Avoidable Contact (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-six

11:25 P.M. | 14:45 HOURS REMAINING

“It's clear he's a man of compassion and integrity.” Elizabeth kept elaborating on Stuart's character. “And understanding. He appears to be wonderful as a mentor and a problem-solver.”

I struggled for a response. “He's a great guy.”

With a final pat on my arm, Elizabeth turned to Tug and asked him something about a meeting. She looked serene, a small smile on her lips.

In contrast, she'd left me unsettled. I wondered how she had any idea what Stuart was like. How she presumed to know what he'd think or say.
Had he tried to hire her? Made her any promises?
I needed to get a grip and stop overreacting. Stop assuming betrayal.

Tom Albright crossed the walkway from our pits and greeted everyone.

“How're the cars running, Tom?” Tug asked.

“The two we have left are running well. How's everything on the Series level?”

I easily read the expressions that flashed over Tug's face. He started to respond with enthusiasm, remembered Stuart's accident, Ian's death, and his audience, then reconsidered his level of exuberance. He belatedly struck a balance between confidence and regret. “We're getting everything taken care of.”

A little more poker face, and he might be a worthy successor to Stuart.

The man I thought was Richard Arena exited his pit space and looked at our group. He strode quickly in our direction, calling Tug's name from some paces away.

Tug turned around. “Richard, what can I do for you?”

Arena reached us and glanced around, greeting Elizabeth and studying me for a long moment. I pegged him as mid-forties, tall and slender, but muscled. He had pale, pock-marked skin, short brown hair, and brown eyes. Up close I could see he exuded confidence and power, mostly via the expression on his face that suggested he was prepared for the rest of the world to disgust or disappoint him. Arrogance of that sort annoyed me.

I held his gaze until he stepped forward, offering his hand. “Richard Arena.”

“Kate Reilly.” I shook, making sure to return a strong grip. “This is Tom Albright, with Sandham Swift, and Holly Wilson, my manager.”

He nodded at them, but didn't offer his hand. He looked speculatively again at me before cracking a very small smile. Then he turned to Tug. “Can you or Elizabeth provide us assistance with something?”

Tug glanced at Elizabeth, who stepped forward instantly. “Anything we can do, Mr. Arena,” she replied.

“Richard, please.”

Tug addressed the rest of us. “Please excuse us. We'll check back with you all later. Kate, we'll be in touch the minute there's anything to tell.”

“My apologies,” Arena said, as he led Tug and Elizabeth away.

“I'm not sure what I think about him.” Tom sounded thoughtful. “Kate, Jack wanted to update you on the car when you've got a minute.”

“Be there shortly,” I promised

Before I followed Tom back to the tent, I turned to Holly. “You never told me the stories about Series people who lost their jobs in the merger. How'd you hear?”

She looked smug. “All fishing.”

“You made that up?”

“You bet. Now we've got someone to talk to.”

“I suppose there's only one former Series employee working at Benchmark Racing?”

“Their new Team Manager, Keith Ingram.”

“He was what in the ALMS?” I asked.

“Something technical regulations. Not quite at the top, but close.”

“Who made the decision to not hire him?”

Holly raised an eyebrow at me. “A committee headed by USCC's VP of Operations.”

“Stuart. Keith Ingram could be mad at him.”

“You'd think Keith would be over it by now.” She shrugged. “One way to find out.”

“You know him?”

“I must know someone at Benchmark. If not, I have two good friends at Carnegie, right next door.”

“People talk to you more than they talk to me. How about you see what you can dig up on Arena, Monica, and anyone else on that team? Plus anyone who's got a problem with Stuart?”

“I'm on it. A gossip tour through the pits.”

“Find out if there's anyone who's mad about the merger in general. And get anything you can about Tug and Elizabeth.” I related what Elizabeth had said to me.

“There's some attitude under all that bland.” She paused. “I'll try to figure out who the ‘other guy' is, the one Tug said hadn't found a job yet. Plus see how mad Nik Reyes and any other drivers who lost out on rides might be.” She frowned. “And I'll find out how Greg's doing.”

