Avoidable Contact (23 page)

Chapter Forty-four

9:45 A.M. | 4:25 HOURS REMAINING

“I'd forgotten about the spotter thing,” I said. “I was in the car at the time. Two guys? Around three in the morning?”

“Idiots,” Jason said. “Got up there and started throwing around hints about favors and payoffs for telling drivers the wrong thing. Who thinks that will work?”

Holly smiled. “People who think money talks louder than anything else. Is it for sure they were from Arena's team?”

“Our guys saw an Arena badge when it slipped out of one of the idiots' pockets. Not sure exactly who they are, but one of them called the other ‘cousin.'”

I'm sure of their identities.
I kept my disgust off my face and the information to myself. “Anything going to happen to them?”

Jason shook his head. “No real harm done, because no one took them seriously. I'm not even sure how the Series would handle something like this.” He glanced at the monitors above his pit box again. “Anyway, you guys be careful with that team. Let us know if you need anything—like backup.” He smiled and left us.

“I've got to go prep, myself,” Joe said, offering a hand to both me and Holly.

“Have fun out there,” I said. “And thanks for the info.”

“It goes no further than us,” Holly promised.

I waited until we were out of the Redemption Racing pits before exploding. “I can't believe my loser cousins will get away with their behavior. There's got to be some way—” I turned to Holly. “Our favorite racing blogger should hear about it.”

Her cheek-splitting grin matched mine. “Genius, sugar. I'm on it.”

“I owe him. I'd better tell him.” I spent ten seconds congratulating myself and starting to compose the text message I'd write, when I saw who was traveling up pit lane in our direction. First was Lara Reilly, looking anxious. But I was more concerned about the two men behind her, also headed toward me. Detective Latham from the Daytona PD and Officer Webster from the Speedway looked even more gloomy than when they'd told me about Stuart the day before.

Is Stuart—no, he's all right. Polly or Tug would tell me if he wasn't, not the detectives. What else is wrong?

“Kate, do you have a minute?”

Lara stopped in front of me, a little breathless.

I jerked my eyes from the still-advancing detectives to Lara. “I don't think so.” Her face fell, and I remembered how I'd treated her the last time. “I'm sorry. I'm not trying to avoid you. I swear.”
Of course, that's what I'd tell her, even if I were.
“I've got to talk to these guys, and then get to my pits. Can I find you after my stint?”

She turned and saw the cops standing three paces away, waiting for me. She got more nervous. “That's fine. I hope you're not in trouble or anything. I don't even know if what I wanted to tell you is important—maybe it's not, so listen, don't worry about it. It's just—talking to the guy from the car, and something should be wrong but nothing really was, you know? No brakes, no nothing.” She stopped abruptly. “I'm sorry. It's probably nothing. I'll find you later.” She took off up pit lane.

I looked a question at Holly.

“No idea either,” she responded.

I shook my head, squared my shoulders, and approached the officers.

“Are you going back to your pits?” Latham asked.

At my nod, he stood to the side and gestured. “Let's get you both down there.” He and Webster fell in behind us as we made our way past three prototype pit spaces and then the Arena Motorsports team. It felt like we were being trailed by bodyguards.

We arrived at Sandham Swift, where the crew was cleaning up after the stop to change Mike to Colby. I gestured the officers to seats or coffee. “Give me a second to check in, then we can talk.” I let Jack and Bruce know I was there and patted a sweaty Mike on the back. Then I returned to the cops, ready for whatever questions they had about interactions with the reporter.

I dug my phone out of my pocket as I approached them. “I haven't gotten anything else from Calhoun since that email. He hasn't responded to our last texts.”

Webster nudged us to the side of the tent, farther away from the rest of the team.

Latham frowned. “You're not going to hear anything else.”

I didn't understand. “Since he's done with the article, you mean? Did you guys get to him and arrest him? Confiscate Stuart's phone?”

Latham shook his head. Beside me, Holly sucked in a gasp of air.

I started to feel a heaviness in my chest and shoulders.

Latham spoke. “Calhoun's dead.”

I heard Holly muttering, “Shit, shit, shit.”

I agreed with her and wiped my eyes. I wasn't sure why I was crying, since I didn't actually know the man. “What happened?”

“Bludgeoned with a regular ol' tire iron,” Webster told us. “Over in the infield parking by NASCAR 3, other side of one of the bathroom buildings. ‘Round dawn.”

“You're sure it's—” Latham's nod cut off Holly's question.

I shuddered.
While I was sleeping a few hundred yards away, Calhoun was killed.
“No wonder we had no more messages from him.”

