Out of Control

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“Yes, sir.”

As Artie handed off the papers to Tater and both men returned to the cars they were working on, Alex hurried on over and greeted her father’s ruddy expression with a wry smile. “Thanks for the rescue, Daddy.”

But Staff Sergeant George Montgomery Morgan, USMC, Ret., didn’t smile back. Instead, he waved a bill at her face. “What is this? What new scheme are you cooking up now? You know I don’t like surprises. I told you I wanted to be cautious about expenditures now that the Fisks are selling the track to Whip Davis.”

Alex’s relief came out as an embarrassing snort. Thank heaven. He hadn’t found the papers she’d taken from Nick’s things, after all. She stuffed the shop rag into the back pocket of her baggy denim overalls, using the moment to compose her thoughts before she gave away what she’d been working so hard to hide. “I thought something serious had happened.”

“This is serious,” he groused.

“Right. The money. Of course, it is.” She should have known her father wouldn’t go snooping through her personal things. But if he’d found the stash of notes she’d been sorting through regarding her brother’s death, he’d be in a whole new world of hurt. She’d worried and confounded him enough over the years. Not enough of a lady. No husband. No man. She knew he didn’t blame her for their trouble with the Buells, but still, it had to be disappointing for him to know how Artie’s older brother had forever changed her view of men and relationships. Causing her father more pain was the last thing she wanted. In fact, she was doing her best to help her father climb out of the emotional pit he was already trapped in by investigating the truth behind Nick Morgan’s car crash.

Artie’s father had declared it a tragic accident—said Nick had probably fallen asleep at the wheel and careened off the country highway into the bottom of a ravine. Maybe she was grasping at straws, but Alex had seen two sets of tread marks on the muddy shoulder before winter rains had washed the evidence away that night. “Somebody probably stopped there to see if they could help him,” the sheriff had suggested. So how did he explain away the twin sets of skid marks on the road near the crash site? Sleeping drivers didn’t slam on their brakes. And what was the likelihood of a second driver laying tread in the same exact location?

Sheriff Buell had come up with many plausible scenarios to explain away Nick’s death, but Alex wasn’t buying them. The rain hadn’t started until after the crash that January night. The family business was taking care of cars, for God’s sake, and Nick’s had been in top-notch condition. Nick had raced at the speedway before heading to law school. He knew how to handle a car. Knew how to handle any road condition. The crash made no sense. His death made even less.

Though George Morgan seemed to accept walking through life with his son in the ground and his heart buried there beside him, Alex wasn’t ready to let this town deal her another cruel blow. Especially not when, in Nick’s last phone call before his accident, he’d told her that he’d be missing their traditional New Year’s Eve game night because he was working on something for the state attorney general’s office—and that that something could have serious consequences if the wrong people found out what he was up to.

“Wrong people?” she asked. “Here in Dahlia? Who?”

Nick laughed at her curiosity and ignored her concern. “Don’t worry, Shrimp. It’s just some paperwork I need to finish up. Boring stuff. I’m afraid you’ll have to find someone else to play that marathon game of RISK with this time. But I’ll be looking for a rematch next year. Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll give Dad the message. Happy New Year, Nick. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Shrimp.”

The next time she saw her brother was at the county morgue. That night Alex had wept with her father and vowed to uncover how boring paperwork could get a good man killed.

But right now she had to deal with whatever current crisis she’d brought into her father’s world. “Is there a problem?”

“A five-hundred-dollar problem.” He smacked the paper with his hand. “I appreciate you stepping up to help with the business side of things now that—” Alex’s heart twisted at the hesitation “—now that Nick isn’t here. But the racing season has only been going for a couple of months. I don’t want to be spending money we may need to see us through the rest of the year.”

