“Oh, my God. I was so afraid of that,” she whispered, putting a hand over her mouth.
Quint couldn’t hide his surprise. “You suspected it was Jimbo?”
Jamie nodded, blinking rapidly. “He spent a lot of time at Clay’s house, even before Clay and I broke up. I didn’t think about it too seriously because I couldn’t imagine anybody wanting to harm Jimbo.” She stopped talking for a moment, going on in a quiet voice.” I just don’t understand it. Who could do that? He was the sweetest, kindest, most sensitive person I ever met. If only he—”
Jamie lifted her eyes to look at Quint. She dropped her gaze, drained her juice glass, and started scooping eggs in her mouth.
Quint stared at her, waiting for her to go on. She had suddenly found a ravenous appetite for eggs.
“If only he—what, Jamie? What were you going to say?”
“Nothing,” she said, through a mouthful of toast.
“Did you date Jimbo? Is that what you were going to say? That you had a thing going with Clay’s best friend? What are you hiding?”
Jamie swallowed, looked at Quint, and held up her glass. “May I have some more juice, please?”
The doorbell rang.
When she jumped up to answer it, Quint grabbed her arm. “In case that’s the police, Virgil suggested we don’t answer any questions without a lawyer present. He’ll represent both of us if we need him.”
“You think they might be here to ask where I was last night?”
“Very possibly. It’s no secret you gave Clay Riker the boot. The commentator even mentioned it during the race Sunday.”
“All right, I understand,” she said, walking toward the door. “I’ll have to remember to thank Matt Hurley for bringing my personal life up during a race. He should know better than to tee off a driver he may want to interview someday.”
Quint sympathized with the announcer as he followed Jamie into the foyer. He hung back, staying out of sight where he could still listen.
She opened the door to the same officer who had offered her a ride home after her BMW had to be towed.
“Sergeant Dickerson?” Jamie asked, addressing him by name. “I hope your being here means you caught the idiot who ran me off the road.”
Dickerson removed his hat. “No ma’am, we didn’t get him, but we did find the car, and we know who it belongs to. Unfortunately, it was reported stolen yesterday afternoon. We’re having it dusted for prints, but unless the driver has a record all we can do is put them on file. Just thought you’d want to know, and I also wanted to see how you were doing.”
Jamie sighed. “I’m fine, just a few bruises. No more than I get every Sunday at the track. Thanks for asking.”
Dickerson expanded his chest, smiling. “No problem, Ms. LeCorre. I hope you’re feeling better today. Give me a call if you remember anything.”
Jamie nodded and closed the door. She looked at Quint and shrugged. “So much for that.”
Quint grunted. “He failed to give you one vital bit of information.”
“And what would that be?”
“The car belonged to Ray Bentler.”
Jamie stared at him as though he had lost his mind. “How could you possibly know that?” Suddenly she threw up her hands. “Oh, I forgot, you’re the master sleuth. Just exactly how long have you been hiding this vital bit of information?”
“Since last night, after you went to bed.”
“You could have woken me up!”
Quint gave her an intense look. “If I had gotten you up, we wouldn’t have been talking about Ray Bentler.”
Jamie opened her mouth but couldn’t think of a safe comeback. “How long have you known about Jimbo?”
“Your father told me.”
“Oh, yeah, your close personal friend, Buster LeCorre!” She brushed past him, stomped to the kitchen and started clearing dishes.
Quint followed her. “Why do you hate your father anyway?”
She dropped the dishes in the sink with a laud clatter and turned on the tap. “I don’t hate him; he hates me.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you. I’m just trying to understand. I always believed a father’s love was unconditional.”
