Dangerous Curves

by Pamela Britton

  She looked back at Blain, an expression of pleasure on her face.

  Pleasure at Randy’s death.

  God, how did she do it? How did she separate herself from such tragedy? And from him.

  “But that’s not all,” she said, turning back to her monitor. “I mean, really, my hypothesis doesn’t mean a hill of beans. I can’t prove the killer meant ‘I’ as in ‘me’. No. What I find interesting is this.”

  She picked up the note again, swiveling on her seat so Blain could see better.

  “This is just a copy. The photo on the bottom isn’t as clear as the original, but you can still see it. A standard PR shot of a racetrack’s name taken from the infield, complete with flag stand and the bottom portion of the grandstands.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes all but sparkling. “Only this isn’t the track whose name is on that wall,” she said, pointing to the black letters. “This is a different track. I found a picture of Texas Motor Speedway on the Internet. And look.” She turned back to her computer, clicking on a new window. “It’s not the same.”

  Blain felt himself stiffen, and against his will, he leaned toward the computer screen, looking from the note to the monitor and back again.

  “That’s Atlanta Motor Speedway,” he said.

  “Atlanta?” she said in surprise. “But that’s—”

  They met each other’s gaze, saying at the same time, “Now.”

  THE THRILL OF FINDING important evidence was a buzz Cece always reveled in, but IDing Atlanta Motor Speedway was bittersweet. Blain’s friend had died, and now the killer might be at work again.

  It didn’t help that Agent Ashton ignored her. Cece didn’t know what pissed her off more—that he’d judged her so unimportant that he wouldn’t answer his cell phone when she called, or that nobody would tell her what frequency to use to contact him on the radio.

  The only good thing about the situation was that her discovery eliminated all that “morning after” awkwardness. Blain seemed distant and withdrawn, which, considering she’d told him she didn’t want to get involved, not to mention watching the replay of his best friend’s death, was to be expected. Cece told herself not to feel guilty about that—this was an investigation—but as they headed back to AMS, she couldn’t help but wonder if she shouldn’t have waited to break it off with him.

  But it was too late. They had to find Agent Ashton. Granted, she’d already passed what she knew to a Bravo Team member, but she wanted to speak to Ashton personally. She wanted to be allowed to investigate, damn it.

  They found the man of the hour in the spotting stand all the way at the top of the Atlanta Motor Speedway grandstands—all the way, as in on the roof of the announcer’s stand, because why be at ground level when you can be on a roof?

  Cece had no choice but to climb the narrow stairs to the precariously perched platform, constructed to give crew members an unobstructed view of the track.

  “Agent Ashton,” she said, trying not to look down. And trying not to clutch at Blain’s hands.

  Why the hell did he have to be up here?

  Even though there was a cool breeze blowing today, Cece broke into a sweat.

  “Agent Ashton,” she repeated when he continued to look down. Granted, cars were out there practicing, so the whine of motors might have drowned out her words, but somehow she doubted it.

  “Agent Ashton,” Blain said.

  The man turned. And the look he shot Cece perfectly conveyed his irritation at being interrupted, his eyes narrowing like a Jack Russell on the scent of vermin. Terrific.

  “Mr. Sanders. What are you doing here?”

  Cece stepped in front of Blain, which, unfortunately, brought her closer to the edge of the roof.

  She gulped, forcing herself to say, “Did you get the message?” she asked.

  “Message about what?”

  “About this track being a target?”

  She saw the derision in his eyes, the way he seemed to shake his head a bit before he said, “Yes, Agent Blackwell, I got it. But I also seem to recall that you’re not supposed to be looking over evidence. You’re supposed to be protecting Mr. Sanders.”

  Son of a—Cece bit back a comment, but just barely. “I understand that, but I saw no reason—”

  “No buts. In the future, keep your fingers out of my case.”

  “But…what are you going to do?”

