Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

“Thanks. Both bridesmaids go by double first names.”

“True maidens of Dixie.”

“As I listened to Summer, I was studying Rinaldi’s code.”

“Summer is the lovely bride-to-be?”

“Do you want to hear this?”

Galimore raised apologetic palms.

“The plan Katy described is named after Section 529 of the Internal Revenue Code. 529s are investment vehicles designed to encourage saving for the future college expenses of designated beneficiaries.”

“OK. How do they work?”

“A donor puts money in and can take it any time he or she wants. The main benefits are that the principal grows tax-deferred, and that distributions for higher-education costs are exempt from federal tax.”

Pete and I had considered a 529 when Katy was small. Never followed through.

“A side bennie is that the assets in a 529 plan are not counted as part of the donor’s gross estate for inheritance tax purposes,” I added.

“So a 529 can be used as a sort of estate planning tool, a way to move assets outside your estate while retaining control if the money is needed in the future.”

Galimore was a very quick study.

“Yes,” I said.

“How much is a donor allowed to put in?”

“Thirteen thousand per year.”

Our eyes met.

“Get the code.” Galimore sounded as jazzed as I was.

I dug the spiral page from my purse and unfolded it on the table.

ME/SC 2X13G-529 OTP FU

Wi-Fr 6–8

Silently, we both translated the first line.

Mary Ellen. Sarah Caroline. Two times thirteen thousand into a 529 plan. Owen Timothy Poteat. First Union.

“First Union National Bank became Wachovia, then Wells Fargo,” I said.

Galimore cocked a brow.

“Right. You knew that. When can you get your hands on Poteat’s financial records?”

“Now that I know what I’m looking for, the job will be easier.”

“Tomorrow?”

A waggled hand. Maybe yes, maybe no.

“So.” Galimore gave me a high-beam smile.

“So.” I smiled back.

“Why did Rinaldi think it was worth writing down?”

“Poteat is the single witness who claimed to have seen Cale Lovette after the night of October fourteenth. The man has no job and no assets. Suddenly he parks twenty-six thousand in accounts for his kids?”

“Someone paid him to lie.” Galimore was right with me.

“Or at least Rinaldi thought so.”

“Who?”

I’d given the question a lot of thought. “The FBI? The Patriot Posse? A party wanting to make it look like Lovette and Gamble were still alive?”

Galimore leaned back and took a swig of his San Pellegrino.

Moments passed. In the dining room, Gran’s clock bonged nine times.

“Big weekend coming up.” Galimore’s eyes had drifted to the TV behind my back.

“Want audio?” I asked.

He shrugged.

As I crossed to turn up the sound, the station cut to a commercial.

We are the champions, my friends?….

“That’s what we are.” Galimore laughed. “The DOD’s going to be recruiting our asses to join some secret cryptography unit.”

“Yep,” I agreed. “We dazzle.”

Shooting to his feet, Galimore sang another line of Queen. “‘No time for losers!’”

“‘Cause we are the champions,’ ” I joined in.

Galimore caught me in a waltz hold and swirled me around.

We finished the lyrics together.

“‘Of the world!’”

More swirling.

I laughed like a kid at a carnival.

Finally we stopped. The emerald eyes caught mine. Our gazes locked.

I smelled Galimore’s sweat and cologne. Traces of tomato and garlic on his breath. I felt his body heat. The hardness of muscle below his cotton shirt.

I experienced a sudden, almost overwhelming yearning.

A memory flashed in my brain. Andrew Ryan and I dancing in this same room. A little black dress dropping to the floor.

Yearning for whom? I wondered. Galimore, who was here? Ryan, who was so far away?

Heat rushed up my face.

Palm-pushing from Galimore’s chest, I turned toward the TV.

A kid from Yonkers was singing about heartbreak, hoping to be America’s next idol. He hadn’t a chance.

As the kid crooned, a crawler appeared at the bottom of the screen. For distraction, I read the words.

My hands flew to my mouth.

“Oh my God!”

“YOU OK?” GALIMORE’S HAND WAS ON MY SHOULDER.

I gestured at the TV.

“Holy shit. Wayne Gamble’s dead? At my friggin’ speedway?”

Galimore grabbed his phone. Flicked a button. Messages started pinging in. Ignoring them, he jabbed keys with his thumbs.

I said nothing. I was already hitting speed dial myself.

Larabee answered on the first ring. Background noise suggested he was in a car. “I was just about to call you.”

“What happened to Gamble?” I asked.

“Some sort of freak accident. I’m heading to Concord now. You’d better join me.”

I didn’t ask for a reason.

“I’ll leave right away.”

“Thanks.” A beat. Then, “Everyone’s looking for Galimore. Any idea where he is?”

Great. Hawkins had told Larabee about the message he’d overheard. Undoubtedly embellished.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I said.

When I disconnected, Galimore was no longer in the kitchen. Through the window, I could see him on the porch, talking on his mobile. Exaggerated gestures told me he was upset.

In seconds the door opened.

“I gotta go.” Galimore’s face was taut.

“Me, too. Larabee wants me at the scene.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No.”

“See you there.”

For the second time that day, I made the long trek out to the Speed-way.

As the finding of the landfill John Doe demonstrated, the Charlotte media monitor police frequencies. And word spreads fast.

Every local station was there, one or two nationals, each positioned to provide an appropriately cinematic backdrop for sharing news of tragedy. A major NASCAR event is in full swing. Violent death strikes the pit crew of a favored son. I could hear the lead-ins in my head.

I had no doubt other reporters were barreling toward Concord. By morning not a millimeter of space would remain unoccupied.

I showed ID at the main gate. Was asked to wait. In moments a deputy climbed into my passenger seat. Wordlessly we looped around the stands toward the tunnel.

Along our route, reporters spoke into handheld mikes, expressions grim, hair and makeup perfect under portable lights. Others waited, smoking alone or sharing jokes with their camera and sound technicians. Media choppers circled overhead.

Barricades had been erected since my morning visit. Sheriff’s deputies, Concord cops, and Speedway guards manned them to keep the frenzy at bay.

On the infield, campers stood beside tents or atop trailers, talking in lowered voices, hoping for a glimpse of a celebrity, a shackled suspect, or a body bag. Some held flashlights. Some drank from cans or longneck bottles. Curving high above the gawkers, the glass-fronted luxury suites loomed dark and empty.

The deputy directed me toward the Sprint Cup garage area. In my mind’s eye, I pictured Wayne Gamble. In my office at the MCME the previous Friday. In Sandy Stupak’s trailer with Slidell just twelve hours earlier. Now the man was dead. At age twenty-seven.

Gamble had reached out to me, and I’d ignored him. Failed to return his call.

The guilt felt like a cold fist squeezing my chest.

Shake it off, Brennan. Focus. Help find what he wanted to tell you .