Avoidable Contact (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

10:40 P.M. | 15:30 HOURS REMAINING

I caught Holly's eye back in the hospitality corner of the tent and waved her over, whispering my discovery in her ear. We watched my uncle turn away from the car being repaired and disappear into his tent—snubbing the SGTV reporter once again.

“I would not have guessed that,” she said. “Ed Grant and Edward Reilly-Stinson. Maybe Grant's his middle name?”

“Must be. At least I don't have to deal with jokes or questions about being related.”

“Your racing talent clearly came from your mother's side.”

We headed out to the walkway again, the better to observe comings and goings at the Arena team. I caught sight of movement in the pit space next door, but my brief hope we'd see their car pull up faded quickly. It was activity of the wrong kind: WiseGuy Racing packing up its gear. I returned to our crew at the monitors and asked what they'd heard.

“Electrical,” reported one of the tire changers. “Something fatal. No replacement parts.”

I shook my head, sorry for everyone on the WiseGuy team who'd spent immense amounts of time and money to get a car to the track and ready to race, but who'd go home with nothing to show for it—not even the badge of honor of taking the checkered flag. In a race like this, the ultimate glory was a podium finish—with winning being nearer a miracle. Simply to be running at the end was a monumental achievement. Teams that folded up early would get a better and warmer night's sleep tonight than any of us at the track. But no one welcomed that rest. Everyone wanted to be here.

Stuart should be here, dammit.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, sure it was time for news from the hospital or for more information from Foster Calhoun.

“Anything?” Holly asked.

“Nothing. From anyone.” I texted Polly at the hospital. Then I texted again apologizing for so many messages.

“Do we know anything we can tell Calhoun?” Holly continued.

I shook my head. “Do we know anything at all?” I felt tired and emotionally wrung out, overwhelmed with the enormity of it all. Worse, I had no idea who to believe or how to figure out who the culprit was. Foster Calhoun was pointing us at Arena, but did I agree with him? Did I have a better idea? Did I have the stamina to answer those questions while also trying to make sense of the senseless—Ian's death? While also facing fifteen and a half more hours of racing?

Holly put both hands on my shoulders and turned me toward the hospitality area. “Sugar, you need a pick-me-up.”

“I'm not—”

“Coffee and a snack. Then we'll sit down.”

She collected a banana, some peanut butter, and a Styrofoam cup of coffee with sugar and cream. We took seats on the 30 car's empty pit box. The field continued to circle the track behind the safety car, while the last track vehicle pulled away from Turn 3, cleanup complete. I estimated they'd go back to green in another three laps.

“What's going on in that head?” Holly prepared to make notes.

I spoke quietly. “Do we believe Calhoun about Stuart's accident? That someone from the Arena team did it?”

Holly pursed her lips. “Look at it this way. Stuart was hit. The person didn't stop. That makes it a crime, and the driver ought to be punished.”

“True.”

“Maybe it's a simple accident, but the driver didn't stop. Or maybe it was a deliberate hit. Either way, we want to know who did it.”

“But if we do what Calhoun wants and focus on Arena, are we investigating Stuart's accident or investigating the team?” I could hear the frustration in my own voice.

She pointed to the banana. “Eat. How did you figure out who killed Wade Becker? Or Ellie?”

I swallowed the bite of food and sipped some coffee. “Dumb luck?”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Try again.”

“I talked to people. Asked questions. Put two and two together.” I took another bite and considered. “I see your point. Let's funnel Calhoun the details he wants. On top of that, you and I will become the biggest gossips this race has ever seen—at least you will. Everyone talks to you. I can't leave the pits much—though you never know who will come to me. Then we'll see how the information we collect adds up.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Holly took my phone and accessed the message thread with Calhoun. “Starting with telling the reporter who we see connected with the Arena team.”

“I'm not sure where to start with ‘connected.' Is that known associates? Anyone we see in the tent? Random visitors might not be connected to the team at all.” I shook my head. “Hell, he can make sense of it all. Calhoun wants names, we give him names.”

“What about the cops? What do we tell them?”

“Everything they're willing to hear.”