  “Nothing,” he said in as condescending a voice as she’d ever heard. “We’ve always been operating under the assumption that every racetrack is a target. What you’ve learned is nothing we haven’t already surmised for ourselves.”

  “Yes, but now we know for certain Atlanta is a target. We need to close the track, increase security, get some bomb-sniffing dogs out here.”

  “With the exception of closing the track, that’s already been done, Agent Blackwell.”

  She was going to push the man off the roof. She really was. That chip on his shoulder was so big he’d land like a boulder.

  “And we’re not about to close the track,” he said, “any more than we advise that airports be closed when they receive threats.”

  “This isn’t a terrorist cell. This is a person,” Cece said calmly, yet firmly. “Look at the bomb threat letter. The ‘I’ is bold. We overlooked that before, too, thinking it was arbitrary, but I think it’s telling us that this is one person, someone who’s trying to trip us up.”

  “Duly noted,” Agent Ashton said, glancing back at Blain. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking Mr. Sanders off the roof…? He’s too easy a target up here.”

  Target?

  “And the next time you feel the need to confront me, I would suggest you leave him in his hotel room.”

  Okay, that did it. She was pushing him off the roof.

  Blain’s hand stopped her. (Not that she was really going to do it, but still…)

  “C’mon, Cece,” he urged.

  Just one push…one tiny, little nudge…

  “Forget it,” Blain said.

  Cece’s teeth clamped together. She had to physically relax her muscles in order to move. Well, okay, part of her inability to move had to do with her fear of heights, but the minute they’d climbed down the narrow steps, she felt the rage.

  “That no-good, sexist son of a—” An Atlanta breeze tugged at her hair. She swiped at it angrily. “I want to hit him…I really do.”

  They reached the announcer’s stand and found a TV crew pointing a camera in their direction. Cece looked right at them and said, “If you want some explosive footage, keep your cameras trained on the grandstands.”

  “Cece…” Blain warned.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah…she should probably keep her mouth shut. She turned away, so furious she wanted…she wanted…ooo, she didn’t know what she wanted.

  “What are you going to do now?” Blain asked a moment later.

  She thought about it for a second. “I’m going to ignore the slimy bastard and do some snooping around on my own.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BUT SHE WAS BOOTED OUT of Atlanta. A couple of agents gently but firmly told her to leave, a hint being dropped that if she continued to ignore her duty to Blain, there’d be a disciplinary hearing in her future.

  Cece had never been more humiliated or frustrated in her life.

  So they headed back to Charlotte, and it was a testament to how distracted they both were that not one word was mentioned about the night before. Well, okay, Blain had glanced over at her shortly after they’d left, and asked if she was tired. And when she’d said no, he’d given her a wicked grin and asked, “Sore?” which had made her blush and wonder what the hell she’d been thinking to jump into bed with him. Twice. Well, more like five times—or six. And just what the heck was he doing teasing her when she’d all but broken up with him earlier?

  It didn’t help matters that the whole drive back he was sweet. So sweet and concerned and, darn it all, understanding, that she found herself wanting to kiss him just because. He l
et her vent her frustration without complaint. Tenderly took her hand when someone had cut them off and she’d thought it might be the bad guy and she’d gone into defensive driving mode.

  She darted a glance at Blain. He must have felt it because he looked over and gave her a small smile. “Okay?” he asked.

  And, damn it, she wished he’d stop being so darn solicitous. “Fine,” she said, looking out the window under the guise of keeping an eye out for bad guys. And so that was what she did the whole way back: think about Blain and keep a lookout for thugs—only they were all back in Atlanta.

  They arrived back in North Carolina without incident, and by the time they got there, Cece could tell Blain was as tense as she was. They’d spent the time brainstorming, and Cece had to admit Blain’s quick mind impressed her. He had a knack for seeing things from a different perspective, of taking something she said and twisting it in a way she would have never thought of.

  They decided to head straight to Rebecca Newell’s home.