“About that,” Latham began. “What's the last thing you got from him? Can we see?”

I handed over my phone and tried to process Calhoun's death—his murder—while they copied the information down in a notebook and took screenshots. I felt disconnected, unnerved by the news. Calhoun was a cipher. He'd only existed for me via text message—yet he'd been a real person, killed deliberately.

I didn't know how to mourn him. If I should.
Too much injury, death, and grief this weekend. It's all too much.
I wanted the race over. I wanted to get the hell out of Daytona Beach.

Holly broke the silence. “What was he doing at the track? He was the one wanting to stay away.”

“He turned in his article overnight and sent it to me, also. Said he was coming to the track to see the cops and meet me,” I told her. I looked to the cops. “Shouldn't you have Stuart's phone? I'm sure Calhoun would have kept it with him.”

They exchanged a glance, and Latham answered. “We're trying to determine why he was here and why he was in that parking area, but we don't know. I was hoping we might find a clue in your interactions with him.” He sighed. “We didn't find Mr. Telarday's phone with Calhoun. Nor was it in the car we've identified as his. We've got to assume his killer has that phone and a record of your conversations with him.”

I gasped for breath. Some faceless, heartless creep had run down my boyfriend, killed Calhoun, and now knew I'd been trying to identify him. I shivered. I didn't know who to guard against.

“You need to be very careful now, Ms. Reilly,” Webster said. “Don't go anywhere alone.” He looked at Holly. “You either. Get someone else to go with you if it's only the two of you.”

“What if someone tries to get to Stuart?” I asked.

“We've got an officer at the hospital,” Latham assured me. “And before you ask, we're looking into the team Calhoun was focused on. Tell us if you have any information we can use. And be careful.” With a final nod, he and Webster left the pits. Holly and I sat down in the nearest chairs.

“Wow,” she finally said.

“No kidding.” My thoughts were an incoherent jumble of everything I'd learned in the last thirty minutes.
When in doubt, focus on the car.
I stood to watch Colby on the monitors, and I asked Tom how the 29 car was doing.

“They had a close encounter with an over-excited prototype driver. It had to be towed back to the garage—heavy rear end damage. But both crews pitched in, changed out the left-rear suspension, and got bodywork replaced or taped down. Took about twenty minutes off-track, so we're down something like a dozen laps.”

“At least they're still running.”

“Right, not like the thirteen cars that have parked and closed up shop so far.”

With just over four hours to go until we saw the checkers, the rising tension was palpable up and down pit lane. The nerves I felt about a murderer on the loose were a bonus.

Chapter Forty-five

10:05 A.M. | 4:05 HOURS REMAINING

Holly nudged my side. “Videos,” she mouthed, and waved to me to follow her to the unused pit box.

She handed me a pair of earbuds as she opened a folder on the laptop and double-clicked one of two video files. I plugged the earbuds in and tried to understand what I heard and saw. The video was only the vague outline of three pairs of shoes next to the metal structure of a tire rack. The audio was more interesting—Tug and two other male voices, one of which was completely unintelligible. But the third was familiar. On the second time through the recording, I identified my cousin Billy. That made the third one likely to be Holden.

Unfortunately, I couldn't make out much of what they said. Tug asked what he could do to help them, Holden said something short, and Billy possibly elaborated with, “We want to be sure there are no…make sure we have strategies in place to prevent that.”

Tug: “I've already gone way beyond—I'm not sure what more I can do. But you know I'm happy to help you.”

Billy: “So you understand the situation and are ready to step in, should it be necessary.…disastrous for all of us…word might get out you weren't where you were supposed to be.”

A car went down pit lane on the tape, drowning out everything but one last statement from Billy: “We'll check in with you later and let you know what we need.”

Where was Tug supposed to be? And when? Was he outside the track running Stuart down? Not according to Ryan, unless he'd lied to me.
I shook myself.
Billy's statement could mean anything. It could be completely innocuous—though with Billy and Holden involved, “innocuous” was unlikely.
Either way, I needed to keep an eye on Tug's interactions with them and anyone next door.

I pulled an earbud out of one ear. “I'm not sure what that told me.”

“Seems like how to make sure Grant gets money to keep racing.”

“Does that mean Tug's crooked? If he was offering to help them?”

She shrugged. “Or he could be listening and not planning to help.”

“I'm not sure about that guy. Is he what he pretends to be?”

“He's a tough one to read.”

I shook my head and put the earbud back in, then clicked on the next file. It was a shorter clip, but I could tell immediately who was speaking: Richard Arena and Monica Frank. They'd whispered, but they must have been closer to the microphone, because every word was clear.

