Avoidable Contact (24 page)

Chapter Forty-six

10:15 A.M. | 3:55 HOURS REMAINING

After I fought down my alarm, I sent a message to Detective Latham asking if he'd looked into Raul Salas at all. If Raul could be Julio Arena.

I crossed back into our pits to pour myself some coffee and watch the action on the monitor. Cup in hand, I watched Colby take the car around the track. I also let my mind drift over the new information.

I wasn't going to touch Calhoun's evidence of Richard Arena's involvement in money laundering. Maybe it was wrapped up in a motive for hurting Stuart and killing Calhoun—but I'd leave that one to the cops. Or maybe the Feds. At least to Calhoun's editor to run the story.

I couldn't say I was surprised by the information from Joe Smith and Jason Carnegie, that money ruled the world in the Arena tent—witness my grasping, greedy cousins' attempts to throw it around to bribe spotters.
The Arena team and that part of my father's family are a match made in heaven.
I
was
surprised Arena didn't have the imagination to understand money alone couldn't solve racing problems. That would ultimately limit his team's success.

But none of that knowledge brought me closer to figuring out who'd run Stuart down. Or who killed Calhoun—because I assumed the two were connected. I pulled out my phone and sent that question to Latham.

Our conversation at Redemption Racing confirmed Arena was everything I didn't like about the racing world: money-grubbing, arrogant, and focused on winning. We all wanted to win, but for most of us, the fun was in
racing
, not only winning. If it was only about the dollars and the trophies, you missed something. Joe Smith got that, too, which impressed me.

I wonder if we'll ever know who he really is. It seems like he comes from some serious money, but doesn't want to use much of it. Wants to earn his way, instead.
I could respect that.

“Kate?”

I looked up at my father. My heart leapt into my throat, and I led him over to the pair of plastic chairs at the quiet side of the tent.

He spoke before I could gather my thoughts. “What's wrong? How can I help?”

“I'm not sure there's anything you can do. But I felt like you should know….” I sighed. “I'm no good at this.”

“At what?”

I waved my hand around. “This family stuff. Do you keep quiet when people are being assholes? Do you tell someone about it? Whose feelings am I trying to save? I guess it's yours, not theirs—”

“Kate, tell me whatever it is.”

“Billy and Holden. And your brother.”

He sat back, either relaxed or resigned. “Now what?”

“The boys were apparently up on the spotter's stand in the early hours of the morning, trying to bribe spotters from other teams to sabotage their cars.”

He didn't speak, only rubbed a hand over his eyes. I went on. “No one knows their names, but someone up there saw the Arena team name on a badge. And there can't be too many pairs of young, wealthy, arrogant cousins associated with that team.”

“Likely not. Thank you, I—”

“There's more. They're trying to scare me away from you and your family. Holden's made comments about always watching me. Most recently, they made threats about staying away and not trying for any Reilly money.”

In spite of my father's aghast expression, I added, “Then again, I didn't know there ever
was
Reilly money, which is a conversation I'll have with my grandparents sometime soon.”

“I'm finding this hard to believe.” He waved a hand as I bristled. “Bad choice of words. I believe you. I'm simply astonished by them.” He cleared his throat. “When did this begin?”

“It's how they've always been, since I met them. Back at Petit.”

He sat forward. “They made threats then?”

“Then, now.” I shrugged. “It's how they are. I couldn't figure out why, until they said something last night. They seem to think I'd take sponsorship money they or your brother would otherwise get.”

He blew out a breath and sat up straight. “Let's get this straight. They've been acting aggressively and threatening you for three months, and you haven't said anything to me?”

“I haven't seen them between Petit Le Mans and now. At first it was silly squabbling, schoolyard kid stuff. I could handle it.”

“It has changed?”

“The stuff with the spotters and the intentional physical intimidation—” I saw anger flash over his face. “Blocking the walkway, so we had to talk to them, that's all.” I paused.
He really wouldn't like the story about his brother.
“They didn't touch us or threaten to. But it got to be too much. I felt like I was covering up for them, which I have no interest in doing.”

“Good. They're also trying to bribe other teams' crew to sabotage cars?”

“That's what I heard, from my spotter and from another team whose spotter was also involved. It was around three in the morning. I've also seen them in close conversation with Tug Brehan and Monica Frank—the kind of discussions that look like plotting or scheming.”

He shook his head. “You asked why they might be doing this. I know of a possible explanation, but frankly, theirs is not a reasonable response to the situation.”

I'd never thought Billy and Holden to be much troubled by reason, but I kept my mouth shut.

