Avoidable Contact (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

11:50 P.M. | 14:20 HOURS REMAINING

It was no time for me to leave the pits, with Mike handing the car over to Colby and my shift on-deck starting. But I took off anyway, commandeering a golf cart and heading toward Vendor Village.

I ignored a traffic guard's shout of protest and zoomed out the top end of the Fan Zone, where open-sided trams loaded people for trips around the track's interior. Two minutes later, I made a purchase from a vendor then hopped back in the cart and backtracked. I managed to squeeze the cart between the row of port-a-potties and the parked trucks and SUVs pointing at the International Horseshoe, Turn 3. I nosed the cart up to the fence and turned off the headlights.

I sat there breathing, swallowing past the lump in my throat, and blinking away the tears. I watched drivers pilot a dozen different cars through the turn in front of me, and I cheered for Colby and Leon as they went by in Sandham Swift Corvettes.

I finally opened the package of kettle corn and ate some, thinking of Ian and our innocent bet from the start of the race. Wishing he was beside me. Celebrating him. Mourning him.
As Gramps would say, Godspeed, my friend. You are missed already.

My phone buzzed with a message from Polly at the hospital. Surgeons were prepping Stuart for the next surgery. She'd tell me when it got underway.

I shed a few tears for Stuart as well as Ian, and I sent all the strength I could spare in the direction of the hospital. Then I pulled myself together and got back to my job.

I left the golf cart at the pits and found both officers at a picnic table in the Fan Zone. They looked tired, but they had notepads ready. Detective Latham scrolled through the texts on my phone. Both he and Webster-the-track-cop wrote everything down. I sat across from them and stared at the pits, wondering where Holly was and what kind of information she was digging up.

When they reached the point in the exchange where Calhoun asked us for photos, Latham spoke for the first time. “No photos. No spy games. Forget it.”

As accompaniment, Webster made a slashing motion across his throat with the fingers of one hand.

“No spy games,” I agreed. “Will you go look for Arena's brother now?”

Latham gave me that impassive look again, which I took to mean “Don't tell us how to do our jobs,” “We're already doing that,” or both. He looked down at the phone. “A new message arrived. He asks, ‘Who is Ed Grant?'”

I made a “gimme” motion with my fingers. When he handed the phone back, I typed and spoke aloud for everyone else's benefit.
Ed Grant is Edward Reilly-Stinson, associated with the official Series bank sponsor.

A return message.
That's the kind of connection I'm looking for.

My spirits sank.

Another message.
Uncle Eddie doesn't have much of a work ethic, and his son and pal Holden spend a lot of money on lost causes, don't they? Ever wonder where they get all that money?

I covered my eyes, not sure why I hated having the connection known. Because my relatives might be crooks, I supposed.

“What? What?” Latham inched forward to see the phone.

I held up a hand, as I typed a short response.
How did you know?

Investigative reporter,
he returned.
Not relevant for my story. Probably.

Please keep that quiet, I typed.

Deal, unless relevant. I'll warn you if so,
he said.
What I'm interested in is how chummy Ed and Arena are. Can you find out?

I'll try,
I told him.
Why do you trust me, anyway?

Gotta trust someone. Checked you out. You're straight as an arrow. Going offline now, more later.

My assistant Holly will have my phone when I'm in the car. You can trust her too,
I typed quickly, ignoring the cops' exasperated questions.

One last message:
I do. Over and out.

I sighed. Latham looked ready to yank the phone from my hand.

“Don't keep this from us,” he growled.

“Relax, detective,” I snapped. “This is personal. Give me a second.” I leaned forward, elbows on knees, and simply breathed.

A minute later, I sat up. “I know you don't blab, but I have to reiterate I don't want this spread around. I really, really don't want it running through the paddock.”

Latham raised an eyebrow. Webster shook his head, his arms folded over his chest.

I read them the full exchange. “Satisfied?”

“Thank you.” Latham held out his hand for the phone and they wrote down the rest of the messages.

