Dead and Gone Jack Patterson (ebook reader play store .txt) 📖

of his story. Their insatiable appetite for all things NASCAR made him realize why the paper spent so much money for him to fly around the country and watch drivers race circle a piece of asphalt 250 to 350 times, and write about it. Cal arrived at his desk fifteen minutes before the meeting with his editor, just so he could talk racing with the pressroom guys. He hustled downstairs where they were waiting for him.

“Quite a weekend of racin’, Cal,” Buster Farnum said. “It don’t get any better than that.”

“Yeah, unless you’re not a fan of that jerk, Cashman,” Gary Black said. “Burnin’ out his tires while Tanner lay there dyin’. What a piece of trash.”

Jody Phillips stood up. His 6-foot-4-inch frame cast a long shadow on the pressroom floor. “What’d you say about Cashman?”

Everyone stopped talking and turned toward Phillips. He glared at everyone on his crew.

Cal knew he was the only one present who could say something and not suffer repercussions later. “Settle down, Jody. We’re just talking about the race. No need to get offended.”

Jody grunted and sat back down.

“So, Cal, who’s gonna take over for Tanner?” Buster said. “I heard it’s gonna be Adelman—I love that guy.”

Cal smiled. “And in what chat room did you hear that?”

“RubbinsRacin.com.”

“I suggest you stay off that one,” Cal quipped. “It’s gonna be Beaumont.”

“Beaumont?” Gary asked. “Are you kidding me?”

“You can post that one on your website chat room, just don’t cite me as a source, okay?”

Buster nodded. “I can’t believe that. I was sure it was gonna be Adelman.”

“Nothing’s for sure, but a little birdie told me that Beaumont is at the head of Ned Davis’ short list.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Gary said.

“Gotta run, guys, but I’ll let you know something before it breaks,” Cal said as he hustled toward the door.

***

WHEN CAL SETTLED into the chair in Marc Folsom’s office, he received a directive that irked him.

“Good story on the race yesterday,” Folsom said. “But I want you focused on racing, not off-the-track stuff this week. Got it?”

Cal leaned forward in his chair. “What do you mean? There’s a ton of stuff happening that needs to be covered.”

Folsom tapped his pen on his desk and stared at the television screen mounted in the corner of his office. “Thompson is on it.”

“From his bed?”

Folsom looked at Cal, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah, from his bed. You got a problem with it?”

“No, I—”

“Thompson is the most connected writer on the NASCAR beat. If anything is happening, he knows about it. And I’d rather have him working on that stuff as opposed to you.”

Cal sighed. “Well, there are two things we need to talk about.”

“Shoot.”

“First, your plans for next year with NASCAR coverage. I know you’re using Thompson now, but I’ve heard he might be gone at the end of the year.”

“You won’t be on it—don’t worry. I want to use your talents elsewhere, but this is where we are for now. What’s the second thing?”

“I’m not sure what you’re going to think about it now based on how you opened our conversation.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“It’s because I’ve come upon some reliable information regarding the direction of Davis Motorsports’ next target.”

“Is that all? Because I don’t mind letting you write about it.”

“No. I also have reason to believe that Carson Tanner’s death was no accident.”

Folsom looked down and propped his forehead up with his hand. He closed his eyes while he spoke. “Cal, why must you be an insufferable conspiracy theorist? His throttle was clearly stuck and he slammed into the wall. End of story. There’s nothing else to it.”

“That’s what somebody wanted you to think.”

“And you know this how?”

Cal took a deep breath and reached into his pocket and pulled out the note. “Someone slipped this into my pocket yesterday after the crash.” He handed the piece of paper to Folsom.

Folsom cracked a grin. “That crash was no accident—that’s your big tip?”

“No, there’s more. I was outside the Davis Motorsports team hauler after the race and I heard Ned Davis on the phone talking about how now that Tanner was out of the way, he could pursue Beaumont to take his place.”

“Beaumont? Of all the driver’s he’d take Beaumont?”

“You’re not listening if you think that’s the most important part of that conversation. Hello? What about ‘now that Tanner is out of the way’? Doesn’t that concern you?”

Folsom grunted and glanced back up at the television screen behind Cal. “You’ll concoct a story out of anything, won’t you?”

Cal leaned back in his chair. “I haven’t concocted anything. Just start looking at the facts.”

“The facts is, NASCAR is investigating the accident, and until they release anything contrary to what obviously happened—a stuck throttle—then there’s no need to write such nonsense. Am I clear?”

“Yeah, but I think you’re making a mistake. This is big news.”

“It’s big news if it’s true. I doubt it is. Somebody was just messing with you. Maybe another writer trying to make you look stupid.”

Cal stood up to leave. Folsom handed him the slip of paper and Cal slid it back into his jacket pocket. He pulled out his phone, which buzzed to let him know he’d received a direct message from his Twitter account.

“What is it now?” Folsom asked as Cal buried his face in his phone.

“I got a message from some follower.”

“Another clue for you, Sherlock?”

Cal rolled his eyes. “No, but it’s making me question everything.” He turned the phone’s screen toward Folsom. It read:

I know who did it

CHAPTER 6

TODD CASHMAN PUNCHED the button on the speakerphone and propped his feet up on the conference room table. He braced himself for the onslaught of questions about his victory celebration in Texas while a fellow driver was dead a few hundred yards away. He had no idea Carson Tanner was dead after slamming into the wall. And it was the truth.

But Cashman didn’t care whether Tanner was alive or dead. Making the finals of the championship chase was all that mattered