Within Striking Distance

by Ingrid Weaver

  “I need to get back to work. Don’t bother calling me again.”

  —to hang up. Jake replaced the receiver in its cradle. It had been worth a shot. Becky had said her father had refused to tell her the truth, but Jake had hoped Peters might have responded differently if the questions had come from a professional rather than from his daughter.

  At least he’d learned one thing from the phone call. Even without being there in person to see the man’s face, Jake was positive that Peters was worried. His resistance to revealing the facts about Becky’s adoption must stem from more than being an overly possessive adoptive parent.

  Floyd Peters had come across as a man with a guilty conscience.

  FLOYD DUCKED his head to check that the other bathroom stalls were empty, then locked himself in the one farthest from the door and took his phone out of his coveralls. His hand trembled as he punched in a string of numbers. He hadn’t used the phone number in more than thirty years—a bargain was a bargain—but he hadn’t forgotten it. It had been etched into his subconscious like an emergency lifeline, or like one of those fire alarms with the lever stored behind glass.

  The long-distance clicks took forever before the connection was finally made. He rocked back and forth, the soles of his shoes squeaking against the tile floor, while he counted the rings. Pick up. Pick up.

  The voice that came on wasn’t the one he wanted. Floyd wiped his palm on his leg and switched the phone to his other ear. “I don’t care what time it is. I need to speak to Gerald.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  IF SHE COULD MANAGE IT without bumping into anyone or falling over anything, Becky sometimes wished she could walk through the infield before a race with her eyes closed. Without the visual overload of color and motion, it would be the only way her other senses would be able to get equal time.

  There was simply too much to absorb. Already the tarry smell of pavement warming in the sun mixed with mouth-watering whiffs of hot cooking oil from the concession stands. Underlying that were the lingering notes of gasoline and exhaust. Even hours before race time, the air was thrumming with the sound of revving engines. The crowd was already beginning to arrive from the parking areas, many pulling children’s wagons loaded with coolers and kids. Here at the New Hampshire track, the wagons ended up locked to the perimeter fence, yet regardless of which track on the circuit Becky went to, the atmosphere was the same. And she loved it like a second home.

  Becky had always assumed that her fondness for racing came from attending races as a child. Once the cars took the track, the noise and nonstop action drowned out the ordinary troubles of day-to-day life. It was one of the few activities both her parents had enjoyed, and she had good memories of traveling with them to the tracks around Charlotte.

  Yet lately she’d been wondering if her feelings went deeper than that. If she truly was Gina Grosso, she would be the child of a legendary NASCAR driver. The sport would be in her blood.

  All week she’d been torn between excitement over the possibility of being Gina and fear that she was getting her hopes up for nothing. She didn’t want to be disappointed, and she knew she should be cautious, yet today her excitement was winning. She’d met Sophia Grosso Murphy several times and thought they could be friends. What if they were sisters? Kent Grosso drove for the Cargill-Grosso team. When she cheered for him, she could be cheering for the man who might be her twin brother. Yet another reason her senses were on overload. Her steps had an extra spring to them as she moved toward pit road.

  “Becky. Yoo-hoo!”

  She recognized the voice and paused to turn around.

  Bud and Shirley Dalton, Tara’s parents, were walking toward her from the rows of souvenir trailers. Both in their sixties and equally robust, they had begun to resemble each other, as longtime married couples often do. Shirley attributed the success of their marriage to their shared interest in every aspect of NASCAR—they traveled from one track to another in their RV, never missing a race.

  “Shirley. Bud.” She gave each of them a quick kiss on the cheek. “I was hoping I’d run into you two before we get to the grandstand.”

  “If you want to find Bud, just look for whoever’s selling diecasts.” Shirley elbowed her husband. “I swear, the man has a collection that outweighs the behemoth we drove here.”

  Bud made a show of rubbing his ribs. “Ouch. Did you sharpen your elbows again this morning?”

