Authors: Tammy Kaehler
Red Flags
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by Tammy Kaehler
First E-book Edition 2016
ISBN: 9781464205323 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
Contents
To my father, Roger, for a lifetime of patience,
support, goofiness, sports, and love.
It's always a challenge to write about a real racing series, real cars, and real tracks, especially when the names, landscape, and cars change. I do my best to make all of the detailsâespecially the technical and racing informationâas accurate as possible, but sometimes I generalize, exaggerate, and outright make stuff up. I hope readers and race fans will forgive my liberties as the line between reality and make-believe blurs.
I owe great thanks to my technical experts in a variety of fields who provided me information, insight, and encouragement: Allison Altzman, Connie Anderson, Mario Andretti, Beaux Barfield, Meesh Beer, Andrew Davis, Doug Fehan, Carolyn Meier, Martin Plowman, Kimberly van Groos, and Steve Wittich. Three people went above and beyond the call of duty to help Kate fly in an IndyCar, namely Barbara Kreisel, Mary Lascuola, and IndyCar racing driver Pippa Mann, who inspires me every day with her single-minded pursuit of her dreams (at 223+ miles per hour!).
Thank you to real-life cancer warriors and their friends for letting me use your names: Debbie Mariol and Scott James, Erin Charlton and Janel Jernigan, Tara Raffield and Tina Whittle, and Riley Warren and Deb Arora. Thanks also to Nikki and Jimmy Gray, Jenny Carless and Tristan Rhys, Tommy Kendall, and Christine Syfert for your charitable donations and/or loan of your names.
Thanks to my beta readers Christine Harvey and Bill Zahren, as well as to my alpha reader, brainstorming partner, lunch buddy, and tiara table co-host, Rochelle Staab. You all provided much-needed feedback, sanity, and perspective. To my agent, Lucienne Diver of the Knight Agency, thank you for early reads, support, and remaining Kate's champion. To the whole team at Poisoned Pen PressâDiane, Beth, Suzan, Pete, Tiffany, and Robâand in particular my editors extraordinaire, Barbara Peters and Annette Rogers, thank you for answers, guidance, and the wonderful feeling that I'm part of a family.
Last but not least, thanks to my many families for unqualified support and encouragement. Gail, An, Roger, Aggie, Desiree, Vicente, Patsy, Randy, Linda, Jerry, Jill, and Jason, your pride and enthusiasm help keep me going. But no one keeps me going more than Chet, who gives me kudos, sympathy, space, and kicks in the behind precisely as needed. I'm grateful to you every day for our life together.
I stared down at the man's face and tried to care that he was dead. I tried to ignore the bloody dent in his head and focused instead on his relaxed features, which lacked the cunning and malice they'd worn in life.
“Do you recognize this man, Ms. Reilly?” I blinked as the Long Beach police detective prompted me for the second time.
“Billy Reilly-Stinson. William.” I paused. “He's my cousin.”
“My condolences for your loss.”
“I didn't know him at all.” I looked at the cop. “I only met him two years ago, and he made it clear he didn't want me in the family.” I glanced at Billy again, seeing the clumpy, oatmeal-like substance in the blood on his shoulder. My stomach lurched.
Brain matter.
I turned away and breathed deeply.
The detective gestured across the parking garage toward the stairs I'd descended with him five minutes prior. I'd been a few hundred yards away in the temporary paddock for the Grand Prix of Long Beach Media Day, when he'd called asking for my help with something. His request seemed benign at the time.
He walked me around the corner of a half-wall so I couldn't see Billy's body, which settled my stomach, but not my emotions. This was my third body in as many years, and I didn't like seeing anyone dead. I felt sorry for Billy and his familyâmy father's familyâeven if I had a hard time convincing myself I'd miss Billy. Then I felt ashamed I hadn't liked him and worried about my proximity to death. Again.
The detective pulled a notepad and pen out of his sport coat pocket. “What can you tell me about the deceased?”
“You said you're Detective Barnesâ¦you're with homicide?”