Arena: “What are you doing about the situation?”

Monica: “Making sure we're covered for the appropriate time. Making sure no one has any reason to connect us to him.”

Arena, forceful: “That might be hard to do. You're not keeping a low profile with those photos online.”

Monica, unconcerned: “That's nothing. Two consenting adults, who cares? No one knows about
my cousin
. Everything's under control.”

I unclenched my fingers from the headphone cables and forced myself to stay calm.
Was she ensuring they had alibis for the time of Stuart's death? For the time of Calhoun's death? And who's her cousin?

“Two consenting adults,” my eye!
I handed the earphones back to Holly and went out to the pit walkway. I leaned my forehead against the metal of the fence and breathed. Reminded myself Stuart was honorable and logical. Even if he was mad or disappointed in me, he wouldn't have initiated a kiss without severing ties with me first.

I wondered if Monica had an ulterior motive for ending up in those photos with him or if she couldn't resist trying to corrupt the incorruptible.

“The day can't be that bad already.” I turned to see Miles grinning at me. “The car's still doing well.”

I stood up straight and held out a hand to shake. “Nice drive, partner.”

He ignored my hand and hugged me. “Great drive to you, partner. What a fantastic race to be part of.”

I patted his back and stepped away. “You starting to like these endurance races?”

“Yeah, I'm getting the hang of this car and this kind of thing—with all the classes, especially. It's really different than Cup racing.”

“Car's pretty different, anyway. And we're on the twisty stuff, not only lefts.” I elbowed him in the side to let him know I was teasing him about the lack of road courses in NASCAR's season.

“I wish we did more road courses, silly as those Cup cars are on them. I'm sure enjoying this car.”

“It's feeling better?”

“Sure is. When I got in the car for my second stint, right after you this morning, I finally felt like everything had slowed down. Felt like I could really contribute to the team, now that I'm better at driving the car.”

“Shoot, Miles, you were good at driving the car from the beginning. I'm not sure I can stand you getting much better—you'll take my job.”

“Look who's talking, Ms. Fast-Lap of the Race.” He grinned. “Last I heard that was still holding.” He headed into the pit tent with a wave.

I felt pure pleasure for the first time in the whole race.
All the crap going on in the outside world can't stop me from doing what I do best: kicking butt on the racetrack.

Flush with that boost of confidence, when I felt my phone wiggle in my pocket and pulled it out to see a long email from my father, I took a leap. I sent a text message asking if we could talk briefly, because I had something to tell him. I was tired of tiptoeing around him and, by extension, covering up for his family members. He deserved to know what his nephews were up to and what they and his brother had to say to me. I needed to know if he endorsed their attitudes.

The thought of my cousins reminded me to contact SGTV reporter Scott Brooklyn, aka Racing's Ringer. Since I didn't have his cell number, I typed a quick message via the Ringer's site to find me.

Only then did I skim the information my father sent. He'd given me some of the same facts about Arena's background I'd heard from other sources, but from the business world's perspective. The only new tidbit was details about Arena founding a non-profit organization aimed at stopping juvenile recidivism.

It was the first mention of any charitable offering from Arena or his organizations. I wondered if he was trying to help his brother—or his younger self. Richard Arena had been a young parolee and had managed to become a success in the white-collar world. Perhaps he was trying to turn other lives around. I felt grudging respect for him, if that were the case. I had my doubts he was still law-abiding, but he couldn't be all villain if he was trying to keep young people from committing more crimes.

Helping his brother…could he have helped his brother to a new career?
Nik Reyes walked past me, headed for the bottom end of pit lane. My heart skipped a beat.
Could Nik Reyes be Julio Arena? Or was I starting to suspect everyone?

A bigger and more frightening question occurred to me.
Could Raul be Julio Arena? Could I be attracted to a murderer?

Holly must have seen the stricken expression on my face. She scrambled down from the pit cart and crossed to me. I explained my thought process.

“Don't freak out about it, sugar. Let me do a little digging.” She pulled out her phone and started tapping away. “Besides, wouldn't it make more sense to use a non-Latino name? Something no one would think twice about?”

I considered her point, and we turned to each other with the same thought. I said the words aloud. “Something like Joe Smith?”

“You know who else fits age and general appearance?” She looked amused. “Tug Brehan.”

“Talk about hiding in plain sight. I wonder…”

She went back to working her phone while I turned over different possibilities. Then she stopped and held up her phone.

Under the photo of Raul Salas were lines of biographical data. He was two years older than me, and he'd been born in July. In Rosarito, Mexico.