I looked at my phone for the time: 11:30. This was turning into the longest day of my life, and I had hours—more than two of them behind the wheel—yet to go. “You going now?”

“Seems like a good time. You're not in for a while?”

I shook my head. “Colby for a triple, then me.”

The phone buzzed in my hand, a text message from Zeke. I held it so Holly could see also.

“Shouldn't he be asleep?” She asked.

“You'd think.”

We both read his words.

I remembered something I'd heard right after the Feds came calling for Arena early last year. It was questions about where the team's previous team computer/media guy had gone. Someone said the Feds wanted to talk to him and even asked people from other teams if they'd seen or heard from him, but no one in the paddock knew where he'd gone. Speculation ran wild Arena had gotten rid of a witness to stuff Arena wanted kept quiet. That's all rumor and my bad memory, but FYI.

Holly and I looked at each other, eyes wide.

I found my voice first. “Are you
kidding
me?”

Chapter Twenty-seven

11:32 P.M. | 14:38 HOURS REMAINING

The phone buzzed in my hand again, and another message appeared from Zeke:

Got a note from a media friend who said, Feds aside (Arena only questioned, remember), the closest Arena has ever been linked to illegal activity was his brother's doing. Brother (Julio) killed someone—details unknown—in retaliation. Arena not involved. Brother disappeared before he could be arrested, out of the country, never heard from again. Arena questioned, not charged. Otherwise, Arena's clean. Lots suspected, never any real evidence.

Another buzz.
Same pal knows about Calhoun. Word is he's a cowboy. Totally unorthodox, hardly ever plays by the rules, but gets results. Also brilliant. Watch your back.

I looked at Holly. “Did I tell Calhoun he couldn't quote me in his article?”

She shook her head.

I typed a quick message to the reporter:
I'm off the record. Don't quote me unless you ask first.

The phone vibrated in my hand five seconds later, Calhoun this time.
Can I call you an “unnamed source in the paddock?”

I messaged back my agreement, then added,
Explain again why Arena would hurt Stuart if YOU are writing an article?

The response:
I'm not entirely sure. Best I can figure is Stuart might have given me information on the team—financials? Supplier companies? But I know there's something to find, given the reaction.

“Unethical behavior doesn't sound like Stuart,” Holly noted.

“But it does sound like a cowboy who doesn't always play by the rules. I don't like how it takes someone being hurt to prove his point.”

A new message:
Thanks for the names you sent. Anything else for me?

My brain was full, and the image of Stuart getting hit started playing in my head. I offered the phone to Holly. “Can you update him? And maybe send Detective Latham screenshots of what Calhoun says?”

“Sure. You go chat with Jack. Drink more water.”

I climbed up next to Jack on the command center, nodding a hello to Bruce on his other side. Jack filled me in on the car per Mike's reports—the important detail was no sustained damage from the two cut tires. Colby was about to get in for her three stints of approximately an hour each.

“We'll need to do the brake job in the next couple hours,” Jack went on. “They're wearing like we thought they would—rears will go the distance, fronts will be good for fifteen or sixteen hours. Since we're in the zone now, we'll change the fronts when we get a good, long caution. Could be on your watch.”

“No problem.”

He studied me. “You look tired. Did you rest?”

“Too much going on. I'm not physically tired. It's the mental part—Stuart, Ian. When I get in and focus on the car, I'll be fine.”

“Reilly, if you're not in shape to be in that car, say so.”

I smiled. “No heroics. I'm good.”

He grunted and settled the radio headset back on the ear nearest me. I took that as agreement and dismissal.

I parked myself in front of the monitors with a bottle of water as a Ferrari slipped past Mike on the back straight. A quick check of the timing and scoring chart told me the Ferrari was nine laps down, not fighting for position. Mike was holding onto seventh place, one lap down to the leaders. Still time to climb back up to the pointy end of the order.

Five minutes later, Holly joined me and returned my phone. “Read the messages when you want to refresh your memory.” She lowered her voice. “Calhoun mentioned looking at who's next door—he asked for photos, if we can swing it—but also where that team is interacting with people. Other pits, the paddock, motorhome area, or wherever. I'll keep an eye out.”

