Avoidable Contact (16 page)

Chapter Thirty

12:35 A.M. | 13:35 HOURS REMAINING

My heart leapt into my throat, and I froze.

“Kate! We meet you again!”

Vladimir, Pyotr, and Vinny accompanied Monica. Or she accompanied them, since the Russian brothers were the only ones with a goal.

“Please, to take more photos with us?” One of them asked.

I agreed, then winced as he smacked the other brother on the back of the head.

“Vladimir try to save earlier photos and instead delete.” Pyotr shook his head and hit his brother again.

I smiled. “It's no problem, we'll take more.”

I waved to Tom in our tent and made a photo-taking motion. He appeared a minute later to accept the camera from the brothers. I handed him my phone camera also and told him, in a low voice, to get as much of the pit lane in the background as possible. Vinny stood next to Tom, ready with two cameras of his own. Monica stood to the side, arms crossed over her chest, smirking.

I positioned myself between the brothers with our backs to the Arena pits. They each put an arm around my shoulders, and I rested an arm on each brother's waist—shifting position to avoid identical hard, bulky items at each waistline. One brother jerked away and shifted my arm to his shoulders. A couple photos in, I realized I'd felt guns.

They need guns at a racetrack?

I didn't tense or drop my smile—thanks to years of photos with every kind of fan and sponsor imaginable—but I wasn't comfortable with them anymore. I was relieved when they crossed to Vinny to review the photos.

I swallowed my nerves and pride, then offered my hand to Monica. “We haven't met. I'm Kate Reilly.”

“Hard not to know who you are,” she returned, in a tone I couldn't decipher. She shook my hand and smiled. “Monica Frank. I work for Richard Arena.”

“It's an impressive setup you have. Do you help organize it?”

She chuckled and brushed some of her thick, wavy, perfect hair behind a shoulder. “I'm his chief financial officer and an advisor.”

I was impressed, and I didn't want to be. I was also jealous because she was everything I wasn't and usually wanted to be. A couple inches taller, voluptuous, sultry.

She looks like Salma freaking Hayek, for pity's sake.

Not to mention she'd kissed my boyfriend—while I'd only argued with him.

“You work in an industry other than racing?” I asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Across a variety of them, according to Richard's business interests.”

“Sounds interesting.”

She studied me for a moment. “Perhaps I should offer my condolences to you and best wishes to Stuart? We're all missing him today.” Her tone held all the warmth of the polar ice cap.

I caught my breath.
It seems like a game. I'm here in this artificial world of the race, collecting photos and writing down names. Then I remember the reason: Stuart, so badly injured in the messy, sprawling, real world. Dammit, Kate,
do not
cry in front of this woman.
“We're waiting to see how he pulls through.”

“You don't seem very concerned. I thought I'd heard you're his girlfriend?” Her lips curled with a touch of disdain on the last word.

I looked at Monica Frank as coolly as possible. “My relationship with Stuart Telarday isn't something I want to discuss.”

She lifted a shoulder in a graceful shrug. “I was only surprised not to see you more distraught.”

I was dumbfounded.

Smiling broadly, she crossed to Vinny, Tom, and the Russians. “Time to go boys, I'm sure this team needs to get back to more important tasks this evening. So nice to meet you, Kate,” she called as she ushered them back down the lane.

Tom headed back into the Sandham Swift tent, while I remained frozen in the walkway. I didn't know what to do with the rage filling me. Hitting something—or someone—wouldn't be productive or good form. I wanted more space and more air. Different scenery. I spun around and jogged past the dozen pit spaces between Sandham Swift and the bottom of pit lane.

I stopped in the triangular space formed by the end of the pit stalls, the last section of grandstands above them, and the curving wall of the pit exit road. Two medical workers sitting in a motorized cart glanced my way. A crew member from another team banged out of a port-a-potty to run back up pit lane. I grabbed onto the fence that separated me from the track and leaned my forehead against cold chain-links.

The problem was, I finally admitted, I doubted I was reacting appropriately to Stuart's condition. I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel—especially because I didn't know if he was going to live or die. My lower lip started to wobble. I reminded myself to breathe.

Did I assume Stuart would survive and get on with my life and job knowing I'd have time with him again? Or did I prepare for the worst, the idea I might never see him again, never be able to resolve the hard words and hurt feelings between us? Should I still have these bouts of tears that hit me without warning? I fumbled for a tissue in my pocket.

