Avoidable Contact (10 page)

Chapter Eighteen

9:35 P.M. | 16:35 HOURS REMAINING

I laughed out loud, unable to help myself. When the guys all turned to us, I gave them a genuine smile and pointed to Paula.

She fluttered her eyelashes at them. “Girl talk.”

Don't make me puke.

Sam patted her hand and turned back to Thomas. Paula glared at me. “I will
hurt
you if you get in my way.”

I spoke quietly. “You're always welcome to my leftovers, Paula.” I leaned around her to speak to Tom and Thomas. “I've got to go. Catch you all later.”

I set off back to our team lounge. I hadn't paid much attention to who occupied the other rooms in the small building, but as I approached our door, Raul Salas exited the room to the left of ours.

He broke into a smile and threw both arms in the air when he saw me. “My racing partner!”

I couldn't help smiling back. “That was fun, wasn't it?” I held out a hand.

He raised an eyebrow and shook my hand. “Very much fun, Kate. You are quite talented.”

“As are you.” I gave an experimental tug, but he held onto my hand with both of his. He started caressing it with one of his thumbs. The sensation drove all thoughts from my mind. I stared at our hands, then looked up at his face.

He ducked his head an inch or two to look me in the eye. “You are a compelling woman, Kate Reilly,” he whispered.

His eyes, his focus on me, and his voice were all mesmerizing. I don't know how long I stood there staring at him.

What the hell are you doing, Kate?

I took a deep breath and pulled my hand free. “Same goes. See you later.” I fled back into our team lounge.

I spent the next ten minutes inside, watching the live race feed and coming to a few conclusions. First of all, Raul Salas was dangerous. But a hell of a driver. Second, Paula was crazy, and so, by extension, was Sam. Third, I was a horrible person because while I wanted Stuart recovered and back at the racetrack more than anything, I was glad for a break from his disappointment in me about our relationship.

Fourth, I was angry at Foster Calhoun, who I figured bore at least some responsibility for Stuart being hurt. Fifth and last, I wanted whoever had run down Stuart to pay—whether that person was from the Arena team or not.

Calhoun believed an Arena team member was responsible, but it would take more than the word of a stranger to convince me. That meant I needed intelligence on the people in and around the Arena Motorsports megaplex in the pits. When Holly arrived in the team lounge, I was wrapping up messages to my father and grandfather asking for anything they knew about the team owner, Richard Arena, as well as his partners and supporters in racing—and swearing them to secrecy.

Holly laughed hysterically when I quoted Sam's fiancée. “Was Sam always so controlling, Holly?” I asked, reflecting on his comments earlier in the pits.

“He's always been friendly, gorgeous, humble, but still somehow in charge. Always the one offering praise or comfort. You needed a boss or mentor. Someone to help talk through decisions. Maybe that's controlling, maybe it's guidance. But you sure need it less now than you did back then.”

“I don't want it.”

“It appears he found someone who does. I hope they'll be very happy together.” She ignored my eye rolling and waggled her cell phone at me. “Different topic, back to Calhoun. I found something you should see.”

I read the headline of the article displayed:
Journalist Jailed for Assault on Potential Source.
The journalist in question was Foster Calhoun.

“It was eight years ago,” Holly said. “But he did punch a guy who promised him a scoop and didn't follow through.”

I looked at her. “You think he attacked Stuart because Stuart wouldn't give him information?” I supposed it was possible Calhoun had become irate at Stuart refusing to help him with his article, and then Calhoun had run Stuart down.

Possible, but not likely?

Holly sighed. “I'm not sure what I think, but I found the article.”

“It's hard to know what to believe or who to trust, isn't it?”

“You're not kidding, sugar.”

I changed the subject by asking how Greg and the others down at Western Racing were coping with the news about Ian.

She shook her head. “Greg wasn't there, but everyone else is shaken up—upset, angry. The car's still running sixth, but they're all unsettled because they're not sure what Greg's going to want to do, if and when he reappears. I can't blame them—or him.”

I looked at the clock on the wall then pointed to our long, water- and wind-proof jackets with Sandham Swift, Beauté, and BCRF logos embroidered on them. “Time to bundle up and get back to the pits.”

The fastest route there was through the Fan Zone, an extensive area that offered everything from viewing windows into the garages—this was a NASCAR track, after all, and fans couldn't be allowed to overrun the garages; they had to watch through windows—to a stage, gift shop, and concession stand. Plus the real bathrooms I was so fond of. The zone extended from the interior of the V-shaped garage buildings to the Daytona 500 Club that loomed above Victory Lane, opposite the track's start/finish line.

