Avoidable Contact (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

8:50 P.M. | 17:20 HOURS REMAINING

We'd heard the constant din of circulating cars from the motorhome—there was no escaping the sound until you were three blocks away from the Speedway. But back in the paddock, we were surrounded by the bustle and the drama of racing, from the noise of a car putt-putting to its garage for a lengthy fix, to the sight of a crew member running to the pits with a forgotten part, the light strapped to his forehead bobbing with every step. I felt more connected to the race—and my world—by being closer to the action.

The loss of Ian and the danger to Stuart were twin weights dragging me down. But surrounded by other teams and the other members of my own team, I remembered what made racing fun. My spirits lightened a fraction.

Inside the team lounge, Tom Albright sat in a chair typing furiously on a laptop computer. He looked up at our entrance. “Good, Kate and Holly. Let me update you.”

I sat in the empty chair next to him, and Holly perched on its wide arm. “You dealing with the media?” I asked.

“Sending out a standard release and responding to a few select outlets.” He eyed us. “You two okay?”

Holly and I both nodded. I wondered how soon we'd get tired of that question.

“Good,” he went on. “We've issued a team statement asking the media to respect our privacy and not intrude on our drivers or crew. That's especially you, Kate. I assume that's fine?”

“I have no desire to speak to the media.”

“SGTV or the track announcers may still interview you in the pits, but they'll restrict questions to the car and race.”

“Sure.” I got up and crossed to the coffeepot to pour myself a small cup. I raised my eyebrows at Holly, and at her nod, poured another. My plan had been to take a short nap after my first stint, since I'd be awake and driving until the wee hours of the morning. But a nap wasn't in the cards now. Caffeine would get me through.

Holly addressed Tom as I added cream to my cup. “Did you hear anything from the crew about damage to the car?”

He clicked something on his computer. “The fire in the 30 car was caused by a fluke, the fuel line coming loose. A one in a thousand thing.” He looked at me. “The mechanics guarantee it's nothing to worry about. Plus they'll double-check the 28 and the 29 cars.”

“Thanks.” I handed Holly her coffee and sat back down.

“Also, one of our guys went to talk to the Benchmark Racing crew,” Tom reported. “They said something broke in the throttle system—it stuck wide open and braking didn't do any good.”

Holly and I absorbed that news in silence. Tom went back to rapid typing. I didn't know if the explanation of mechanical failure seemed wrong, or if I simply wouldn't ever find an explanation acceptable given the result.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out. Another message from “Stuart,” aka, the mystery reporter. I raised my eyebrows at Holly.

“Excuse us, Tom,” Holly said. “We've got to discuss something.”

He flapped a hand in the air without taking his eyes from his screen. We moved to the other side of the small room to sit at the meeting table.

I set the phone down between us so we could both read the messages, as a barrage of loud booms sounded, making us both jump. We looked up at the TV feed to see the fireworks being set off along Lake Lloyd in the Daytona Speedway infield.

Holly checked the time. “Nine o'clock, on the nose.”

We turned back to the text message:
My name is Foster Calhoun. Freelance investigative journalist, mostly big stories for major print papers, but also online media outlets now. Look me up. I'm legit.

Holly typed his name into an Internet browser on her phone.

I asked my first question.
How did you know to contact me?

Stuart raved about you
, came the response.

That surprised me, and I elbowed Holly to look.

“When and how'd he come to be speaking with Stuart?” she asked. I typed those questions.

He'd mentioned you a couple times, especially how clever you were.
Then a second response:
We were college roommates. Hadn't talked in a bunch of years, until recently.

“Stuart reconnecting with an old friend has gone about as well for him as it went for me to reconnect with my old friends last year,” I commented to Holly.

“Which is to say, not so well,” she returned.

“Right.” I focused again and typed,
Why do you think it wasn't an accident?

Holly held her phone out, displaying a page about Foster Calhoun, multiple Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and graduate of the same university Stuart attended. “I guess he's for real,” I muttered.

The text response came back.
I don't think, I KNOW it wasn't an accident. Someone saw Stuart meeting with me last night. Tried to run my car off the road. Then tried to take Stuart out today. Someone from the Arena team.

I texted back:
Did you tell the cops about last night? How do you know it was someone from Arena?

No cops. Looked like the driver wore a purple shirt. Car had a race parking tag hanging from the rearview mirror.

I gasped and typed.
What kind of car? Why haven't you told the police yet?

White Chevy rental, no back plate. Writing story. Now, what can you tell me?

NO,
I typed back.
The cops need to know so they can catch who did this to him!