Alex reached out and wrapped her fingers around her father’s fist where he clenched it at his side, holding on until the tension in him began to relax. When he turned his hand and squeezed hers in return, Alex knew he was going to be all right. For now. Her secret was safe. Suspicious bills she could argue—suspicions about Nick’s death she could not. Not until she had something more to back them up with, at any rate.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the Fisks or Mr. Worth or changes at the speedway. You’re afraid I’m going to screw something else up. But I’ve really thought this through, Dad.” Alex pointed out the letterhead on the paper. “The Nelson Racing Team is making a name for themselves on the circuit. Skyler Nelson won the Missouri Flats in 4.89, running with an LSX 427 iron block motor. Exactly what we specialize in building. If he puts our name on his car, just think of the advertising. Our business could grow exponentially. We might have to open a second garage.”

“I suppose you’d want to manage it?”

Why not? Nick had been the lawyer. She was the one with the business sense. “During my internship my senior year at Tennessee, I worked in that auto parts store in Knoxville. In six months’ time, my business plan saved a struggling business and helped put them in the black.”

Her father scratched his fingers over the top of his silvering crewcut, gradually transforming from the grizzly bear who’d stormed into the garage into the gruff teddy bear who might love her, but who rarely understood her. “I’m not interested in opening another garage or going nationwide. We have a thriving business right now, right here in Dahlia, growing as attendance at the track grows. I hope we’ll continue to turn a profit once the speedway changes hands, but during this transition time, I can’t guarantee what kind of cash flow I’m going to have. I want to see how things pan out with Davis managing things before I start dipping into our cash reserves.”

Alex used his perfunctory explanation as an opportunity to steer the conversation away from anything remotely personal. “What about sponsoring a local driver, then?”

“This is five-hundred dollars out of our budget already. And you want to spend more?”

“We have to spend money to make money, Dad. We need to sponsor a car, not just service the cars whenever the driver needs something. If we hook up with a big name and he or she is successful, then we’ll be successful.” Oops. Open mouth, insert foot. Retreat to the brig. “I mean, we’ll continue to be successful and you won’t have to worry about our future, no matter who’s running the speedway.”

But his eyes shuttered and the debate was over. Her father drew back his shoulders, silently reminding her that it was his experience and own two hands that had started this business twenty-two years ago. Nick and Alex’s mother had died and George Morgan—former chief mechanic at the Camp LeJeune motor pool—had left the marines to settle in one spot and raise them. The garage had been built from a small military pension and big dreams. “My decision stands. I can absorb this bill. Just don’t surprise me with any more new ideas.” He reached out and tapped the point of her chin in a gesture he’d used as far back as she could remember. “Okay?”

But Alex wasn’t Daddy’s little girl anymore. When he opened the door to the office corridor, she followed right behind him. “Drew Fisk and his father and grandfather have poured a lot of money into the speedway to bring it up to code, modernize the track and add the amenities that racers and fans want nowadays.” Her father’s sigh told her she wasn’t making any headway, but he held the door to his office open for her and let her keep talking. “Those upgrades brought in the Farron Fuels Racing Series, and Dahlia is turning into a booming little town again. We can do the same—increase our promotional budget, sponsor a team and take advantage of the influx of business and money.”

He swiveled his leather chair forward, pointing to the door as he sat behind his big walnut desk. “I want to be careful about who we sponsor and where our logo shows up, honey. Remember, it’s my name on this company.”

Alex’s hands fisted at her hips when she glanced back at the red-and-white logo painted on the safety glass. Morgan & Son’s Garage. It was a sad reminder of dashed hopes—for her father, and for herself. That sadness painted her voice when she turned back to face him. “It’s my name, too.”

“Ah, honey, I didn’t mean…” A powerful engine gunned outside the front of the garage, loud enough to be heard in the interior offices. But George Morgan ignored the potential customer and reached for his daughter’s hand, pulling her closer as he sat on the corner of his desk. “I didn’t mean you aren’t an important part of this family. Or this business. Or that it hasn’t meant the world to me to have you close by these past few months. It’s just…”

“Dad—”

“Let me say this.” He grasped both her hands now, and Alex willingly held tight to his strong grip, wishing she knew the right words or actions to ease the pain that deepened the grooves beside his eyes and mouth. She couldn’t be hurting any more than he was. “I had it in my head all these years that Nick would be taking over the garage and running it with me one day. Even when he became a lawyer, he always found a way to stay involved.” He brushed his knuckles beneath her chin, and Alex did her best to summon a smile for him. “You’ve always been my little tomboy. But I hoped you’d grow up to be a fine lady like your mama was. I guess I’m still hoping to see you in a dress, with a good man at your side and little ones running around your feet.”