At the Daytona 500 weekend, the Fan Zone would be packed, and any driver who dared show their face inside would be mobbed. But during the 24 Hours of Daytona, drivers, teams, and fans mingled everywhere. The real rock stars—of racing and music—were still surrounded by small crowds when they ventured into the public-access space, but drivers like me typically wandered everywhere unrecognized and unmolested. That level of acceptance or anonymity suited me fine. I didn't need the insane fan worship Miles had, for instance.

This time through the Fan Zone, we ran into Zeke Andrews, a former driver, on-air commentator for SGTV, and my friend and mentor. I was surprised to see him in the infield of the track, because this race was his first in his new role of reporting from the booth instead of running up and down pit lane all race.

“You couldn't stay away?” I asked as he enveloped me in a hug.

He laughed, releasing me and turning to hug Holly. “Did my opening stint, didn't I? Now I get a break for dinner like a good lad.” Zeke was born in South Africa, grew up in Australia, raced for many years in Britain, and currently lived in North Carolina. His accent and expressions were all over the map, depending on who he'd spent time with recently.

He turned back to me. “Plus I hoped to catch you now rather than later tonight. Are you doing all right, Katie-Q?”

“I'll be okay.” I was already tired of the question, though I appreciated those, like Zeke, who asked and really meant it.

“And yourself, Miss Holly?” he asked.

“Coping.”

Zeke nodded. “Best that can be hoped for. You tell me when you need anything at all. A shoulder for your weeping, a drinking buddy, someone to help you face down the bullies. Either of you, say the word.”

I smiled at my burly, big-hearted surrogate big brother. “You can help us with one thing.”

“Anything, luv.”

I looked around to be sure no one was within earshot. “Tell us what you know about Arena Motorsports and Richard Arena.”

“Tell me first how you'll use it.”

“Nothing public,” Holly assured him. “No publication, no spreading stories around.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then, why?”

I explained about the accusations made by Foster Calhoun. “In fact, maybe you can find out more about Calhoun, too. From your journalism sources or something.”

“If it's his investigation, his story, and his arse in danger, why are you asking questions?”

“To find out stuff the police can't. I swear, we're in the cops' back pocket with this, Zeke.” I took a breath and looked across the Fan Zone. “But I need to do everything I can to make sure whoever hurt Stuart is caught. And punished.”

Zeke hugged me again.

“Dammit, I'm not crying, Zeke,” I said against his shoulder. “I'm pissed off!”

He chuckled and released me, then thought a moment. “What I know is the Arena team raced in Grand-Am for half a dozen years, getting better and bigger each season. This is the first year they've had such a presence.” He shook his head. “The logistics of that many cars, trucks, and people is amazing.”

Holly twirled a finger in the air.

“I'm getting to your point, luv. The money comes from Richard Arena, who's made several fortunes in a few different businesses. He drives. He's gone from being a raw amateur to quite good and respected—for his driving skill, at least. He's especially good at capitalizing on other drivers' mistakes on track—keep that in mind when you're out there, Kate.” At my nod, he continued. “On a personal level, most people find him withdrawn and aloof—particularly the media, who can't get an interview. Ever. His official bio says he grew up poor in Los Angeles, the oldest of five kids.”

“I know about the olive oil business—that's one of his, right?” I asked. “What else?”

“A national chain of Laundromats and a home security company. And now the racing team, which must bring in some money, the way he's got a dozen or twenty guys paying for a ride.”

Holly looked between me and Zeke. “None of that sounds like something to have a reporter on the run, afraid for his life.”

Zeke rubbed his chin. “There's also the federal investigation.”

Chapter Nineteen

10:00 P.M. | 16:10 HOURS REMAINING

“The what?” Holly and I chorused the words.

“No one I know will talk about the details,” Zeke said. “The media knows multiple federal agencies spoke with the Series and some of the team's partners. No charges yet, but we're all assuming it's a matter of time.”

I sputtered. “If he's doing something illegal—”

“Is he?” Zeke looked at our shocked faces and glanced around. “No one has proof of anything. I suspect the racing world is making as much money as they can from him before he goes down. Or goes away.”

Holly lifted a shoulder. “I've seen that happen before. Out-and-out crooks racing until the day before they're carted off to jail. Racing takes all types.”

I put some pieces together. “Calhoun must know more of Richard Arena's story.” Another thought occurred to me, and I swallowed my distaste. “Zeke, what do you know about the brunette woman associated with the team?”

His eyes brightened. “Yeah,
her.
Wowzer.”

My insides clenched. Holly hit Zeke on the shoulder. “Cut it out.”

“What?” When he got nothing but stern looks from us, he sobered. “All I know is she works for the team—or for the boss in general, not sure. Her name's Monica. She's gorgeous but unfriendly.”

Holly shook her head. “Or she's only friendly to the
right
people?”

“Which doesn't include me, more's the pity.” Zeke shrugged, then waved at someone approaching behind us.