He raised an eyebrow. “That's correct. Mr. Reilly-Stinson didn't do that to himself. We're looking for another party.”
I really didn't expect my ten-day trip to California to start with murder.
I studied Barnes: stocky, bowlegged, of mixed Asian and Caucasian heritage. His face was comfortably lined, and his eyes shone with intelligence. I hoped he was smart and fair. I'd gone down the suspect road before, and I wasn't in the mood.
“Ms. Reilly? What do you know about him?”
“It's Kate.” I stuck my hands in the back pockets of my jeans. “We were acquainted. We had no reason to communicate or be friends. Neither of us wanted to. We rarely saw each other.” I considered. “I haven't run into him in more than a year. And I've never seen him alone. He's usually with his cousin, Holden Sherain.”
“Is Mr. Sherain here?”
“Not that I've noticed.” I bit my tongue on the fact I'd caught sight of Billy that morning and deliberately avoided him.
“Can you tell me your whereabouts today?”
I felt a flash of alarm at his question, even though I'd been through the drill before and knew I had an alibi. “I got to the track at eight to meet the race staff. From nine to twelve, I was in a pace car doing laps for media or I was with the woman I'm coaching for the celebrity race. I had lunch around noon with the other drivers. After that, more hot laps or coaching, from one until you called me. I've been with people all day.”
“Who can verify that?” he asked, then wrote down the five names I gave him.
When a crime scene technician beckoned, Barnes crossed to the landing of the stairs where the tech stood next to a garbage can. A dozen other official types crawled around the half-full parking structure, moving from car to car, shining a flashlight under, around, and between, looking for evidence. Still others stood talking and looking down at Billy's body.
I shivered, not cold, but remembering Billy's bloody head. I wrapped my arms around myself. I supposed I should be mourning Billy's loss of life. I did, in theory. But I hadn't liked the guy, and I wouldn't pretend I'd miss him. I did wonder how the rest of my family would take the news. I wanted to stay out of that.
Barnes shifted, the movement drawing my attention, and I saw what he and the other man were looking at: some kind of pipe or stick and a wallet.
The detective returned to me, looking down at his notebook, and I spoke before he could. “Was that the murder weapon? In the trash can?”
He hesitated. “It could be. We'll have to test it to make sure.”
“And Billy's wallet?”
“Yes, with his identification.”
“How long ago was he killed?”
“Not long. Anything else?”
My big question: “Why did you ask me to identify the body?”
“The only item in the victim's pockets was a marketing card with your name and photoâa âhero card,' someone saidâwith your cell phone number handwritten on it. Any idea why he'd have that?”
To cause me trouble?
“Those cards get handed out by the hundreds at a race weekend. I'm sure there are bunches here for the media today. I have no idea why he'd have one, especially not with my number on it, except we're both associated with Frame Savings.”
“How?”
“My father's family founded the bank more than a hundred years ago. I think Billy works there. They've just come on as one of my major sponsors for racing.”
Barnes took notes. “Can you tell me Mr. Reilly-Stinson's next of kin? Who he was close to? A spouse, significant other? Best friends?”
“All I know is Billy and his cousin, Holden Sherain, were as tight as brothers. Billy's father is Edward Reilly-Stinson. And my father, James Hightower Reilly, is Billy's uncle. I only have contact information for my father, but he'll know more.” With the detective's approval, I called my father, identifying myself and handing my phone to Barnes.
After that, Barnes asked one last question before letting me leave the parking structure. “You and the deceased didn't like each other. What was the problem?”
“Family issues.”
“I'm going to need more.”
I sighed. “I was raised by my mother's family and never met my father or his family until a couple years ago. There's stillâ¦friction with some of his family, including Billy.”
Which wasn't helped by me uncovering his unethical and illegal activities a year ago.
“We were antagonistic when we saw each other occasionally, but I didn't spend time thinking about him. That's why I don't know the family very well. I'm an outsider, and I plan to stay that way.”
He made a note in his book. “If you're both an insider and an outsider, your perspective could be useful. I'll be in touch.”
Fine, just don't make me solve this one.