  Randy Newell’s widow lived a few miles from Blain. Actually, by the time they arrived, Cece had learned from Blain that most of the drivers, crew members and their families lived in the same area. If a disaster ever befell the Mooresville district, the racing industry would be decimated.

  “Nice home,” Cece said.

  “Randy was smart with his money,” Blain said, obviously comfortable enough with the widow Newell to pull into the driveway of the two-story brick mansion that, like Blain’s home, backed up to Lake Norman. “He invested in things, including a truck team that his wife now manages.”

  “Really?” Cece said. Of course, she’d heard of Rebecca Newell. When Randy had died, her face had been plastered on magazines and newspapers across the nation. It seemed surreal to be meeting her.

  With a glance behind to make sure their surveillance team was trailing them, Cece followed Blain up the granite walkway. Lush shrubs and white-framed windows sparkled in the aftermath of the thunderstorm they’d driven through on their way north. Once again the weighty North Carolina humidity pressed in on her. But come to think of it, she was starting to like the way it made her skin feel—soft—which was as womanly a thought as she ever allowed herself.

  “What if she’s not home?”

  “She’s home,” Blain said, ringing the doorbell, an elegant bell chime that reminded Cece of church.

  “How do you know?”

  Right then the door opened.

  Cece’s first thought was that she didn’t look like a widow. She looked like a model on her way to a photo shoot, the jeans she wore decorated with black lace that swirled and spiraled up her legs. A white tank with tiny rhinestones around the neckline matched the diamond studs in her ears, her famous red hair piled atop her head.

  “Blain,” she said, and there was no mistaking the warmth in her smile.

  And for a second, just a second, Cece felt jealousy rear its ugly head. Lord, but she would never look that good while lounging around the house. Maybe the woman had been on her way somewhere.

  “I hope we’re not interrupting something?”

  “Oh, no,” Rebecca said breezily, glancing at Cece with unmistakable curiosity. “Today is my at-home day.”

  Today was her “at home” day. Jeesh, so she really did look that good on a daily basis? Cece told herself not to hate her.

  “This is Cecilia Blackwell,” Blain said, giving Cece a smile that made some of her jealousy wane.

  “This is Cece?” Rebecca said.

  What ho? Huh? Had Blain told the woman about her?

  “In the flesh,” Cece said, trying to sort out the way that made her feel.

  “Wow. It’s so nice to meet you, Cece,” she said, her Southern accent more noticeable when she said her name. Ceeeceee, not the short and sharp syllables people used to pronounce her name in the West. And it was obvious she was glad to meet her. Rebecca smiled widely, reaching out to take her hand. Cece shook it, wondering how the heck the woman kept her palms from sweating.

  “Come on in,” she said, stepping aside.

  Add gracious and personable to the list of traits Cece should be jealous of. Yet, strangely enough, she wasn’t. There was something so instantly nice about Rebecca, a generosity of spirit that Cece instantly warmed to.

  The house was every bit as lovely as the outside promised. Like Blain’s home, it was richly furnished, but whereas Blain’s home looked, well, guyish, this home spoke of a woman’s caring touch. Floral patterns graced the couches and wallpaper, and fresh flower arrangements brought a fragrant whiff of summer to Cece’s nose. Shelves and table-tops held cute little mementos that Mrs. Newell must have collected during her husband’s racing career.

  That reminded Cece of why they were here, and she suddenly felt sorry for the woman.

  “Look, Becca,” Blain said, taking a seat on a tapestry couch in a giant family room. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Cece needs to ask you some questions about Randy.”

  The shadows that drifted into Rebecca Newell’s green eyes were unmistakable. Damn, Cece hated this part of her job. Widows and widowers—they were never easy to talk to.

  “What do you need to know?” the woman asked.

  Cece tried to think of the best way to phrase her questions so that she didn’t bring Rebecca’s pain to the surface. But it was hard. Damn hard.

  “I need to know if your husband had any enemies.”