I turned to see a guy I recognized from the former ALMS, Perry Jameson, who'd had something to do with media or marketing.

Perry turned when Zeke asked if he knew us.

“Of course, good to see you. How's the race going for you?” He shook our hands.

“Our car's—”

Yet another man in a firesuit walked past and darted over to shake hands with Zeke.

Perry turned and then looked my way again. “I'm good, thanks. Working freelance now for a few teams.”

I saw the same mystification on Holly's face. I cleared my throat. “The merger turned out all right for you?”

His expression soured. “For me it's been great. I can't say the same for everyone, can you? The teams don't know whether they're coming or going with regulations, drivers don't know their rankings—it's no way to run a series.” He sighed. “But the
geniuses
in the front office aren't asking me, so I'll withhold comment.”

That's what you were doing.

Zeke said good-bye to the other guy and rejoined us. “I've got to be off to my dinner. Perry, which way are you going?”

“I'll walk with you toward Linda's.”

Zeke gave Holly and me each a quick hug. “I'll pass the word if I hear anything else. Tell me what I can do for you.” He headed off with a jaunty wave, Perry at his side.

I looked at Holly, my eyes wide. “What was
that
?”

She shook her head. “Self-absorption at its finest. Also an example of how even someone who's better off after the merger still has strong feelings about it.”

“I expect Stuart is one of his ‘geniuses in the front office.'”

“Seems likely. Let's keep moving.”

Holly and I finished crossing through the Fan Zone and entered pit lane at the opening nearest the garages. A Chevrolet-powered prototype went by, making a loud, uneven, popping sound. We stuck our fingers in our ears until it passed.

Western Racing was the fifth team along, and we stopped briefly, not expecting any news, but unable to walk by without comment. Holly was right: emotions ranged from grief to despair to anger, usually in the same person, in the same two minutes. The team might be reduced in numbers, but everyone who remained had been with Greg for a decade or more and had watched Ian grow up. They were hurting.

I worked hard to keep the tears at bay as I exchanged condolences or hugs with half a dozen people. I was determined to hold it together while I was in the pits. The motorhome, and if need be, the team lounge, were my safe zones for excess emotion. The pits were where I focused.

We set off again down the walkway behind team pit spaces. Lights blazed in every active pit setup, and we peeked into them as we walked. We saw every approach to equipment and configuration: big, small, ornate, sparse, and everything in between. Carnegie Performance Group, or CPG, had some of the nicest gear and pit boxes, which wasn't surprising, since that team primarily ran NASCAR—a series second only to Formula 1 in terms of the opulence of team equipment. As we passed CPG, I was glad I knew Sam to be safely back in the garage area, so I didn't have to worry about being ambushed.

Holly nudged me. “You going to let the boy have his say this weekend?”

“Sam? There's nothing I want to hear. There's no point.”

We'd been following the on-track race action from one set of team monitors to another, and as we pulled even with the Benchmark Racing tent, the race went yellow for debris. We stopped, along with a handful of other non-Benchmark people who were in the area, to watch the replay of an incident between a prototype and a Ferrari.

The two cars had tangled after successfully navigating through the infield and exiting Turn 6 onto the NASCAR banking. Typically the slower car stayed low on the oval and left the high line to the faster car, but the Ferrari swung wide to avoid a Porsche nursing a deflating tire—and swung into the prototype. The impact sent both cars into the outside wall, then back down the banking onto the flat, grassy shoulder area, where the Ferrari narrowly missed also taking out the wounded Porsche. The prototype's left front tire was immediately cut down. Half a lap later, it tore open and started whipping apart the car's bodywork. Debris from the car's carbon-fiber panels littered the back straight, which brought out the full-course caution.

We stood near the entryway to the Benchmark pits watching the incident replay, the flying car parts, and the eventual decision by the affected car's driver to stop and wait for a tow. I checked the crawl at the top of the screen. Mike was still in third place.

Someone in a team shirt I didn't recognize asked Holly a question. As she answered, I looked around the pit space. It was triple-wide, to support their three cars—all Porsches, the numbers 72, 73, and 77. My stomach plummeted to my feet.

Of course, the 77 car. Benchmark Racing. The car that took Ian out.

I looked at the people in the tent and saw subdued expressions, bowed heads, and no smiles. Granted, that might be the case for many teams up and down pit lane. I couldn't be sure I wasn't imprinting on them what I expected to see. But everything about the team felt muted, except for one crew member in a green Benchmark team shirt who sat on a drinks cooler staring at the ground in front of him, arms wrapped around himself, his whole body shaking from the jittering of his right leg up and down.

I stepped back into the walkway to wait for Holly, feeling like I was prying by staring at the team that had caused Ian's death. A man on top of the big pit box turned around to look for someone, caught sight of me, and waved exuberantly. It was Vladimir—or Pyotr, I wasn't sure—one of the Russian brothers. I saw the other brother and Vinny, their minder, sitting next to them.