He went on. “I need to request you keep this information to yourself—it's probably confidential board information I shouldn't be sharing, but it's clearly impacting you.”

“Of course.”

“It's true Edward's racing is sponsored by the bank—‘sponsored' is the polite word,” my father explained. “‘Primarily funded' is more accurate. Has been for almost two decades now. It was his interest in racing that led to the bank sponsoring the American Le Mans Series in the past and now the United SportsCar Championship. And the bank feels it has benefited from its participation in racing. That's not the issue.”

“There's an issue?”

“For some years now, the bank hasn't seen any benefits to its funding of Edward. No return on its investment—due in equal parts to lack of finishes, exorbitant costs for equipment, and unfavorable mentions on-air or in print. Edward was given funds for this race with the option for more if he finished fifth or better and generated good publicity or mentions. I expect that's what's behind his…determination, as well as Billy and Holden's efforts.”

“Does Holden race also?”

“He and Billy both, in lower ranks so far. They also receive bank sponsorship, but not as much as Edward.”

“Maybe they think if your brother loses sponsorship, they'll have less chance of getting more in the future?”

“That's probably an accurate deduction.” His smile was bleak. “Neither Billy nor Holden has proven to be a wise investment so far, which, while not involving the bank's money, is common knowledge.”

“Maybe Billy and Holden feel challenged or intimidated by me, because I'm a better driver, with other, bigger sponsorships. Not because I'm going to take away the bank's money.”

My father shifted in his chair and glanced away.

“James.” I made him look at me. “I'm not looking for more sponsorship.”

“I realize. But it hasn't escaped the board's notice there is a Reilly in racing who's quite good. Who has considerably more charisma than the other family representatives involved in the sport.” He frowned. “It was mentioned to Edward.”

My jaw dropped. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“You misunderstand.” He shook his head. “It wasn't me, but another board member who came out with it during one contentious meeting. I couldn't stop it.”

“No wonder they all act like they hate me. They think I'm going to take away their meal ticket.” I thought for a moment. “Now the spotter thing makes sense.”

“How so?”

“The other spotters they tried to bribe were cars in GT Daytona, the class your brother competes in. I assume the point was hindering other cars so your brother might advance to fifth place. But I drive in GT Le Mans, so trying to bribe my spotter wouldn't help.”

“Except by making you look bad to the bank's board,” James concluded. “It seems I will be having a few words with my nephews. And my brother.”

“There's one more thing.” I took a deep breath. “About your brother.”

“What did Edward do?” His knuckles were white where they gripped the arms of the chair.

I started with the easy stuff. “Jack went over to the Arena tent to make nice, after the incident with Colby. I followed him. Your brother got in Jack's face, and Jack told him to grow up, which made me laugh. Your brother saw me laughing and charged over to get in my face. I walked away.”

My stomach jumped around, and I drew another deep breath. “That's when he grabbed my arm and called me a ‘conniving, interfering whore.'”

I finished the rest in a whisper. “Like my mother.”

Chapter Forty-seven

10:25 A.M. | 3:45 HOURS REMAINING

My father froze. Didn't blink, didn't seem to breathe. Nothing moved except the blood that drained from his face. He looked older and madder at the end of thirty seconds than I'd ever seen him.

“Edward said that?” I could barely hear his words through his clenched jaw.

I nodded.

“He touched you in anger? Did he hurt you?”

I shrugged. “I hurt him more. I bent his thumb back to make him let go. The guy over there, Ryan, got hold of your brother so he didn't come after me.”

My father stood, his movements small and controlled. I had the sense of him drawing everything in, harnessing rage. I didn't much care what he did to his brother, but I hadn't meant to hurt my father.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He gave a single nod. “I'm sorry you had to hear that, Kate. It's untrue, and he had no right to spill his bile in your ears. We…I'd like to talk with you about your mother someday soon. But this is the wrong time.”

I agreed with him. This conversation had been enough for the moment.

“Is there anything else I need to be made aware of, Kate?”

“Not unless you know anything about Stuart favoring bigger, richer teams over small ones.”

He'd been eyeing the exit, clearly distracted by thoughts of his brother, but he turned to me sharply. “But he doesn't. He's very supportive of the smaller, privateer, single-car teams. Feels they're the heart of the Series and sportscar racing.”

“The rumor going around says otherwise.”

“I'm astonished and dismayed, once again.” He came up with a wry smile. “This conversation hasn't been very uplifting, has it?”

I laughed. “Not so much.”

“Regardless, thank you for informing me about all of this. I plan to…address some of the issues.”

I didn't know whether to apologize or thank him.

