HILE I SLEPT, MY BRAIN PLAYED WITH SOUNDS.

Two phrases.

Bloody hatchet.

Maddy Padgett.

Suddenly I was wide awake.

Was that what Nolan had overheard? Were Cale Lovette and the old guy talking about Maddy Padgett?

The clock said six-twenty.

Too early to call.

Too jazzed to sleep.

I threw on a robe and went downstairs. Birdie opened one eye but didn’t follow.

While Mr. Coffee cranked up to perk, I turned on the TV.

The local news was all about NASCAR. Qualifying for the Coca-Cola 600 had taken place the previous night. Jimmie Johnson had won the pole and would go off from the inside starting position. Kasey Kahne would share the front row.

Though farther back than predicted, Sandy Stupak had also won good position. And big surprise, the tragic death of Stupak’s jackman, Wayne Gamble, was no longer the lead B-story.

The secondary headliner was the weather. Periodic strong winds, thunder and lightning, and all-day rain were predicted for Saturday, so the Nationwide Series race had been moved up to Friday night. Unprecedented, but a necessary precaution to avoid cancellation and complicated rescheduling.

The new tertiary headliner was a big-ass crater.

As Speedway management was scrambling to make the accelerated timetable work, they learned that, overnight, a sinkhole had opened on the edge of the dirt track. Measuring forty feet long and thirty-five feet deep, the thing was a monster. Fortunately, no one had been injured.

The sinkhole’s location made it unlikely that the evening’s Nationwide Series event would be affected. Safety inspectors were on site. Officials had yet to announce if the race would begin at the newly designated time.

As I filled my mug, an officious expert presented this postmortem. The Charlotte Motor Speedway was built over an abandoned landfill, and thirty-five feet below the surface, an old drainpipe had deteriorated. In his opinion, the cave-in was the result of recent heavy rains, the burst pipe, and instability of the landfill substrate.

In awed tones, an anchorwoman explained that such incidents are not without precedent. Backed by footage of packed grandstands, she described a pothole that had delayed a Daytona 500 for hours.

Birdie strolled into the kitchen as I was pouring my second cup of coffee.

At seven, I finished my third.

Wired on caffeine, I dialed.

“Slidell.” Gruff.

“Did I wake you?”

“Nah. I’m waiting for room service.”

Easy, Brennan.

“Where are you?”

“Grabbing some java. I’ve been working Winge for over an hour.”

“Is he talking?”

“Oh yeah.”

“What’s he saying?”

“Call my pastor. You’re gonna love this. The Reverend Honor Grace.”

“Did you call him?”

“I’m not in the mood for a gospel lesson.”

“Did you ever locate Maddy Padgett?”

“Cindi Gamble’s high school pal.”

“Yes.”

“Hang on.”

I heard Slidell’s chair squeak, a drawer open, more squeaking.

“Madelyn Frederica Padgett. Guess Padgett wasn’t as crafty as Nolan at bagging Mr. Right.”

“She’s still single?”

“Eeyuh. Works as second engineer for Joe Gibbs Racing. Not sure what team. Maybe Joey Logano.” He read off a Charlotte address.

“Do you have a phone number?”

“Just a landline.”

I jotted it down.

“I’m going to squeeze Winge till he caves. Even if it takes all day and all night.”

“You know what troubles me?” I said.

“What’s that?”

“How could Winge get abrin to spike Wayne Gamble’s coffee?” I pictured the holes in the back of the skulls dug from the nature-preserve grave. “And why would he do that? Cindi and Cale were both shot execution-style.”

“Shrewd questions. For which I intend to get answers.”

Maddy Padgett had a voice like my grandma Daessee, smooth and Southern as fatback gravy.

I apologized for the early hour, then gave my name and reason for calling. “I’d like to talk to you about Cindi Gamble.”

“How did you get this number?”

“From a Charlotte PD homicide detective.”

“Homicide?”

“Yes.”

“Finally.”

“What do you mean?”

“Honey, you tell me.”

“I’d like to meet with you. Today, if possible.”

“You follow NASCAR?”

“Sure.” Sort of.

“You heard they moved the race forward to tonight?”

“Yes.”

“And now there’s a freakin’ sinkhole.”

“Yes.”

“The new start time is causing major-league havoc, so Joey wants me at the Speedway all day. Garages open at nine. We’ll be fine-tuning the car all morning. Joey’s got an autograph session from one to two. Qualifying takes place at three, followed by a crew-and-driver meeting at the media center at six. The drivers are introduced at seven, then the Nationwide flag drops at eight. If it drops. What a nightmare.”

“It’s urgent that I speak with you.”

I held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t blow me off.

“I could give you a half hour around nine-thirty tonight.”

“Tell me where.”

“Come by Joey’s garage. I’ll arrange for a hot pass.”

She gave me the location and we disconnected.

I phoned Galimore’s mobile to tell him I’d be at the Speedway that night. As usual, he didn’t answer the phone.

What the flip? Was he monitoring calls, ignoring mine? Or was he just too busy to pick up?

I considered dialing Galimore’s office, instead left a message saying I’d be in the Nationwide garage area at nine-thirty.

After dressing, I went to the MCME to analyze Wayne Gamble’s reconstructed skull. I noted in the file that all fracture patterning was consistent with failure due to rapid loading caused by compression between the Chevy’s front end and the concrete wall.