As a best friend, Holly was worth her weight in gold. “Thank you. Listen, go sleep if you need to. Just because I can't doesn't mean you have to stay awake.

“I've been storing up rest for the three months of off-season. I'm doing fine. Text if you need me.”

She headed out in search of information, and I returned to the television screens with relief. I followed Mike from monitor to monitor for four or five laps, watching to see if he'd modified his line and searching for evidence of changes to the track itself. The dirt and debris in the Bus Stop was a given. New, but not unexpected, was the grass on the outside of Turn 3 being torn up, which also contributed to debris off-line.

After a while I scrolled through the messages Holly had sent to Calhoun, telling him who we'd seen where and who my father reported being with the team. She'd also forwarded Zeke's information about Arena's brother.

I thought for a minute about what I knew and didn't know, then typed a message to Calhoun myself.
Tell me something about your article. So far you say he's bad and rumors here say he's pushy. Why should we believe you? Why should we do all this for you?

I was surprised by the quick response.

Fair enough,
he wrote.
Bottom line is Arena's laundering money, and I can almost prove it. I know for sure he's made a career and a fortune out of preying on the already downtrodden in our society. Deliberately targeting poor decision-makers and profiting from their actions. Not crimes, but not nice.

One arm of his business enterprise is Laundromats: some with machines known to break often, driving business to the associated dry cleaning or laundry service. Some with exorbitantly priced coffee shops or salons attached to sell services while you wait. Some with pawn shops attached.

Another arm is home security companies with a twist. His sales team tends to show up in neighborhoods where there's been a rash of burglaries a couple months prior. They make sales capitalizing on residents' fears. I don't have solid proof, but circumstantial evidence suggests he's behind the burglaries in the first place. And his security systems suck.

The idea of crossing Richard Arena was less appealing now. I texted back:
Is he dangerous? I heard something about a missing witness.

He wrote:
Funny thing, he isn't personally a violent guy. He's even mocked for being afraid to get dirty. Won't carry a gun. But he's got scary friends, and he condones violence on occasion.

I guess his brother got the violent gene?
I returned.

Calhoun didn't reply for so long, I thought he'd shut down. Then a reply:
I'm an idiot. It was Arena's brother who tried to run me off the road on the drive home last night. I saw him in Daytona Beach and didn't realize it—though he must have recognized me. But that won't be enough to stop me from exposing his brother as a vulture picking over the bones of human misfortune.

“A little overblown for your article,” I muttered, typing a response:
Focus, Calhoun. How would Julio recognize you? And why would he go after Stuart?

Reply:
I interviewed him face-to-face before his trial, story went national. Stuart? Julio thinks Stuart knows who he is also or Julio wanted to stop Stuart giving me information on Richard. Or thought Stuart's accident would stop me. Pick one, they all work.
A pause, then a follow-up:
Do you trust me now, Kate?

I checked the monitors again. Mike was reeling off the last couple laps of his third stint, and the pit crew was ready next to the wall for an imminent stop. I went back to the messages, telling myself it was stupid to feel guilty about doubting this guy I didn't even know.

I typed back:
I trust you more. But this is hard for me. Stuart's in surgery, and some guy I've never met shows up on his phone claiming all kinds of out-there stuff. It's a lot to take in.

Understood,
he typed back.
Sorry about your team driver also.

I didn't reply, but lifted my head to the monitors as I blinked back a sudden welling of tears for Ian.

The phone buzzed again.

I'm not trying to tell you who to trust—

“The hell you're not,” I muttered, reading his words.

—but be careful with Stuart's subordinates, Tug and Elizabeth. No evidence, a gut feeling. Something odd there.

Agreed,
I returned.
Only Holly and the cops know about our conversation.
Not exactly true, since Zeke, my father, and Gramps knew there was a conversation happening, but no one else knew the details. I didn't feel like thumb-typing the full explanation.

Another buzz, this time a message from Detective Latham asking if I had any new information via the reporter. I checked the time, grabbed a radio and headset, and told Latham to meet me in the Fan Zone near the stage in twenty minutes. I had a pilgrimage to make first.