We'd been dating. We'd made love. We'd been on the way to falling in love—no, only I'd been in process. Stuart claimed he'd loved me for a year already. That was another brick on the Kate-guilt pile. Would I ever have a chance to catch up? Even if he lived, he'd have months of healing and rehabilitation ahead. Everything would change, no matter the outcome of his injuries.

I couldn't pretend everything between us had been perfect. We hadn't been on the way to the altar. I hadn't been ready for the kind of relationship he wanted. I wasn't ready to be settled. I loved him, but I didn't know if I was
in love
with him.

I felt a microscopic trickle of relief filter through my grief and guilt. Stuart's accident meant a reprieve from the pressure I felt to make a choice I didn't know how to make. A break from hurting him more. From disappointing him. My chest heaved. I blew my nose.

A Ferrari exited pit lane, and I got a whiff of rank port-a-potty smell as someone entered the plastic hut. I tensed when a man cleared his throat next to me.

Vinny from the Benchmark team apologized. “I wanted to make sure you were all right—I know you've got a lot going on, and I'm sorry for all of it. The whole team feels terrible.”

I was torn between my need to blame someone for Ian's death—and who better than the team that ran him off the road?—and the knowledge that what happened was an accident. The look of concern and sorrow in his eyes sealed it. I let it go. “Thanks. I guess that's just racing.”

He exhaled with what seemed like relief. “Plus if the Kuliks are bothering you, I can keep them away.”

“They're fine. As you said, a lot going on.” Everyone knew about Stuart and Ian, but there was also Sam to fend off. My relationship with my father—and now a half-sister—to negotiate. Cousins to avoid.

“You needed a break, I bet. Me, too.” Vinny sighed.

We stood in silence for a minute, watching a Porsche exit pit lane and a couple dozen cars shoot toward the braking zone for Turn 1.

Vinny spoke again after a loud group of cars went past, entering the turn. “Sometimes I have to slip away in the middle of a race, for a break from the needs of everyone around me. The expectations.”

I spun to him. “That's exactly it. Everyone expects something out of you. Me. I mean, my job, that's one thing. But family, friends, press, fans, strangers.” I listened to myself. “Now I sound like a bratty child. Being responsible is simply being an adult.”

“Sure, but sometimes being an adult sucks.” Vinny grinned at me.

I laughed. “Agreed.”

“This may fall under ‘none of my business,' but Lara Reilly, who's working with my team this weekend, is she…?”

I closed my eyes, and he instantly backtracked. “Sorry, forget I asked.”

“It's all right.” I looked at him again. “Yes, related. Can I leave it at that? Will you keep it confidential?”

He raised an eyebrow, but nodded. He didn't ask why, but I could see the question in his eyes.

“I don't know how to deal with her yet,” I admitted. “I can't manage to do what people want.”

He turned to face the track again and spoke with great feeling. “Believe me, I understand.”

“You, too?”

He blew out a breath, his expression going from open and friendly to cold and shuttered. “In my family, nothing I do is ever good enough.”

“I can't believe that. You're running a team here, aren't you?”

“I never quite measure up.” He shrugged.

“You seem successful. Maybe you should ignore your family. Follow your instincts.”

He turned and smiled at me. “And maybe you should ignore what others think you should do about…your relation. Do what feels right.”

I studied him a moment. He had the trim, muscular build of a racecar driver or a long-distance runner. Everything about him spoke of an easy, friendly guy on the surface, with a core of steel underneath. I might have been wary of him as a representative of the team that ran Ian off the road, but I felt comfortable with him. I liked him.

I held out a hand. “I will if you will—and if we keep it between us.”

“The pit lane code of silence? And friends? Deal.”

We shook on it. After a check of the time, Vinny set off back up pit lane. I followed a minute later, feeling more centered.

Holly was watching for me as I approached the Sandham Swift pits. “Where've you been, sugar?”

“Had to take a walk after I met Monica Frank.”

“What did she say?”

“She accused me of not being sad enough about Stuart's accident. She thought I should be more torn up about it.”

“That insufferable
bitch
!”

I smiled. “True.”

Holly peered at my face. “It was more than that.”