Jamie gripped the edge of the sink and turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. “Maybe in your fairy-tale home. In mine, Buster LeCorre used up all his love on T-Roy. I was just two months shy of my fifth birthday when the authorities came and took me from my mother’s home. I never went to a funeral. I don’t even know how she died; they wouldn’t tell me. They just whisked me off to Chicago and literally dumped me on Buster’s doorstep. Up until that moment he didn’t even know I existed. To say he was unhappy to see me is putting it mildly. I don’t know what I’d have done if T-Roy hadn’t been there. He was only ten years old himself but he took me under his wing like I was a brand new puppy. The first thing Buster did was drag both of us off to a clinic hoping to prove I wasn’t his. He wasn’t one bit pleased with the results.
“I literally grew up on the racetrack. From the age of thirteen I started cooking for the crew, hoping that would make Buster notice me. It didn’t. I never got so much as a thank you from him. He constantly reminded me that I looked just like my mother. My mother was beautiful, but from him it was hardly a compliment, since he repeatedly reminded both T-Roy and I how he felt about her. On my birthdays the crew would get together and buy me a cake and have a party. He’d stand on the sidelines, watching, brooding. I used to pretend he really wanted to join in but was embarrassed by all the gushing the crew did over me.”
Jamie stared out the window at the lake. As the memories washed over her, she continued in a subdued voice. “The worst insult came when I graduated from high school. When T-Roy graduated he got a red Corvette convertible. It wasn’t new but it was the prettiest thing I ever saw. You know what I got? He gave T-Roy fifty bucks to get me a used guitar. I suspect T-Roy might even have done it on his own pretending it was from Daddy.
“Daddy didn’t know I was alive until I started racing. And he fought that tooth and nail until Ray Bentler threatened to drop him as a sponsor. I’ll give him credit for one thing—he may be a rotten father but he’s an A-one crew chief. When I’m out there on the track and he’s talking into my headphones, he treats me exactly like he did T-Roy. It’s the only time I can relate to him.”
Jamie stared at the eggs and uneaten toast swimming in the dishwater. “I hope you were done eating,” she said in a choked voice.
Quint put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. “Come here, you nut, I think it’s your turn for a hug.”
Breathing deeply, Jamie pressed her face into his firm chest, slipping her arms around his back. He held her, rubbing her back, smoothing her hair, and crooning rhythmic sounds of comfort.
He rubbed his cheek on the silky smoothness of her hair, breathing in her scent. “Jamie?”
“Yeah?”
“When you were a little girl, did you dream about being a race car driver?”
“No.” There was a subtle hitch in her voice. “I wanted to run my own flower shop, grow plants, and sell floral arrangements. Silly, isn’t it?”
Quint smiled over the top of her head. “No, not silly, just practical. Most girls want to be ballerinas or fairy princesses. I only have to look around your house to see how much you care about growing things. Why did you start racing?”
“T-Roy wanted me to. He trained me and coached me. I tagged along behind him everywhere he went. I would have done anything for him. It was fun while he was alive. We did it together.”
“Is it still fun?”
Jamie pushed herself away from him and brushed a hand over her eyes. “It’s a job whether I like it or not, I’m good at it. People depend on me. The crew, the guys in the shop, the sponsors.” She looked up at him with a half smile on her face. “Is this a new ploy to get me to quit?”
Quint grimaced playfully. “Dang, you caught me. Have I told you that you are one sharp lady?” His brows
rose suddenly. “Oh, I almost forgot. Buster asked me to tell you the boys at the shop wanted you to stop by; they have questions.”
Jamie sighed. “I’m usually there by this time after a race. I guess I better go see about renting a car until mine is fixed.”
“No problem,” Quint said smiling. “I’ll drive you. I’d like to see your shop, if you don’t mind.”
Jamie managed a smile. “Well, that will put the boys into a tizzy. I can’t wait.”
“I need to call Virgil before we go—see if he found anything on Benny Gomez. He’s probably tried me at the motel by now. I doubt he would call here.”
“Let him call,” Jamie said. “I can think of a couple of things I’d like to discuss with him.”
“Be nice,” Quint said, picking up the phone and dialing. “We may need a lawyer.”
“That’s not going to spare him from a tongue lashing for his part in labeling me a hooker.”