I heard Jack talking to Colby on the team radio, checking on the car.

Then I saw Webster start to type something.

“Hey!” I jumped up and snatched the phone from him. “No way. You're not sending anything from my phone. You can tell me if you want me to ask him something. But no one sends messages from me but me.”
Or Holly.

Webster jingled change in his pocket. “Worth a try.”

“Not if you want me to trust you.” I scowled at him.

Latham gave his former partner a small shake of the head. He turned back to me. “Truce and apologies. We won't try to take the phone or type anything, all right? Keep working with us.”

I thought I saw sincerity. I hoped I did, anyway. “Sure, fine.”

“We need to agree on something.” Latham looked stern. “You are not to take photos of or in any other way do surveillance on any team in the race. Is that clear?”

I frowned at him. “I won't do anything stupid.”

“You're not going to do
anything
,” he commanded. “I won't hesitate to post a guard to monitor your behavior if you don't assure me you won't attempt any surveillance. You leave that to us.”

I stood, hands on my hips. “You aren't part of the race world—the racing family. You can't be inconspicuous in the pits like I can. Plus, you can't hold me here, and you won't stop me driving that car.” Some of the fight went out of me. I spoke again, less vehemently. “I don't want to get hurt. We won't do anything dumb.”

Latham stood. “I'll tell you one thing, all right? Whoever did this to your boyfriend, it wasn't Richard Arena or Monica Frank. They were surrounded by people all morning.”

I absorbed that, feeling disappointed, yet unsurprised.

“We've had no luck trying to find Calhoun,” Latham said. “How about you ask him to meet us here at the track in the morning? Would you do that?”

“I don't know why he'd change his mind, but I'll ask. Have you found the car that hit Stuart yet?”

Track-cop Webster looked at Latham, who shrugged. Webster shook his head. “We've got people searching every lot around the track. Nothing yet.”

Latham pointed a finger at me. “Contact us the second you hear anything else.” They walked off toward the garages.

I sent Calhoun the request to meet the cops at the track. Then I headed to the bathroom. When I emerged, Sam was waiting for me. I couldn't avoid him.

“Kate!” He hugged me before I could stop him.

I patted his back, trying to be polite and not shove him away. Trying also to ignore how good it felt to be held and comforted, even by him.

Sam pulled away and moved his hands to cup my face. “Kate.”

Then he kissed me.

I stiffened, not responding. Resisting. And then I gave in. I kissed him back. Enthusiastically. Frantically, perhaps. So glad for a minute to simply feel wanted and desired. He whispered kisses over my face and neck, murmuring my name, telling me he'd missed me. I clutched at him as he kissed me like I was the most beautiful woman on the planet and he was the servant paid to keep her happy.

I felt great. My brain disengaged, and I simply felt—then reality set in.
What the hell am I doing?

I broke away and pushed him back, both of us breathing heavily.

“Kate—”

I stopped him with a hand in the air. Physical attraction had never been a problem between us—clearly still wasn't. But it had always been like this: him as protector and worshiper, me as the idolized and protected. Never as a meeting of equals. Like it was with Stuart.

Oh my God, what about Stuart? What have I done while he's comatose in a hospital bed? Did I do this to get back at him for kissing Monica?

“I'm sorry, Kate, you're—I came over to talk to you for a minute. Please?”

I held up a hand again. “I've got to get back to the pits.”

“Give me a minute.”

I sighed. “Stay over there.”

He squared his shoulders. “I want to apologize to you. For two years ago. I treated you terribly.”

Figured it out, did you?
“All right.”

“I didn't have enough respect for your career. For you. All I could see was my opportunity and my wants, and I didn't take yours into account. I can't tell you how sorry I am.” He stepped closer, took my hand, and looked me in the eye with that Sam Remington laser-like focus. “How much I miss you.”

I felt my eyebrows go up.