  “Have to do something to get your attention. The new eye shadow didn’t work.”

  “Honey, how many times do I have to tell you that you can’t improve on perfection?”

  Becky smiled. There was no mistaking the love beneath the Daltons’ banter. Their family made up a big part of Becky’s childhood memories—like any best friends, she and Tara had treated each other’s houses as their own. On the weekends, the Daltons had often parked their RV beside the Peters’s camper so they could all watch the races together. There had been times when Becky had been younger that she used to wish she could have belonged to a large, loving family like theirs.

  The Grosso family was even bigger than the Daltons. If Becky were Gina, she would get her wish about being part of a large family. As for whether they would be as loving as the Daltons, Becky would bet that they were. Why else would they be so eager to find their missing daughter?

  “All right,” Shirley said, propping her hands on her hips and leaning toward Becky. “What’s going on?”

  “What? Besides the race?”

  “Something’s put that glow on your face. You’re looking more gorgeous than usual. Is it a man?”

  For some reason, she immediately thought of Jake McMasters. She shook her head, both at Shirley’s question and the mental image. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

  “Could have fooled me. You have that dreamy look, the kind before you find out he leaves his socks in balls, picks his teeth and snores.”

  Bud tapped his chest. “I don’t snore.”

  “Shirley,” Becky said, “I hate to disappoint you, but just because two of your daughters found their Mister Right doesn’t mean it’s an epidemic.”

  “Then what’s got you so happy?”

  “It’s race day. Why shouldn’t I be happy? So, Bud, what car did you buy?”

  “You’re changing the subject,” Shirley said.

  Becky nodded. “You bet. Bud, help me here.”

  He held up his palms. “Nope. This sounds like girl talk.”

  “Which you should be used to after raising three of them,” Shirley said.

  “That’s why I know better than to get involved,” he returned.

  “Smart man.” Shirley gave him a tender pat where she’d elbowed him earlier. “That’s why I married you, in spite of the socks in balls.”

  “And here I thought it was my collection of diecasts.”

  Becky laughed and linked arms with them. “Come on, you two. Let’s go have a look at the real things.”

  EARL BUCKLEY, with his snow-white, handlebar mustache and his cue-ball head, was a common sight around the NASCAR circuit. He’d worked on cars back in the days when they’d still raced on the beach at Daytona. He’d grudgingly retired on his doctor’s orders ten years ago, but that hadn’t stopped him from hanging around the garages at every track. This wasn’t the first time Jake had sought him out for information. Earl might have trouble remembering what he had for breakfast or where he’d parked his pickup, but his memory for anything related to racing was downright encyclopedic, and he enjoyed any reason to share it.

  “Sure, I remember Floyd Peters,” Earl said. “Intense guy. Kept to himself.”

  “How was he with engines?”

  “He was a good troubleshooter. Used to diagnose engines by listening to them.” Earl waved a gnarled hand toward the bank of high-tech diagnostic equipment that sat at the far side of the garage space. “Not like today. Everything’s plug in this and computerized that. Looks more like a hospital than a garage. What’s next? A guy won’t even need to get his hands
dirty?”

  Jake grunted an agreement. Though computers had become a convenient tool of his own trade, as well, he preferred working the old-fashioned way. He wore out more shoe leather than telephones. He kept his notes on paper rather than a hard drive. And people, like cars, were individuals. They responded best to a hands-on approach. “So, Floyd had a good ear?”

  “Yeah. Wasn’t his fault he never ended up on a winning team.”

  “Do you remember who he worked for thirty-one years ago?”

  “Geez, let me think. In ’78? That would have been Shillington’s team.”

  “Shillington? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Auto-parts guy from Indianapolis. He didn’t last long, folded the team after only a few seasons.”

  “How come?”

  “He wasn’t really into it. Never got a good driver after Shanks quit.”

  “Who was Shanks?”