Quint smirked as he left her phone number on Virgil’s answering machine. “There, that ought to get his attention. And when he calls you can have at him.”
Chapter Eleven
“Fifteen. You have up to fifteen cars in the making at the same time?”
“Turn left at the next light,” Jamie said. “Of course. Did you think we run the same car every week?”
When Quint didn’t answer Jamie looked over at him and laughed. “You really aren’t NASCAR savvy, are you?”
Quint grinned, taking pleasure in her laughter. “I reckon not. Maybe you could give me a little education before we get there so I don’t look like a complete idiot.”
“I’ll try, but your best defense might be to do more listening than talking, because we’re almost there. Take the Y to the right.”
“Point taken. Now educate me, quickly.”
“Okay. I’ll just touch on some of the basics. First off, there are three kinds of tracks: short track, long track, and road track. Each track needs a different type of car. On short tracks, like Bristol, you can’t get much speed, so the concentration is on the turns. On the long tracks, like Charlotte and Daytona, speed plays the biggest part, but the cars have built in restrictor plates to keep them from going too fast.”
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Speed kills. Make a right just after the stop sign. It’s at the end of that road, so hush up and listen. You can ask questions later. Cars for both short and long tracks have tires built for curves going one direction. Road tracks, like Sears Point, are longer and have a number of sharp S curves. Those take the most skill because you need to adjust to the constant changes.”
“I’ll bet those are the tracks you are best on.”
Jamie smiled. “Pull up right over there beside the Camry.” When Quint stopped the car, she turned to him as she opened her door. “Be prepared for a little ribbing. These guys can be merciless, and I’ve never come here with an escort before.”
“Never?”
“Never. As a competitor, Clay wasn’t allowed in our shop. There is an element of secrecy here. Just don’t let it get out that all our cars are pink.”
“Same color as tater bunnies, right?”
Jamie caught Quint’s eye over the roof of the car. She winked. “You got it, honey.”
All activity stopped when Jamie walked into the shop, followed by Quint. She gave Quint’s first name, nothing more, as she went down the line making introductions and explaining each mans area of expertise. “Ted and his son Chad do the fabricating; they hang the bodies to fit the frames. Tim Andrews and Jason Kelp build the engines. Hal Waller is the suspension expert…”
As she introduced each of the twelve men working in various areas of the shop, they all—except Markus, who was ensconced behind a computer—greeted Quint with cordial nods or handshakes. Markus managed a thin smile that came nowhere near his eyes and returned immediately to punching keys.
“Friendly chap,” Quint whispered when they were out of hearing range.
“Markus is the substitute driver. He had my job for three weeks while I was out with my injured knee. He wasn’t too happy about giving it up. He wasn’t doing so well so I guess Buster reamed him a new rectum, but what’s surprising about that.”
Quint chose not to comment.
Tim called Jamie back to the car he was working on. Quint followed, curious and captivated at the same time. He wondered how many spectators actually knew what went on behind the scenes, that the cars were literally built from scratch, including the engines. As Jamie had said, more than a dozen cars were either being worked on or were waiting in stations in different stages of completion. He had a number of questions but Jamie was already engaged in a discussion with Tim about engine tune-ups and spark plugs. Not wanting to interfere, he walked over to watch the body men press sheet metal.
Ted, the senior member of the team, stood up, stretching his back. He had a weathered face from too much sun, and a gravely voice from too many smoke breaks. His kind eyes settled with obvious affection on Jamie. “I’ve known that little girl since she was just a munchkin,” he told Quint. “Most of the guys have been here at least ten years, some longer. We tend to be a little protective of her.” He gave Quint a skeptical once-over. “Have you known her long?”
“A while,” Quint replied, remembering Jamie’s advice about talking less and listening more.
Ted wiped his hands on a grease rag. “What was your last name again?”
Quint knew that Jamie hadn’t given his last name. He didn’t know why, but saw no reason to hide it. “Douglas, Quint Douglas.”
