Within Striking Distance Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.”
     
    E ARL B UCKLEY , 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