“It's clear we're still good together. You enjoyed that kiss, too.” He kept watching me. “Say something, Kate. Tell me I'm an idiot. Tell me you forgive me. Tell me you miss me also.”

Am I stuck in a bad movie here?

He squeezed my hand. “Don't leave me hanging. Tell me I'm not too late.”

I snatched my hand out of his grasp. “Too late for what, Sam? You're
engaged
, remember? Not to mention I've moved on. I'm happy with my life.”

Sam shook his head. “Paula…that's not going so well. And seeing you—kissing you, having you come alive in my arms—makes me realize what I gave up. What I could have had, how much better my life would be with you back in it. You're amazing, and I'm such a fool.” He hung his head.

My skin crawled at the thought I'd ever found his behavior appealing. I crossed my arms over my chest. “You're doing it again.”

He looked hopeful. “Winning you back?”

I burst out laughing, suddenly free of the sexual haze I'd been in. “Not in a million years, champ. You're making it all about yourself again. Nearly every word out of your mouth has been about you and what you want. You haven't asked me what I want, how I am. What my dreams are.”

At his stunned expression, I delivered the final blow. “No, Sam, you need someone who's as all about you as you are. Maybe Paula's that person—I hope so, for both of your sakes. But I'm not.”

I studied the beautiful, talented, and self-absorbed man I'd loved for a time. “Have a happy life, Sam.”

I walked away, rounding the corner into the Fan Zone and immediately running into Paula. That she'd heard our conversation was evident in the fury boiling off her. I swore I saw steam coming out of her ears.

I put my hands up in front of me. “He's all yours.”

“Bitch!” she spat.

I didn't stick around.

Chapter Twenty-nine

12:15 A.M. | 13:55 HOURS REMAINING

I hightailed it back to pit lane and ran into Holly as she exited the CPG tent.

“Sugar, did something light your tail on fire?”

I grabbed her arm and marched her down the walkway—away from Sam's team—making her laugh as I described the scene with Sam and Paula. She sobered as I related my conversations with Calhoun and the cops. “I didn't promise
you
wouldn't take any photos,” I noted.

“I'm sure the detective didn't miss that.”

I felt my phone buzz again and saw a long email from Gramps.

“The way he types, it must have taken him an hour.” I angled the phone so Holly could read the words with me.

Dear Katie,
he wrote.
I talked to two pals of mine from back in the day to see what they knew about Richard Arena. They've both met him—and don't worry, I've sworn them to secrecy and didn't say why I asked.

Holly paused in her reading. “It's not hard for his pals to figure out why he wants to know.”

“Gramps might not have realized he was doing it—but too late now.” I glanced at the pits—no sign of yellow flags—before continuing to read.

They've both worked with Arena a lot doing driving coaching work. Both have nothing but good to say about him.

Holly and I blinked at each other in surprise. I let out a shaky breath. With those few words, Gramps had turned everything I thought—and felt instinctively—inside out. And deprived me of my favorite suspect for attempted murder.

I shook my head and read the rest of Gramps' message.

Sure, he's got some aggressive assistants who're probably paid to keep his life interference-free. They swear he's a friendly guy, once you get past the protective walls around him. He can be direct and sometimes tough…but remember, that's going to be true of any CEO of a large corporation. They're paid too much to waste their time on the little stuff.

Anyway, Katie, the impression I get from my pals is Arena's basically a good man and certainly a good businessman. He apparently loves racing and wants to be accepted as a legitimate part of the racing world. This doesn't sound like what the reporter is telling you. I guess I'd say be careful to stay cordial with anyone who's got a lot of skin in the racing game. Drive well. Hi from Grandmother.

By “skin in the game,” I knew Gramps meant “money in racing.” He'd never wanted me to be a doormat, but he'd drilled into me during my early years at the track that supporters and sponsors could come from anywhere. I'd learned to be calm and considerate in victory or defeat, and more than once I'd driven for a team I'd battled fiercely with the year before. I wonder if he'd think I'd burned bridges with Monica? I didn't care.