Ted rolled the name over his tongue. “Quint Douglas? Hmm. Can’t say I recognize the name but it sure seems like I’ve seen you somewhere before. Are you involved in racing? With another crew maybe?”
Quint shook his head. “No, I’m not.”
Chad popped his head up from beneath a metal panel. “Yeah, I had that same feeling. Like I know you, but can’t recall from where.” Chad had a cropped haircut straight out of Grease, and looked as though he had only recently graduated from peach fuzz to full time shaving.
Jamie had warned Quint about taking a ribbing, and he started to get the feeling he was being set up. She was still talking to Tim, this time from inside the car where she was pumping the brake pedal. Quint turned back to his two antagonists. “This is my first trip to Chicago, so I doubt that I’ve met either one of you before.”
Hal was listening and watching from a bench stool in the next stall. He stood up to lean over the short wall that separated his department from the fabricators. What Hal lacked in height he made up for in don’t-mess-with-me shoulders, and biceps wide enough to tattoo the Constitution on. Quint made a mental note not to challenge the man in an arm wrestling contest.
“I just figured it out,” Hal said, nodding toward Quint. “He was in the picture with Jamie on that dumb show we watched the other night.”
Ted’s brows drew together as he studied Quint’s face. “Hells fire, you’re right.”
“Yeah, it’s him,” Chad agreed.
Quint stared from one to the other of the three men; all had apprehensive eyes trained on him. If this was a set up, it was a good one. Curious, he decided to let them play it out. “What show and what picture?”
Hal answered. “That sleazy Harman dame’s show. She had a picture of Jamie being carried out of a church.”
“Yeah,” Chad chimed in. “She always ends her show with compromising pictures of celebrities. Then she puts her own nasty little captions on them. People have tried to sue her, but the pictures are always legitimate. And the captions aren’t necessarily factual, they’re just suggestive.”
Quint’s heart started doing double-time. He knew all about Cynthia’s damaging pictures. Harman’s Suffer the Consequences—compliments of Cynthia’s personal paparazzi.
He didn’t want to ask, but he had to. “What did the caption say?”
Markus came up behind Hal chuckling. “It went something like, Wedding singer, Ja
mie LeCorre, carried from church. Was she too drunk to walk? Is that why she used a fake name? Should this woman be allowed to jeopardize men’s lives on NASCAR speedways?”
Ted fixed Markus with a piercing glare. “You memorized that quite well for a person with a single digit IQ.” He turned back to Quint. “Those of us who know Jamie didn’t put much weight on that caption. Since you were obviously there, Quint, maybe you could shed some light. In case this comes up again.”
Quint was struck by Ted’s sincerity. “No big mystery,” he said. “She was on crutches and on the verge of falling. I caught her, lifted her up, and carried her to the horse-drawn carriage. The carriage was quite high, and she would have had a difficult time climbing into it with a bum leg. That’s all, nothing earth shattering.”
“Lucky for her you were there,” Markus said, sarcastically.
“Markus, you’re a first class asshole,” Hal retorted. “But you probably already know that.”
Markus’s face turned a bristling shade of red. “Fuck you, Waller!” He whirled around, tossed a one-finger salute over his shoulder, and stomped back to his desk.
Ted grinned. “I have a hunch, Hal, that asshole is the only first place he’s going to get any time soon.”
“He could get lucky and drive past a thirty-three-car pileup,” Chad drawled.
They were all laughing when Jamie appeared at Quint’s side. “Ted, are you telling that lame joke about the Canary Islands again?”
“Would we be laughing?” Hal quipped.
Jamie smiled. “I hate to break up your party, but I’m ready to go. I have a route to map out.”
“You gonna tell her?” Ted asked Quint.
“Tell me what?” Jamie demanded.
* * * *
“That woman is starting to annoy me big time,” Jamie said after Quint had filled her in about Harman’s Suffer the Consequences photo. “I’ve never watched her show long enough to see the ending.”
“Yeah, well, that’s always her big finale.”
“I suppose she stays within the confines of the law.”
Secret Sacrifices Page 13