The safety car went by on the front straight, sixty-some cars in its wake. The noise made speech pointless for a moment.

Holly stopped thumb-typing. “Calhoun wanted us to tell him about sponsors and anyone associating with the team.”

“We gave him sponsors—unless you noticed any other tiny stickers on the car?” For the privilege of logos on a racecar and official team uniforms, sponsors paid varying amounts of money—from small all the way up to enormous, corresponding to size and frequency of the logo.

“I haven't seen anything new. What about people?”

“Aside from sponsor reps and team members, we've seen the technician and head guy from Michelin.”

Holly typed names.

I kept thinking. “They'd have to have a Porsche rep—
that
was a face I recognized. A woman, Sabine Bauer. But I'm not coming up with other suppliers.”

“Forget suppliers. Think about walking past the tent and tell me who you saw.”

I closed my eyes, trying to picture the scene any of the times we'd passed. I frowned. “My father. My cousins—but I don't know if they count as sponsor representatives.”

“Doesn't matter. Tell me people.”

“Pyotr and Vladimir. What's their last name?”

“Kulik.”

I opened my eyes. “What are they, anyway? Russian mafia?”

“We don't ask those things, Kate.” Holly raised her eyebrows. “They're representing Kulik Vodka.”

“The vodka car, of course.” I murmured. “Their minder Vinny was with them, too.”

I looked to the monitors. The safety car's flashing lights were turned off, which meant they'd go green the next time past us. “We didn't see Tug in there, but he must have stopped, because he went to every other tent, right?”

“And Elizabeth with him, I'd guess.”

“Elizabeth. She's so…”

“Forgettable?”

“I was going to say unmemorable, compared to Tug.”

Holly snorted. “That boy does have charisma.”

“Do we count reporters? Scott Brooklyn was there.”

She shrugged. “I'll give it all to Calhoun.”

The noise increased as the cars powered through the tri-oval to take the green. We stopped talking to watch the monitors. Mike held station in third place, fighting off a challenge from a factory Corvette behind him.

I heard a shout from the pits behind us even before I saw the action on-screen. More overeager drivers, more contact. This time in the West Horseshoe, in the infield. Two cars banging, brushing sides. An impatient prototype diving inside a Viper and paying the price. Both cars continued, but the prototype's left front fender broke loose and started shredding, sending bits of bodywork flying.

Carbon fiber shards worked on tires like knives worked on soft butter. All of the cars past the injured prototype were sitting ducks for debris. Which included Mike.

The 28 Corvette dodged hard left, both left-side tires cut down.

Chapter Twenty-three

10:50 P.M. | 15:20 HOURS REMAINING

The yellow flag flew for debris. Mike steered down onto the flat apron of the track, planning to enter the closed pits—which would incur a minor penalty. The alternative was to ride around on track until the pits opened, but since the tires wouldn't last even a full lap, there was no choice. Our crew scrambled for their tools.

By Series regulation, a car that couldn't safely continue on track—due to a flat tire, not enough fuel, or another issue—was allowed to come in for service on the problem item only, even if the pits were closed. However, it had to rejoin the field on-track and return to the pits during regular pit stops for full servicing. Mike arrived within seconds. Our crew changed the two cut tires but didn't do anything else, and Mike went back out.

We'd lost positions, but it could have been much worse. The rapidly disintegrating prototype had slowed its pace to a crawl, still depositing debris around the track. It was only now entering pit lane. That car looked to have suspension damage in addition to the torn bodywork and disintegrated tire. The driver had paid a tough price for his lack of patience.

A few minutes later, Mike followed most of the GT field in for a full service of fuel and tires all around. The good news, though we'd lost positions on the field, was we were only one lap down to the leaders, in eighth place. Our Corvette had suffered no lasting damage to anything but the tires. With more than fifteen hours still to run, we had plenty of time to fight back.

Holly and I exhausted our memories of people we'd seen associating with Arena Motorsports, and I reviewed the list while she threw away the remains of my snack. A minute later, we stood at the monitors to watch the field go back to green—which stuck this time. As the cars settled into a rhythm, we did also, leaning against the chain-link fence in the pit walkway. We kept one eye on the monitors and the other on the comings and goings at the Arena setup.