He replied:
Six other witnesses had cell phones out. Cops have info. I owe it to everyone, especially Stuart now, to publish this story and prove who the villains are in the paddock. Talk to the cops if you want. I'm finishing the story first. Do you have any info for me?

I shook my head, trying to clear it, then typed again.
What do you mean, you were meeting with Stuart?

We had a beer last night at a bar, then we were supposed to meet for coffee across from the track this morning. He was hit walking there. Can you tell me who you've seen in Arena's race paddock? Who their sponsors are?

I turned to Holly. “That's a weird set of ethics. He knows this and hasn't told the police.”

“You want to tell them?” she asked.

“Hell, yes.”

“I'll get them over here.” She tapped on her phone.

I typed a message telling Calhoun the sponsors I knew of on the Arena Motorsports cars and names of any individuals I knew associated with them. It was a short list. I threw in names of supplier representatives also, and told him we'd look around, plus I'd ask other trusted contacts.

That's it?
he replied.

Take it or leave it,
I returned, furious.
I haven't had much time since being in the car for two stints and watching a teammate be killed on track.

I sat there, shaking, until he responded.
Shit, sorry. Didn't know. Send me whatever you can, asap. I'm writing all night. Turning off now.

I wished I could throw my phone across the room without doing damage.

Holly leaned over and read the last couple exchanges. “What a jerk. Latham's right around the corner. I told him to come in here.”

I tried to calm down by watching the race feed. Miles was still in the car, trading second, third, and fourth positions in class back and forth between our car, one of the pro-driven Arena Motorsports Porsches, and the Ferrari I'd trailed earlier.

Latham entered the lounge and joined us at the table. “I thought I told you not to engage, Ms. Reilly?”

“What if he really knows Stuart and really saw what happened?” I paused and finally let go of something that had gnawed at me for a while. “If this wasn't a random attack, if it was someone related to the race, how are you going to investigate once the race is over?”

Latham crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me, stony-faced.

I pressed on. “How are you going to question people when we all pack up and leave? You're on a countdown clock like the race is. You need all the help you can get to figure this out
now.
”

Chapter Seventeen

9:20 P.M. | 16:50 HOURS REMAINING

“I won't deny it'd be easier to get this wrapped up before everyone involved with the race leaves town,” Detective Latham conceded. “But that doesn't mean putting you in danger. One person in critical condition is enough.”

He held out a hand, and I gave him my cell phone, the text messages on screen.

“Foster Calhoun,” read Latham. “I've heard that name before.”

Holly had the information ready. “He's won two Pulitzers in the last decade, for stories on the proliferation of identity theft in the United States and how the Mob's money laundering operations touch all levels of society.”

Latham scrolled up and down a couple times, reading the messages more than once. “You don't know who it
really
is on the other end. He could be lying to you about someone going after him. About all of it.”

“Why would he say it's okay to talk to you if he was lying?” I took the phone back.

He frowned. “I'm going to need to hold on to that.”

I was shaking my head before Detective Latham finished the sentence. “Not a chance. Mine.” I slipped it into the pocket of my firesuit, in case he had grabby intentions.

Holly spoke up from across the table. “You need her to keep talking to him, in case he's for real.”

His frown turned into a scowl. “You've got to keep me informed of every interaction you have with him. Try to get him to talk to us directly.”

“We're here now, aren't we?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “You've got Stuart's phone number, can't you track the cell phone or something? Triangulate the coordinates?”

Latham rolled his eyes. “We're trying to get help with that, but this isn't a TV show. It's not that straightforward.”

“Sorry.” I briefly felt foolish instead of angry.

“We get it a lot.”

I lowered my voice, making sure no one else could hear me. “Will you investigate Arena Motorsports? Question everyone on the team who has a parking pass?”

He didn't react.

“You already are,” I concluded. “Did someone else tell you about the parking tag? Did anyone else get a look at the driver? The reporter says it was a white Chevrolet rental car with no back plate—are you searching for the car?”

“I'll only tell you this much.” Latham looked exasperated. “The report of the driver in question wearing a purple shirt is new—and conflicts with other reports. We'd heard about a parking pass—which only limits the suspects to any race participant with infield parking. Yes, we're searching for the car. We will investigate all allegations, but I'm not prepared to share any other information we may or may not have about the vehicle or driver.”

I snapped my fingers. “That woman who kissed Stuart is part of the Arena team. Maybe you can check her out. She's got to be up to something.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Could Stuart have been cheating on you?”

I winced. “I don't think so.”
He might have been disappointed in me, but he'd break it off with me before turning to someone else.

“Stuart would never do that,” Holly put in. “He's a Southern gentleman enough to be polite, no matter how forward or poor someone else's behavior was.”