Work boots, overalls and dirty hands hardly lived up to that legacy. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’ve tried. I just don’t seem to have much success when it comes to being that lady you want.” Besides the fact she’d been raised by a marine, and hadn’t had much feminine influence growing up, most of the eligible men of Dahlia—like Artie Buell—didn’t see her as much of a lady. One man had created the lies about her being a teenage tramp, but it took the well-oiled gears of small-town gossip to perpetuate them. “But I do know my way around cars and business. I’m good at this. Please give my ideas a little thought, okay?”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll think about it, honey. I promise. In the meantime, just run it by me first before you spend five-hundred dollars on anything besides car parts. Okay?”

Not exactly a victory. But Alex wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight, anyway. “Okay.”

A sharp knock on the door ended the father-daughter moment. George stood as Alex pulled away.

“You two open for business?”

“Well, look who’s here. Drew Fisk.” George reached out with a smile. “Where have you been keeping yourself, son? You weren’t at the track during last weekend’s races.”

Alex tilted her head to welcome the blond-haired man in the tailored blue suit and white dress shirt. As usual, the tie was long gone. “Hey, Drew.”

“Alex.” He winked by way of acknowledgment and reached in front of her to shake her father’s hand. “George. How’re y’all doing? I’ve been in and out of town, taking care of business.”

“For your father and grandfather? How are they?”

“Fine. Dad’s in India, trying to work out an agreement to build an aluminum fabrication plant there like the one we have here. Grandfather is as cantankerous and crusty as ever.”

“I can’t imagine him slowing down, even now that he’s retired.”

“He seems to keep his nose in everybody’s business, for sure.” Drew turned his attention to Alex, his bright blue gaze traveling up and down her body, appreciating her curves in the same way he had from the day he’d realized his best friend’s younger sister had sprouted breasts, and was no longer just a tagalong for his adventures with Nick. “Alex. You’re looking as pretty as that spring day outside.”

“And you’re full of it,” she scoffed, burying her dirty hands deep in her pockets. Though he used that same smooth BS on every female, it was nonetheless good to see an old family friend again. She smiled, knowing he liked talking about his cars almost as much as she liked working on them. “I thought I heard a seven liter V8 engine driving up. Did you get that new sports car you were bragging about?”

“I did.” He arched a golden brow in a devilish smile. “As I recall, somebody here wanted to know how the engine runs on one of those. Care to find out for yourself? It’s clouding up outside, but we can take it for a spin before the storm hits.”

Alex shrugged, appreciating the invitation, but knowing she had too much on her plate right now to have time to fritter away. “I’ve got Mrs. Stillwell’s Buick out in the shop that I need to finish.”

She felt her father’s hand in the middle of her back, nudging her toward Drew. “I’ll put Artie or Tater on it. I think I can spare you for a half hour or so.”

“But Dad, I—”

“Go. With his grandfather selling the track, Drew might not be around quite so often. Better seize the moment, as they say.” His hopeless matchmaking wasn’t obvious, was it? She had responsibilities here. “Oh, by the way, honey.” He reached back across his desk and picked up a pink slip of paper. “I took a phone message for you. From a Daniel Rutledge?”

Dan Rutledge? As in Nick’s friend from the state attorney general’s office Dan Rutledge? The man whom Nick had been going to see that awful night? Alex snatched the memo from her father’s hand, her fingers trembling. “Thanks.”

“He a friend of yours?” her father asked, no doubt hoping for news of a decent man in her life.

“I’ve never met him.” Technically, that wasn’t a lie. She only knew Daniel Rutledge through Nick’s notes and a series of phone messages and e-mail inquiries she’d asked him to return. Alex stuffed the note into her pocket. “I guess I’ll have to call him to see who he is and find out what he wants.”