I also updated the dossier on the landfill John Doe, adding that a positive identification had been made by the FBI based on dental records.

After lunch, I ran to SouthPark Mall to buy a birthday present for Harry. Then I returned home, washed several loads of laundry, and read the new issue of the Journal of Forensic Sciences.

At six I ate a dinner of lamb chops and peas. Then, out of ideas, I did a little more research on abrin. Printed out a few articles. Stuffed them in my jeans pocket in case I ended up having to wait for Padgett.

Throughout the endless day, I listened for the phone to ring. It didn’t. No Galimore. No Slidell. No Special or Special.

I also checked the clock. A lot. Each time, ten to twenty minutes had passed.

By seven, I was climbing out of my skin.

I decided to head to Concord early to see what all the fuss was about.

A mauve dusk was yielding to thunderheads mounding like enormous eggplants. The evening was electric with the feel of an impending storm.

The Speedway was another Hatter’s tea party of noise and turmoil. The sweaty, buggy air reeked of hot rubber, exhaust, sunbaked flesh, and fried food. Amplified announcements barely carried over the ear-splitting whine of engines screaming around a mile and a half of asphalt.

My pass was waiting at the gate, as promised. Again I was taken to the infield by golf cart.

Slidell had been wrong. Maddy Padgett didn’t work for Joey Logano’s #20 Home Depot team. She was employed by a Nationwide Series driver named Joey Frank.

Joey as in Josephine.

Frank drove the #72 Dodge Challenger for SNC Motor Sports.

The race had begun at eight, as scheduled. Members of Frank’s pit crew were listening to headphones, calling out adjustments, and frantically positioning gear. They looked like an army of droids in their red and black jumpsuits and black caps.

I spotted one form that seemed smaller than the others, maybe female. S/he was under a plastic canopy, inspecting a set of precisely stacked tires, each wider than my shoe size and devoid of tread. Not exactly “stock.”

Not wanting to be in the way, I walked down pit row and peered through a gap between garages. The track looked surreal under its squillion-megawatt lights, the grass too green, the asphalt too black. The grandstands appeared as startling rainbow swaths. Crammed to capacity. I guess the word got out.

The race had been halted because of debris on the track. The cars waited two abreast, engines thrumming, hounds straining at their leashes to reengage in the hunt.

I’d never seen so much product promotion. On the vehicles, the uniforms, the enormous billboards surrounding the track. And I’m not talking one sponsor per team. Every door, hood, roof, deck lid, side panel, and person was plastered with dozens of logos. For some I couldn’t see the connection to auto racing. Tums? Head & Shoulders? Goody’s Fast Pain Relief? Whatever. One thing was clear. No one would confuse a NASCAR speedway with St. Andrews or Wimbledon.

The cars looked similar to the ones I’d seen in the Sprint Cup garages, maybe a little shorter. And they lacked the little shelf that projected from under the place where a front bumper would wrap a regular car. They also lacked the wing-looking thing the cup-series cars had, back where a car for street usage would have a trunk.

After a while I got the hang of the board indicating laps and driver positions. Why the crowd cheered or booed remained a mystery to me.

Just before nine-thirty, I returned to Frank’s garage. A light rain had begun falling. The gracile figure was still under the canopy. Alone.

“Maddy Padgett?” I asked from six feet out.

The figure turned.

The woman’s skin was the color of fresh-brewed coffee. Her eyes were huge, the pupils brown, the sclera white as overbleached cotton. Shiny black bangs curved from the brim of her cap to her eyebrows.

“No autographs now.” Waving a distracted hand.

“I’m Temperance Brennan.”

“Oh. Right.” Quick glance at her watch. “OK. Let’s do this. But it’s got to be quick.”

“How’s she doing?” I asked.

Padgett smiled. “We’ll win the next one.”

“Tell me about Cindi Gamble,” I said.

“Have you found her?”

“Yes.”

“Is she…?”

My look was enough.

“And Cale?” Afraid of the answer.

“Yes.”

Padgett gave a taut nod. “On the phone, you mentioned homicide.”

“Both had been shot.”

Padgett went utterly still. Light sneaking under the plastic sparked droplets of rain on her shoulders and cap

“Do the cops know who did it?”

“A suspect has been arrested.”

“Who?”

“A man named Grady Winge.”

“Why did he kill them?”

“Winge’s motive remains unclear.”

“Cindi could have done it, you know.”

“Driven stock cars?”

“Been a NASCAR superstar. She had … ” Padgett curled her fingers, seeking the right word. “Flash!”

“That’s a racing term?”

“My term.” She smiled ruefully. “Cindi could make love to a car, could sweet-talk all that horsepower into doing whatever she wanted. And she was developing style. Yeah, she had flash. The fans would have worshipped her.”

“Cale’s father disagrees.”

“Craig Bogan.” Padgett snorted derisively. “There’s a piece of work.”

“You don’t care for him?”

“I haven’t seen that jackwagon in over a decade. Thank the Lord.” Padgett tilted her head, throwing shadow from the cap’s brim across her features. “Bogan hated me.”

“Why was that?”

Padgett hesitated. Then gave me the full force of her big brown eyes.

“Sin of sins. I slept with his precious son.”