I felt someone watching me, and I glanced around, catching sight of a young woman on the next pit box over. Slim and blond, with familiar blue eyes. She raised a hand when she saw recognition on my face, and I returned the gesture. She looked intrigued. I hoped I looked blank—instead of dismayed at the thought of having to interact with more members of my father's family.

“Isn't that…?” Holly spoke at my elbow.

“My half-sister, Lara. I wonder what she's doing here.”

“At the race or in these pits?”

“Either. Both.” I lowered my voice still further and changed the topic. “It's hard to accept the 77 car is still running.”

She sighed as we resumed our trek down the pit lane. “Racing can break your heart.”

“Ladies,” said a lovely British baritone right next to us.

We'd only gotten twenty feet, but that had brought us to the next team tent, this one for the LinkTime Corvette team, our competitors in the GTLM class. Our rivals for Corvette glory. And, let's face it, our superiors in all but determination, given the might and wallet of GM behind them.

Duncan Forsythe, one of the Corvette factory drivers, leaned against the chain-link fence opposite his tent, a hand raised.

His gesture seemed more “stop” than “hello,” so I moved out of the middle of the lane toward him. “How's the race going for you, Duncan?”

He shrugged. “Fine so far. Early hours yet. I wanted—all of us did, really—” he gestured to the tent, indicating the rest of the team “—to express our condolences and support.” He paused. “Bloody dreadful, that was.”

“Thank you,” I managed.

“If you need anything at all, let us know,” he continued. “I mean that, Kate. You've got friends here in the paddock—all of you at Sandham Swift do. We may compete out there, but we'll back you up, should you ever need it.”

I studied him, considering. We were both professional drivers, Corvette drivers, and part of well-respected teams that had been with the former American Le Mans Series for the majority of its fifteen-year duration. The message felt like a welcome to a more exclusive club. “You sound like you're offering to hold someone down if I need to beat him up.”

He smiled. “Perhaps I am.”

“Do we get a secret handshake with that, sugar?” Holly drawled.

“If you like.” Duncan went from chuckling to serious. “I don't care for what I've seen around the paddock at this race. I don't want the good teams and people,” he gestured at us, “to be drummed out by those who lack good sportsmanship.”

“By those with more dollars than sense?” Holly suggested.

“Just so.”

I lowered my voice. “We're talking about Arena?”

Duncan frowned. “I suppose so—the team, at least. The man himself seems to have some class. I was thinking more of Benchmark next to us. There's a secretive feel to the team that's very strange.”

“Why do you say that? Is it the Russian guys? They were nice and so was Vinny. Then again, I'll never forgive the people with the 77 car.”

Duncan pushed off from the fence, looking to his pit where someone waved at him. “The Kulik brothers seem all right—aside from an occasional violent streak. But maybe you expect that from blokes who sell alcohol and live in Las Vegas. And Vinny Cruise seems nice also—I don't know for sure. They all
seem
nice. It's a feeling.”

“How have the Kulik brothers been violent?” I asked.

“Saw one of them nearly get run over by a crew member from their own team,” Duncan explained. “Before you could blink, he had the guy by the neck up against the chain-link fence. His brother had to calm him down.”

“That seems extreme,” Holly said.

“Indeed it does, though it seems to have been an isolated incident.”

“Since you offered help,” I said. “Keep your eyes open and tell us if you see anything that backs up your feeling.”

“I'll do that,” he replied. “You all take care. Kate, I'll see you out on track.” He crossed the pit lane back into his tent.

Holly and I started walking again in silence.

“How does that connect to anything else?” she asked, a few pit spaces later.

“I'm not sure. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe Duncan doesn't know what he's talking about. But I'll mention it to the reporter, in case.”

“What about the cops?”

I shook my head. “Latham didn't like my speculation about Monica, so I'll hold on to this, unless Duncan finds evidence.”

We'd reached the first opening in the long Arena pit tent, finally nearing our Sandham Swift pits, when we were nearly run over by two men who only looked where they wanted to go, not where anyone else might be. One of them bumped into Holly, knocking her into me. He turned to help catch her before she took a nose dive.

We all froze, recognizing each other. Holly recovered first, finding her footing and slapping the man's hands away. I heard her mutter, “Snakes.”

I flashed back to the previous October and the threats these two men had made after being introduced to me as family. The menace they radiated in my direction wasn't dimmed by time. My heart rate picked up, from equal parts trepidation and anger.

As usual, Holden Sherain glowered at me. This time he also glared at Holly, no doubt blaming her for the collision he'd caused.

Billy Reilly-Stinson grinned, also as usual. “We meet again.”