She couldn’t reassure her father with a better answer than that? Especially with a mixture of excitement and fear that was no doubt stamped all over her face. Did Rutledge have suspicions about Nick’s death, too? Answers for her? Alex lowered her head, feeling her cheeks steam with her lousy cover-up.

Fortunately, her father was perplexed enough by the mystery to miss her reaction. “The name’s familiar. Wasn’t he a friend of Nick’s back in school? Did you ever know him, Drew?”

Drew shook his head. “Must be from law school. Nick and I lost touch for a couple of years when Grandfather sent me off to Princeton to finish my education.”

“I hope he wasn’t looking for Nick.” George sank back onto the corner of the desk. “Maybe he doesn’t know about the accident, and he was trying to reach him. Oh, hell. Somebody else I didn’t tell.”

“Daddy?” Alex reached out, but he was already drifting away from her, shrinking back into the distant shadow of the man he’d been before grief had ravaged him. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

George Morgan barely nodded. Tears burned behind Alex’s eyelids. Some son of a bitch was going to pay for what they’d done to this man. “Daddy?”

A long arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her into the hallway. “Let’s give him his privacy.” Drew closed the door softly behind them and turned her against his chest for a hug, pressing her nose into the scent of designer cologne at the open collar of his shirt. “He’ll be all right, Alex. Give him some space.”

When she felt his lips brushing against her temple, she pushed away. “No. I want to fix this.”

“You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

“Alex.” His familiar, indulgent smile stopped her from retreating across the hall into her own office. “I miss Nick, too. I thought he and I would be a team forever. You can’t make your father’s hurt go away for him. You have to let him grieve.”

“In my head, I know you’re right. But…” Drew Fisk was no fantasy knight in shining armor. But he was a friend, and he drove a fast car. And right now, Alex needed some speed to drown out the frustrations roiling inside her. She mustered up an answering smile. “Maybe I could use a little fresh air, after all. Give me a few minutes to find Tater to tell him I’m leaving. Start your engine, Drew. I’ll be right there.”

4

JACK RILEY LEANED BACK against the wall at the Headlights Ice House, a bustling food and drink establishment where picnic tables and stacked crates formed eating areas that were anything but private. The lights were bright, the noise was loud, but with thunder rumbling in the night sky outside, it offered a warm, dry place where a man could fill his belly and get a crash course in who was who in Dahlia, Tennessee.

Stretching his long legs out across the bench seat of his table, he took a long swig from his second bottle of beer.

He’d come here to catch a criminal. Or two. Or six. Or however many sons of bitches it took to stop the flow of drugs and money that he’d traced from Nashville back to this deceptively innocent spot on the map.

Located about thirty miles east of Nashville, Dahlia had once been home to plantations, horse breeding and tobacco. According to his current investigation, Dahlia had nearly died during the Great Depression. But one of its founding families, the Fisks, had built the Dahlia Speedway in the 1960s, and the town was reborn. Now, instead of racing thoroughbreds, they raced cars.

The Chevy Camaro he’d been working on since he was a teenager—a lifetime ago, it seemed—was Jack’s ticket into town. Secured in the trailer he was hauling behind his pickup, the modified street car would qualify him as an entrant in the track’s Outlaw 10.5 Division Drag Racing Series.

He needed to become a part of the track.

He needed to become a part of this town.

Because someone here had murdered his partner.

When Lorenzo Vaughn had agreed to reveal his source for the drugs he’d sold in Nashville, in exchange for a reduced sentence, a fatal chain of events had been set into motion.

Vaughn had sent Jack and Eric to a chop shop. The business of tearing down racing cars from across the country and selling parts on the black market had also been a front for the even more dangerous business of smuggling heroin and other drugs inside some of the vehicles. But by the time the task force moved in to make an arrest, the business had closed up and moved its location. To ferret out the new distribution center and the men behind the drug import scheme, Eric had gone in undercover as a buyer looking to make a purchase. He’d stayed with the job, perfected the role of a new dealer in town, worked his way up through the hierarchy of thugs and lieutenants to the men in charge of the operation—who made him as a cop and had him gunned down in the street. Whoever was running the Dahlia-Nashville smuggling connection was going to pay.