  “Young fella. Name of Hank but everyone called him Shanks because he was skinny as a rail. Looked like he was an up-and-comer but instead he up and quit.” He stabbed the air with his index finger. “Now I remember why Floyd kept to himself. He had a wife who used to light into him. Geez, she didn’t care who was around when she had a bone to pick. She traveled the circuit with him so he never got a break until the year the kid came along.” He laughed. “Guess ol’ Floyd found a better way than talking to take her mind off his faults.”

  So, Floyd and Lizzie Peters had a volatile relationship, Jake thought. Interesting.

  “Hey, that was in ’78, too,” Earl said. “Had to be. Everyone was talking about Shanks quitting and Shillington getting out and there was Floyd, showing off baby pictures like he didn’t have a care in the world. He didn’t worry. He was good enough to get a job anywhere. Just bad luck that he never signed on with a winner.”

  “It sounds as if he was pleased about the baby.”

  “Sure. Kept his wife happy and at home for the second half of the season.”

  The second half? That agreed with what Becky had told him, that she had been adopted during the summer. Jake wouldn’t expect Earl to have noticed that Floyd’s wife hadn’t appeared pregnant. That kind of detail wouldn’t have stuck in his mind because it wasn’t directly related to cars. Depending on Lizzie’s weight to begin with, it might have gone unnoticed anyway. “Do you remember when the baby arrived?”

  Earl pinched one end of his mustache and rubbed it between his fingers as he thought. “I don’t know exactly. We were working for different teams. I just remember him showing the pictures.”

  “Okay.”

  “Poor Floyd. I haven’t seen him around since the mid-eighties. Probably got a job that let him stay home with his family more, but I don’t know why he’d want to. Wonder if his wife nagged him to death…” Earl’s words trailed off as he looked past Jake’s shoulder. “Huh, she looks familiar.”

  Jake planted the tip of his cane and half pivoted so he could scan the crowd. The public area of the garage was rapidly filling with fans after autographs and pictures. No one appeared to be paying any attention to the two of them. “Who do you mean?”

  “Over near the doorway. That girl in the blue No. 414 shirt. She reminds me of somebody.”

  Even before Earl had finished the description, Jake had spotted her. Becky Peters was as easy to notice in a busy garage as in a sun-filled park or a store window. She wasn’t glammed up today—she wore sneakers and baggy cargo pants, and her hair was stuffed beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. Instead of neon pink, she was wearing a light blue T-shirt with white numbers on the front.

  Kent Grosso, Gina’s twin, drove the No. 414 car. His colors were blue and white. Becky was obviously making a statement. Was it confidence, or hope?

  Jake wasn’t comfortable with either possibility. Nothing he’d learned so far had ruled Becky out as Gina. In fact, the evidence tended to support her claim, but he was a long way from proving anything.

  He turned back to Earl. “You’ve probably seen her picture. She’s a model.”

  “Huh. Guess that explains it. Coulda sworn for a second there that I knew her.”

  Jake snorted. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who had experienced that phenomenon. “Believe me, I know what you mean. Earl, could you give me the names of some of the guys who worked with Floyd Peters on Shillington’s team?”

  Earl gave him three names, then launched into a rambling tale of their particular talents and their subsequent employers. Jake jotted down the pertinent bits in his notebook. One of the men was currently with Matheson Racing and should be here today. Though he was grateful for the information, he found himself eager for Earl to finish. Not because he was in a hurry to follow up on the lead. No, he was impatient because he wanted to talk to Becky.

  That bothered him. Since when did he let anything take priority over his job? He knew better than to allow his feelings enter into his business. Although Becky Peters wasn’t technically his client, she was the subject of his investigation, which was even more of a reason to keep his distance. He couldn’t afford to think about her in any way other than professionally.

  Uh-huh. And how was that going so far? He’d need a lot more than mental pep talks to get that woman out of his mind.