I elbowed Holly, seeing two men walking down pit lane. “Isn't that the main SGTV guy there?”

“Yep, the one next to the head of Porsche Motorsport Worldwide.”

I looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Who do you figure they're there to talk to?”

“Arena himself? Ed Grant? Look who's greeting them.”

I turned to see the SGTV and Porsche representatives standing in the walkway with my father. “He's been in with that team this long?” I felt uneasy again about his loyalties.

Before the three men could exchange more than hellos, they moved into the tent to get out of the way of the WiseGuy crew removing the last of their equipment—the main pit cart, with folding tables lashed to the top—from pit lane.

Holly and I crossed to the pit wall in the now empty and dark space between Sandham Swift and Arena Motorsports. Across from us, behind the start/finish line, rose the tall grandstand. I squinted up at the tower building looming above the stands, trying to make out spotters on the roof, high above suites housing Race Control, broadcast and other media booths, and top-tier hospitality suites.

In the sudden quiet caused by no cars in front of us, we heard a voice from the tent next door. “Richard! Come meet—”

The rest was drowned out by a Porsche on-track. Holly and I looked at each other. We took three steps to the right, close to the canvas wall of the Arena Motorsports tent.

We heard a mixture of voices: “This year…cars…sponsors and drivers…funding…features…possible.”

Then three sentences in another long lull between passing racecars: “I'm aware it takes money to make money. But it's better if you throw in a little more. I encourage you to be creative, gentlemen.”

Then nothing but a sense of movement next door and one last phrase. “Protect my brother.”

“Who's talking?” I hissed to Holly.

She shrugged and pointed to a gap where two canvas side panels overlapped. The rope that laced through the wide grommets of each panel had missed a set of holes, leaving an opening that flapped open and closed depending on wind or someone pushing on the canvas. I carefully positioned my hand to keep the flap on my side from blowing open and exposing me, then put my eye to the small opening. I jumped back immediately at the sight of Ed Grant's angry face.

I waved Holly off when I realized he couldn't have been looking at me. I peeped through the canvas again. Grant stood a few yards away, talking to someone. I shifted and saw Billy listening to him, with my father next to Billy, closer to the tent wall. Then Grant turned to his right as someone else spoke.

A gust of wind swept past us and sucked the other panel open. It was only a two-inch movement, but it felt like complete exposure. My instincts took over. I dropped straight down into a crouch below the opening and waved Holly out of the pit space. She scurried out to the walkway. I crab-walked a few feet before standing up and following her. Thirty seconds later, we were leaning against the chain-link fence behind our pits, half hidden behind a rack of tires, when Billy walked out of the Arena pit and around to the spot we'd vacated.

My heart pounded in my ears as we watched Billy stick a hand and then his head through the opening.

He withdrew and turned to leave. I pointed to something in the Sandham Swift pits, saying to Holly, “Look over there so he doesn't think we're watching him.”

“That was close.”

I laughed, too loud, releasing tension. I turned to her, glancing at the walkway. Billy watched us. “Too close. He's still looking this way. Come on.”

We kept our attention on our own team area as we crossed the walkway and entered our pits.

I collected two bottles of water from a cooler and handed her one. “Grant, Billy, and my father were talking. There was at least one other person, but I couldn't see who.”

“Could you ask your father?” She saw me squirm. “You did ask him for information already.”

“He's been over there talking to them for so long. And that's his brother. I'm not sure who he's more loyal to.”

“Speaking of brother, you think it was your father saying ‘protect my brother' about Grant or Grant saying it about him?”

I thought back to the voice we'd heard and frowned. “I don't think it was my father's voice, but I'm not sure.”

“Probably it was Richard Arena demanding people think creatively about making money.”

“I wonder who he was talking to. My father? My uncle? The SGTV or Porsche guys?”

“Seems like a bold demand to make to the head of a network or a car company.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Seven cars in his stable. ‘Bold' is an understatement.”

“The coast is clear, let's go back out to the walkway.”

“No more peeping Tom. I'm not cut out for this spy stuff.”