Brent
Sanford committed sabotage. Cargill, who fired him, was just murdered. Who bought Cargill’s team? The father of Kent Grosso—the guy whose car Brent tampered with. Now it happens again, vandalism against Kent. At
your
speedway. And you’re one of the guys that Brent thought hung him out to dry.”

Lucas paused for drama. “Seen your old client Brent Sanford lately? Was he invited to your little party last night?”

Kane took a step forward and got in Lucas’s face. “I haven’t seen him. But we still talk. He never thought I ‘hung him out to dry.’ And once more, dammit, he was innocent. He lost his NASCAR career over something he didn’t do.”

He grabbed Lucas’s lapel. “There’s a difference between sabotage and vandalism. Look it up in your Dick Tracy Crime-stoppers book. You’re grasping at straws.”

“I have technical questions,” Lucas practically barked.

“Then talk to the police. They’ve got the technical answers. Maybe they’ll pull you out of the Land of Oz and back into reality.”

He ignored Lucas and helped Lori into her car. “I’ll pick you up for supper in a couple of hours. We’ll sort this out. If this bozo comes after you, just tell him, ‘No comment.’ All right?”

She nodded and started her car.

Kane turned back to Lucas. “Leave her alone. I’m the owner now. You got sensible questions, you ask me—or the police. And stop trying to hang every crime that happens on Brent Sanford. Haven’t you guys done enough to him? You couldn’t convict him, but you smeared him out of the business.”

He got in his own car and floored it. He left Lucas standing there, his face hard with anger.

T
HAT EVENING
, Kane took Lori to the Chinese restaurant, Ming Toy’s, which had moved from Halesboro to Asheville. The décor was more opulent and more oriental than it used to be, but the food was still excellent.

They got the subject of Lucas Haines out of the way fast.

“Do you need to be concerned?” Lori asked.