“It was everything. Mostly I had to admit some unpleasant truths.” I might not be proud of how I felt or how I had handled Stuart. But I'd never lied to him or deceived him. I'd always been honest about how I felt. God willing, he'd understand and forgive me.

I focused on him for a moment—who he was and what he valued. I realized he probably would forgive me. Moreover, he'd tell me to get out there and do him proud in the job I loved. To make my mark in the world we're both passionate about.

I said it aloud. “Today, he'd want me to focus.”

“Not only focus. He'd want you to give ‘em hell.”

“That's what I'm going to do. For me. For him. Focus on racing tonight and tomorrow. Deal with emotion when we know something. ”

Holly pulled out her phone to show me photos and notes she'd taken up and down pit lane. “Maybe along the way,” she began.

I finished her sentence. “We'll find the bastard who ran him down.”

Chapter Thirty-one

12:50 A.M. | 13:20 HOURS REMAINING

As Colby came in for a green-flag pit stop—fuel only, double-stinting the tires—Holly and I again found seats at one end of the 30 car's abandoned pit cart. A representative from Sandham Swift's main sponsor, BW Goods, sat at the other end of the bench seat, wearing a team radio headset and watching the monitors mounted above the desk.

Holly and I studied the photos she'd taken, wrote down names and connections, and sent everything to Calhoun.

I shook my head. “By the end of the race we'll have sent information on every single person in the paddock to him. I don't see what good that'll do.”

“One of them might connect with something he knows that we don't.”

“We're still not getting the money shots inside the Arena tent. I don't know how to go about that.”

Holly tapped a finger on her cheek. “Certainly neither of us can waltz in there and start snapping.”

I started to laugh. “Wrong. Take your boyfriend to meet his fans.”

“Miles has fans there?”

“Doesn't he have them everywhere?”

“Good point,” she said. “Gotta love our all-access pass, Miles.”

“I could also ask my father who he saw there. I wonder if he'd tell me what the group of them was discussing.”

“You've already asked him for more than that. It shouldn't be a big deal.”

“Did you uncover anything else?”

“Mass suspicion about Arena, but nothing concrete.”

“Arena the guy or the team?” I asked.

“Both. About Monica, the men leered and the women rolled their eyes. She's not a female other women like—only cares about men.”

“That's misogynistic of her.”

“Everyone had heard the rumors of her affair with Willie the Michelin rep, but that was the unusual hookup. She's not sleeping with Arena, but no one's sure why. She's usually fawning over the biggest VIP of the race weekend. While I can't confirm that means sleeping with them, on at least two occasions it did.”

I frowned. “Home-wrecking tramp.”

Holly sighed. “Much as I hate to go against the feminine code of support for behaving how you want, not how society dictates, I have to agree with you.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “What else?”

“Other than general complaints about Ed Grant, nothing about that team. Except, my goodness, you wouldn't believe the team services. Apparently, what's available to the whole team, not only the drivers, is a masseuse, a chiropractor, a medical doctor, a dietician, and a gourmet chef.” She nodded at my stunned expression. “What that chef is working with? Fresh fish for every meal. They're flying in fresh berries and whatever other delicacies they want.”

“Maybe Arena doesn't know teams don't actually make money in racing?”

“Either that or spending it is the point?” She waggled her eyebrows at me.

“Money laundering?” I breathed it.

She shrugged. “All I know is he likes living in the lap of luxury. Otherwise, I got more confirmation Stuart was supposedly the one trying to run small teams out of the Series in favor of big teams.” She put up a hand to stop my outrage. “I know he wouldn't do that—even the people repeating the rumor agreed when I challenged them. But it's what people are hearing.”

I let out a frustrated breath. “I wonder where that's coming from.”

“Two people pointed to other teams. One guy told me Tug implied it and swore him to secrecy. Another woman said Elizabeth mentioned something. Overall, the sentiment on pit lane about Stuart—accident aside—is more favorable from the big teams than the small.” She grimaced. “I'll be honest. Greg is outright furious.”

“At Stuart?”

“At everyone. It's ugly, Kate. I'm so sad it's come to that for Greg. I wish I knew how to help him.” She bit her lip. “I didn't see him, but the team said he's been in and out of the pits. On top of his grief over Ian, he's angry at the Series for trying to push him out and welcoming people like that Ricky Amick from the 77 car instead.”