“She's part of this suspicious team—” I began.

“Says someone who may or may not really be a reporter,” Latham interjected.

“She's acting aggressive,” I went on. “She keeps giving me dirty looks for no reason.”

Latham looked blank. “In that case, I'll be sure to check her out. Can't have dirty looks.”

“Don't make fun of me.” I dropped my head in my hands, tired of the whole day.

Holly shoved her chair back and stepped around the table to face him. Her fists were balled on her hips. “Don't patronize either one of us. Would you prefer we don't tell you about any of this? Because that was on the table.”

I studied them: the tall, gun-toting detective facing off against a petite, flaming-redhead. I had to go with Holly.

“I apologize, you're right. I was out of line.” He looked chagrined as he rubbed the top of his bald head. “Let me write down the messages—and I'd like screenshots of them also. I won't take your phone. But make sure you tell me about anything else you get—and don't go digging on your own. I'll take you seriously if you let us do the investigating.”

“Deal.” I handed my phone back to him so he could read and make notes. Five minutes and a few more warnings about not getting ourselves into trouble later, he left.

Holly ran her fingers through her short, corkscrew curls. “You gonna listen to him? Leave all the investigating to the po-lice?” She drawled out the final word.

“Are you crazy? I'm going to figure out if this reporter is for real and if he's right. Because I want to know who hurt Stuart—” I faltered, but kept going. “To make sure they get what they deserve.” I eyed her. “You in?”

“Call me Dr. Watson, Sherlock.”

I smiled and followed her out of the lounge into the garage area. She went to check in with the folks in the Western Racing team garage. I aimed for the Tommys: Thomas Kendall, our rock-star gentleman driver, and Tom Albright, our media guy. The two of them—who we'd agreed to call Thomas and Tom to avoid confusion—stood talking in front of the 30 car's closed garage door.

Thomas tossed an arm around my shoulders while Tom finished scribbling in a small notepad.

“You taking off, Thomas?”

“You kidding me?” He shook his head. “I'm part of this team, and I'm here to the end. I'm gonna soak it all in to be ready for next year—plus cheer the rest of you on.”

“What happened today hasn't ruined racing for you?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I won't tell you it's been a great experience. It's also been an expensive one—but I can't consider money when we think about poor Ian.” He paused, and scrunched his nose, looking down the paddock. “I know racing is about taking the ups with the downs. I figure this place owes me some ups after starting with the downs.” He shrugged. “Bottom line, I love racing.”

I smiled at him. “I'm not going to argue with you.”

He chuckled, then looked down the paddock. “
There's
someone I'd like to meet. Guy who made it from sportscars up into NASCAR.”

My stomach lurched as I realized he meant Sam Remington. Tom turned to me. “You know Sam, right?”

I did my best not to grimace. “Sure, I'll introduce you sometime.”
How about not right now?

But there was no avoiding it. Sam was coming our way, a beauty queen tucked under his arm. I took a deep breath.

Sam greeted me and nodded at the two Tommys. “I'm so sorry about Ian. My condolences to all of you.”

Hearing this has to get easier, right?
“Sam, do you know Tom and Thomas? Tom Albright, our team media and logistics guy. And Thomas Kendall, owner of the 30 car.”

Sam shook hands with Tom and then with Thomas. When he gave Thomas a confused look, I added, “You probably know him as Tommy Fantastic.”

“Of course!” Sam gushed. “I'm a fan. So sorry about your race.”

“I'm a fan of yours, too,” Thomas replied. “I hope this will be your year in Cup.”

The woman wrapped around Sam's elbow cleared her throat, and we all turned to her. She was inches taller than Sam and gorgeous—slim, blond, and perfectly proportioned. She was decked out in skintight clothing and wedge heels that made her legs look like they should be insured. I was shocked the men had ignored her this long.

“Sorry,” Sam said. “Tommy—Thomas—and Tom, this is Paula Quinn.”

She smiled, displaying perfect white teeth. “Sam's fiancée. Lovely to meet you.”

I waited a beat, then reached out a hand to her, since no one else was making the introductions. “Hi Paula, I'm Kate Reilly.”

I got a quarter-wattage version of the smile and a handshake with only the tips of her fingers, as if she didn't want to touch me at all. “Of course, Kate.”

She knows about my history with Sam.
I felt better than I had all day.

She saw my smile and smoothed her thick, straight hair over her shoulder with her left hand, flashing her enormous diamond engagement ring. As the three men traded compliments, Paula leaned over to me. Keeping her right hand locked around Sam's arm, she pasted a fake smile on her face and said quietly, so only I could hear, “Keep away from my man, bitch.”