  Jake deliberately kept his gait slow as he worked his way through the crowd toward Becky, giving himself time to observe her. She was talking to a couple who appeared to be in their early sixties, and judging by their body language, good friends of hers. Correction. They were doing most of the talking. Becky’s gaze kept straying to the action on the garage floor where the Cargill-Grosso team was readying for the race.

  Jake frowned. First the shirt, now this. Was she already assuming she was part of the Grosso family? Great if it was true, but it was going to devastate her if it wasn’t. He hadn’t been able to forget that flash of lost-child vulnerability he’d seen in her eyes. He’d hate to see her hurt.

  She lifted her head suddenly and looked around. Past the handful of people who separated them, her gaze found his immediately. A smile curved her lips and lit her eyes. She looked genuinely pleased to see him.

  Well, sure she’d be pleased, he reminded himself before his pulse could speed up any more than it had. He was the guy who was going to find out who she was.

  “Mr. McMasters! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “There’s not much that would keep me away from a race, Miss Peters. I didn’t know you were a fan.”

  The woman she was with spoke up. “Becky grew up watching NASCAR. Hi. I’m Shirley Dalton and this is my husband, Bud.”

  Jake looked at Shirley and the name she’d given connected. Dalton. They must be Tara’s parents. “I’m Jake McMasters.”

  Shirley raised her eyebrows and gave Becky an inquiring look.

  “Mr. McMasters is a friend of a friend,” Becky said quickly. “We met last week.”

  Good, he thought. She couldn’t have told them about the investigation yet. He steered the conversation to the upcoming race, which elicited a spirited discussion between the Daltons. Before they could wind down, he caught Becky’s gaze and nodded toward the garage exit. “I’d like to talk to you. Could I buy you lunch?”

  They left the Daltons in the garage, but not before he got a head-to-toe scrutinizing from Shirley. Becky would have been only fifteen when her mother died. Had Shirley Dalton helped fill the void?

  If so, he could understand Shirley’s scrutiny of him. She had to be curious why a young, beautiful woman like Becky would want anything to do with a man who was Jake’s age and who looked the way he did.

  When they reached the infield restaurant, he saw they were in luck. The lineup was short so they only had to wait a few minutes. Their table turned out to be near the kitchen entrance and beside a family with three wriggling kids. Not the quietest spot for a conversation, but it would have to do. Once the waitress had given them their menus and turned to clean up a soda one of the kids had spilled, Jake got down to business.

  “Miss
Peters,” he began.

  “Please, call me Becky,” she said.

  He might as well. He’d been thinking of her that way for days. “Sure, Becky.”

  “And do you mind if I call you Jake?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  “Thanks.” She slipped off her hat and set it on the empty chair beside her. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you, Jake. You said you’d phone me.”

  He tried not to be distracted by her hair. He’d known what to expect when she pulled off her hat, yet he took a few seconds to admire it anyway. Even indoors, under artificial light, the color was rich honey, gleaming in lush, inviting waves. His fingers twitched. “I hope you understand that any progress I make has to be reported to my clients first.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you’re hiding anything, it’s just that…”

  “You’re anxious for answers,” he finished for her.

  “Yes!”

  “I understand. You mentioned to me before that you’ve been waiting most of your life to find out who you are.”

  “Can’t you give me a hint of what you’ve found?”

  “Nothing definite yet. I’m working on some leads, but I’ve spent too many years in this business to make any assumptions before I have proof. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I should have mentioned this when we first met. Until I do have proof, I’d appreciate your discretion.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “So far, you’re the forty-third woman who has claimed she could be Gina Grosso. It would be too emotionally draining on Dean and Patsy if they allowed themselves to consider each one the real one.”

  “I see that, but I’m still not sure I get your point.”

  He gestured toward the numbers on her T-shirt. “For everyone’s sake, it would be best not to broadcast the fact that you believe you’re Gina.”

  She sat back as if he’d shoved her. “I’m not broadcasting anything. This is just a shirt, that’s all. There are probably thousands like them at the track. Kent has plenty of fans.”