Before he turned away, he waved a finger in the air. “Now I remember Stuart mentioning a concern about someone in his office taking that exact approach. He spoke of needing to educate an associate on that point. But I don't know who it was.”

“I think it's Tug, but I haven't traced the rumor back to prove it.”

“I'll see if I can do so. Be careful. And thank you. I'll be in touch.”

I looked after him and wondered what he was going to do. I didn't envy him the complication of those particular family members.

Speaking of family members, I remembered Lara wanting to talk to me and her garbled message.
What had she said?
Something about the guy from the car, something wrong, nothing wrong, no brakes, no nothing.
What the hell did that mean?

Holly tapped me on the shoulder as she dashed past and hopped up onto the pit cart. I followed her and took the proffered single earbud, as she clicked the record button. I had to lean close to the display to block out the glare and see the video feed of two men, from shoulder to knees. Holly breathed into my ear: “Arena and Grant.”

I looked at her briefly, my eyebrows raised. We were lucky there weren't any cars on the front straight, so we could hear them clearly.

I heard Arena's voice in my ear: “That's not how this team does things. We race fair.”

“Fair isn't getting me what I need, Arena,” blustered Ed Grant. I could hear his voice through the recording and also faintly through the canvas wall to my right.

“Not my problem,” Arena returned. His voice was icy and calm.

Grant again: “Your other team doesn't have a problem with pushing things, making things happen.”

“There is no other team. If you want to work with a different team, I suggest you make those arrangements after this race.”

“Right.” Grant drawled the word, sounding more arrogant than usual. A car went down pit lane, and we missed whatever he said next.

“Pardon me.” I froze at the sound of a new voice I recognized.

“James, what can I do for you?” Arena asked.

“I need a moment with my brother, if you don't mind,” my father responded.

“Certainly.” We saw Arena's firesuit exit through the opening into the Arena tent.

My heart pounded.
Would Grant know I'd said something? Would he be more angry and come after me?

My speculations were cut off by the sound of flesh meeting flesh and a body falling to the ground.

My father stood over his brother and spat, “Don't you ever speak to her again or bring up her mother to anyone. You have no idea what I can do to you, so leave my daughter alone. And call off your son and his cousin, before they get arrested or thrown out of the Series.” He stalked away, shaking his hand.

Holly clicked the button to stop recording. She turned to me, her mouth a perfect “O.”

“I decided to stop keeping things from him.”

“I figured that much.”

“It's not how I expected him to react. I probably shouldn't feel good about it.”

“But you do.”

I chuckled, then got serious. “As long as Ed doesn't come after me.”

“Let's hope he's not that crazy.”

We stopped talking as the Sandham Swift crew stood, stretched, and began to prepare for the next pit stop. One more stint for Colby, then my turn.

Someone tapped me on the back, and I turned to see Scott Brooklyn.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

I climbed over Holly and led Scott out to the walkway. “You got my message.”

“You really have a tip for me?” He grinned.

“It's people who really, really deserve to be outed. Maybe you've heard about it already? The stuff up on the spotter's stand overnight?”

He shook his head, and I smiled. “This is one I owe you.” I told him every detail I'd heard about my cousins' failed attempts at bribery. Scott went from interested to surprised to downright gleeful. He thumb-typed notes into his phone as fast as possible.

He caught the oddity right away. “Why go after cars in different classes?”

“No idea. Maybe my spotter wasn't telling a first-hand story after all. I mean, you won't use my team name anyway, right? You'd better not.”
No way am I letting Racing's Ringer in on my sordid family drama.

“Nothing will connect to you as the source, Scout's honor.”

I eyed him. “Were you actually a Boy Scout?”

He nodded, still typing. “This is great. It'll even get the eyewitness icon.”

My favorite, eyeballs-in-a-racecar.
“Glad I could give you something good.”

He stopped typing. “One good turn deserves another. I followed up on some of your earlier questions.” He held up his index finger. “Keith Ingram. Chatted with him before an on-camera. Asked how he was doing, if he still was mad at the Series or any Series representatives, and he said no.”

“Isn't that an about-face?”

“I thought so, too, but his body language was relaxed and happy. He said he'd finally realized this morning, talking the drivers through the dawn and pushing the team to execute on their pit stops, how much more fun it was to compete with a team than being on the outside observing. He also said he's making more money.” Scott shrugged. “Seems like he means it.”

“Interesting.”

He held up a second finger to go with the first. “Tug Brehan. Seems to be focusing his energies on two locations this race weekend: the Arena tent and the Benchmark tent—but the reason for the latter is trying to chase that cute little intern they've got down there this weekend. Lara, I think her name is?”

I stopped breathing.