A prototype whined its way down pit lane after making a stop. I kept quiet until it passed, glancing at the monitors to see Colby on the tail of a Porsche through the infield. A check of timing and scoring indicated she wasn't jockeying for position—as the Porsche was third in class, one lap ahead of us—but it was interesting to see how our cars compared on speed and handling.

I turned back to Holly. “Leaving aside that Greg and Stuart are people we know, I'd say Greg has a lot of motivation to be mad at Stuart and maybe even lash out. But Stuart's accident was before this race. Before the worst had happened to Greg.”

“I don't think Greg tried to kill Stuart. But if
he's
that angry, who else is?”

“Did you get anything on disgruntled former ALMS employees—or participants?”

Holly held up fingers as she related names. “Jonathan Charles, of the right hook, was last seen in Seattle and isn't around this weekend. Nik Reyes is spitting mad about his driver ranking changing—thanks to Stuart and others—which kept him out of the race. As a side note, Cecilia at CPG is no longer involved with Tug—though ‘involved' was an overstatement.”

“A revenge hookup?”

“She loathes the Arena team with a passion, especially your favorite female. Any mention of them gets Cecilia riled up—I guess they closed ranks and denied any inappropriate relationship between Willie and Monica. Then went out of their way to belittle the Redemption team and Cecilia. She's convinced the Arena team was behind pranks like garbage dumped in front of their tent overnight and a bunch of stolen flats of soda and sports drinks.”

Holly saw my look of disgust and went on. “No proof, just suspicion. Back to Keith Ingram, in the Benchmark tent next door to her. Cecilia hasn't interacted with him, but from what she's seen, he's an angry guy. On the other hand, Cecilia wouldn't mind being extra friendly with your friend Raul. She was sneaking peeks at him when he was over at Benchmark.”

I ignored whatever it was inside that felt like jealousy, because being jealous would be absurd. “I thought he drove for Redemption Racing?”

“He does, but he was in Benchmark when I went past.” She paused. “He was in the Arena tent before that.”

We were both quiet a moment, watching the 28 car on the monitors.

Holly stood up. “I'll head back out there. Spend more time at CPG and Redemption, get closer to Benchmark, and maybe get some scoop on Joe Smith.”

“Be careful of the Kulik brothers and their guns.”

She raised an eyebrow at me.

“Small of the back. You know, arms around waists for photos? Creepy.” I looked around the pit space. “Do lots of people here carry guns? I've never thought about it.”

“I'm sure they're around, but I don't know anyone who actively carries—besides security guards or cops.”

“I suppose I shouldn't be surprised—maybe that's another question I shouldn't ask.”
All the same, I wonder about the brothers.

I climbed down from the pit cart and headed for the port-a-potty again. Holly was waiting in the walkway for me when I got back.

“Give it a minute, then look casually,” she whispered, pointedly looking away from the dark area of the former WiseGuy Racing pit space.

I glanced into it—then quickly away. The light shining out from the open side of the Arena tent illuminated the faces of my uncle, two cousins, and Monica standing closely together. Talking, maybe arguing. The men looming over the woman—not that she needed backup. Predators took care of themselves.

“I'd love to be a fly on the tent wall to hear what they're saying.”

Holly froze. “Maybe you can be.”

“How do you figure?”

She worried her bottom lip with an index finger. “Maybe there's a way to hear what they're saying.”

“Tin cans on string don't work, Holly.”

“Webcams do.” She pointed to Tom, who sat on a plastic chair inside our pit space, directly behind the bank of monitors. He was busy typing on his laptop—a post to Twitter, Facebook, or the team blog, no doubt.

Then I remembered. Part of Tom's media efforts for this race included a live, streaming Webcam of the team in the pits. Right now the little ball-shaped camera was pointed at the team sitting around the screens.

I tamped down on my growing excitement. “But we can't use—”

“He's got a spare, and I know where there's an extra laptop we can connect it to.”

We turned enormous smiles on each other.

“You're brilliant,” I said.

“I've always told you, my mama didn't raise no fool. I'll check that out.”

She looked both ways prior to crossing the walkway—we'd seen plenty of collisions between running crew or speeding carts and unwary pedestrians. She took one step, stopped, and turned back to me.

“Remember how you said sources might come to you?” She gestured down pit lane, to Scott Brooklyn, SGTV pit reporter, walking toward us. He was clearly off duty and in no hurry.

I grinned at Holly. “On it.”