  To her shock, Rebecca smiled, a sultry, very Southern laugh falling from her collagen-injected lips. (Okay, maybe that was a bit catty.)

  “Randy had lots of enemies, Ms. Blackwell.”

  “Cece, please,” she said.

  “Then you must call me Rebecca.” And then her face turned serious. “Randy made a living pissing people off.”

  The word pissing had no business being uttered by Rebecca Newell’s (maybe) naturally plump lips. No business at all.

  “He received hate mail all the time.”

  “Anybody cross the line?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I gave your co-workers the letters, though, just in case I might have missed something.”

  Co-workers. Yeah, right. “Did you keep copies?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I was glad to get rid of the things.”

  Shit.

  “What about non-fans? Anybody in his personal life that might stick out?”

  “You know,” she said with a pleasant smile that included Blain, “I already answered these questions for your friends.”

  “They won’t share anything with Cece,” Blain explained.

  Cece resisted the urge to jam her foot into his instep. She didn’t need Rebecca Newell to know about her problems.

  But apparently, it was the right thing to say. “Are those sexist S.O.B.s giving you a hard time?” she asked with a raised brow of commiseration.

  Cece couldn’t help but smile. “They are.”

  “I’m not surprised. You should see how Barry Bidwell treats me. I think the man only tolerates me as an owner because he knows I’m the type to raise a fuss if he pulls that crap on me.”

  “At least he hasn’t grounded you,” Blain said.

  Rebecca turned to him, concerned. “What do you mean?”

  “They pulled my license yesterday.”

  “They what?”

  “We were in Atlanta and they told me I couldn’t race.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re worried we’ll attract trouble.”

  “Will you?”

  “He might,” Cece admitted. “And that’s part of the reason why we’re here. We think there’s going to be another attack. This weekend.”

  “This weekend?” Rebecca asked in shock. “Why don’t they cancel the race then?”

  “Becca, really. Do you think they’d honestly do that?” Blain asked.

  The two shared a private look that had Cece’s jealousy gremlin rearing its ugly head.

  “You’re right,” Rebecca said. “One thing you’ve got to understand,” sh
e added, turning to Cece, “this industry is all about money. Canceling a race would cost them plenty.”

  Cece had gathered as much from Blain.

  “Well, I wish I could help you, I really do, but I don’t have anything more to go on than I did last week, when I was told that Randy’s death was actually a murder.”

  She spoke the words with so little emotion Cece knew she’d had plenty of practice. And she probably had. Cece would bet her phone hadn’t stopped ringing since the news broke.

  “Is your phone off the hook?” Cece asked, with a sudden flash of insight as to why they couldn’t reach her on the phone earlier.

  “It is,” Rebecca said. “I’ve had a heck of a time keeping news crews away, too. They refuse to leave me alone.”

  She would just bet. Damn media. “They’re camped out at Blain’s shop as we speak.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  And even though she hated to do it, Cece redirected the conversation back to Randy. “So your husband never received any death threats.”

  “Practically every week.”

  Cece stiffened.

  Rebecca smiled. “The other drivers hated my husband, Cece. He was fond of what we in racing call “bumping” and “nudging.” Sometimes he’d nudge people into a wall.” Her smile turned almost cynical. “Usually on the final lap. I don’t think a weekend went by when I didn’t hear one his fellow drivers threaten to kill him, but it was always uttered in the heat of the moment.”

  “It usually is until the threat turns real.”

  She looked surprised. “You think a driver murdered my husband?”

  Cece didn’t know what to think. She looked at Blain. He was shaking his head. “Doubtful, Cece,” he said. “Drivers are hot-tempered, but I don’t know a single one I’d say would be capable of killing—and who’s an explosives expert, for that matter. Most of them have families, go to church, attend barbecues at other drivers’ homes. I just don’t see it happening.”

  “He’s right,” Rebecca said. “Randy had enemies, but only on race day, never afterward.”