Holly finished reading. “That was unexpected.”

“No kidding.”

We watched a crew hustle a prototype's replacement nose down pit lane.

I shook my head. “I can't believe how different Gramps' information is. That guy could be someone completely different than Zeke and Calhoun told us about.”

“We only met Arena briefly. Mostly you've seen Monica and your uncle. She could be one of those over-protective assistants. As for your uncle, you don't choose your customers.”

“Arena's a great guy, but he's surrounded by people who do terrible things? And he's blind to it all? That's hard to believe.”

Holly shrugged. “How do embezzlers succeed? They're trusted by higher-ups. Maybe Richard Arena trusts his minions too much.”

“If that witch and other assistants are who he chooses to surround himself with, maybe it doesn't matter if he's really a nice guy. Charles Manson might have been really nice to someone.”

Holly laughed. “You notice when you like someone, they're tough, and when you don't, they're aggressive?”

“Five people interpret the same event five different ways. People with a stake in Arena being successful in racing—Gramps' pals who want to get paid for consulting work, the Series who wants his money—will see what they want to see.” I felt my face heat. “For that matter, I want to think he's a villain because there's a picture of his assistant kissing my boyfriend. We know someone hurt Stuart. I want a person to focus on, so I can be mad
at
someone, not just mad at the world.”

“I guess we need to keep an open mind about him. Maybe not about her, but about him.”

I took a deep breath. “I can believe I'm wrong about Arena, but I can't trust that Monica woman. Not gonna happen.”

“I'd call you crazy if you could.” Holly patted my shoulder. “Speaking of them, I'm only partway through my rounds, but I have one interesting tidbit.”

She looked both directions before speaking again. “More than one source said they heard Stuart was behind the push for bigger, multi-car teams. That he didn't mind forcing out smaller operations like Western or WiseGuy.”

My jaw dropped. “That's not true.”

“You and I know it.”

“If people really think that…”

“It's possible a lot of people are mad at him. Like Greg.”

“Mad enough to try to kill him?” I almost choked on the words.

“It's the people who've already been squeezed out—who aren't at this race—who'd be the most angry.” She patted my shoulder. “I'll ask about them, too.”

“How do you keep all the details straight? I think you need a raise.”

“Sugar, gossip to me is like breathing—takes no effort or concentration.” She fluttered her fingers and headed back up pit lane.

I made it back to the Sandham Swift pits in time to catch Mike and ask him how the car and track were handling.

He shrugged. “Still nuts with traffic, cars everywhere. Lots of cautions. But it went well. Had some fun.”

“How're track conditions?”

“Loads of dirt in the Bus Stop. People have been bombing over the curbs onto the grass so much there's no green left, only dirt. Plus the few offs there. Really have to watch your footing. The West Horseshoe's gotten a little slick too, though that might have been from someone laying down some fluid. Might be gone by the time you're out there.”

I added his information to my mental image of the track.

“Also, watch for the front swaybar when you get back in,” he added. “Colby likes the suspension softer than you or I do.”

“Good to know.”

“You hanging in there?” He lightly punched my shoulder. “We're all torn up about Ian, but you've got the double-whammy of Stuart also. He doing okay?”

“Holding his own in surgery, last I heard. I've talked to the cops some—they still don't know who did it. I'm glad to have the race to focus on.” I paused, considering the new pangs of guilt layered on top of worry and grief. Anger made up an ever-larger proportion of my emotions.

I shook my head. “I'm getting through. Now go clean up and rest.”

“Shower, meal, sleep. Catch you in the morning.”

I followed him out to the walkway and looked around at the various activities taking place. Farther down pit lane, at the pit-out end of things, one team celebrated a birthday, singing, unboxing a cake, and taking photos with pocket cameras or phones—which gave me an idea.

I swiveled around, thinking about angles to get a view into the Arena tent. I came face-to-face with Monica, the woman who'd kissed my boyfriend last night.