Avoidable Contact (25 page)

Chapter Forty-eight

10:35 A.M. | 3:35 HOURS REMAINING

I coughed. “She's a little young for him, don't you think? She's, what? Nineteen or twenty?”

Scott shrugged. “Legal.”

Great. My—it was hard to say it even in my mind—half-sister being hunted down by the biggest player in the Series.
“That's disgusting, Scott.”

He held up his hands. “
I'm
not trying to pick her up. Warn her about him if you want. That wasn't the information I had for you. I wouldn't repeat this publicly—so don't you either—but I talked to someone who knows him well. Apparently Tug was pretty angry he had to settle for second-fiddle to Stuart. Spitting nails, angry. But he decided to suck it up, play the game, and be ready to step up when the opportunity arose.”

Scott shook his head to stop my exclamation. “But Tug was also visible in the paddock yesterday—from seven in the morning to race start. He didn't do the deed.”

I sighed. “I really want to know who did this.”

He held up a third finger. “Elizabeth Rogers.” He paused. “Oddest one of the bunch. Such a non-entity, I had to do some Googling.”

“And?”

“Couldn't find a thing.”

“It's a pretty common name, right?”

“Sure, but no trails that looked like her. So I asked a contact.” He winked at me, which I took to mean he'd asked a Racing's Ringer source. “He couldn't find anything either before she worked for Grand-Am. Neither of us wanted to dig too deep.”

I shook my head. “I wonder if she's trying to hide something.”

Our 28 car's crew stirred, hefted equipment, and leapt off the wall to service the car as Colby pulled in. Tire change—back to single-stinting them in the heat of the day—full fuel, and a clean windscreen. Colby pulled back out for her last stint.

I turned back to Scott. “You don't know if the Kulik brothers have an alibi for ten-thirty to eleven-thirty yesterday morning, do you?”

“Sure I do.” He laughed at my surprise. “Social media is your friend, Kate. They were at yesterday's tweetup at ten—you were there, weren't you? Then they hauled everyone over to the Kulik vodka tent for free shots until the autograph session started.”

“I didn't see everyone who attended the tweetup.” I thought through the timing. “That was an hour and a half of vodka shots?”

“Closer to two hours, really.” He smiled. “Sadly, I was on the job and didn't participate. But I was there documenting it all for SGTV.”

Another suspect bites the dust. Not that I thought the Kulkis had motive, only guns. I glanced at Scott. “These questions are off the record, remember.”

“No problem, I've got plenty. Thanks for the tip, catch you later, Kate.” He waved at me and headed up pit lane.

I picked up a radio, told Holly I'd be right back, and took off at a jog for the main bathroom building. I exited the building two minutes later and jogged back into the walkway, only to bump into Sam Remington as I sidestepped a golf cart.

Sam grabbed my upper arms to steady me, stop me, or both. “I hoped I'd run into you, Kate, but didn't mean it literally.” He was laughing.

I forced a smile. “You never know, do you? Sorry, I've got to get back and get ready.”

“I'll walk you there. Wanted a minute.”

I gave up the idea of avoiding him as he fell into step next to me. “What can I do for you?”

“Mostly I wanted to apologize.”

Again?
I looked at him, but didn't respond.

“For…bothering you last night.” He grimaced. “I get it. I miss you, and you've moved on. My bad luck. I accept it.”

I sighed. “Sometimes I miss you, too, Sam, but that's the past. And maybe it's your good luck—you know, Paula and all?”

“Maybe. Probably. I don't know.” He shook his head. “I heard you've been dating Stuart Telarday recently. But then he was photographed kissing that Monica woman. Um, that sucks?”

I burst out laughing, because the Sam I remembered couldn't retain paddock gossip for more than ten seconds. “I'm not going to comment, because after you, I'd had enough of my relationship being publicly dissected.” I eyed him. “But I will ask how you know.”

He looked embarrassed. “Paula.”

“I see.” I took a deep breath.
If there's ever someone who should know you're off the market….
“It's not for public consumption, but yes, I've been dating Stuart. And yes, there were those photos, but they weren't anything serious. One of those things that looked like something it wasn't.” I surprised myself by meaning the words. After all of the drama and doubt and emotion of the last day, I wasn't angry anymore about the photos—at least not angry at Stuart. I'd still like to drop-kick Monica.

At that moment, we reached the start of the Arena Motorsport tent. I averted my gaze, focusing entirely on Sam.

He was nodding. “That's good. Good. Stuart's a good guy.”

So glad you approve.
I kept my eye-rolling internal.

“I think you're right about that Monica woman,” he went on. “I mean, I saw them interact yesterday morning, and there was nothing to it. No extra vibe or anything.”

“What did you see?”

He glanced behind me, into the Arena tent, I presumed, and lowered his voice. “I was chatting to Stuart, and she walked by with the guy from the team next to ours? That Vinny guy?”

“Vinny Cruise at Benchmark.”

“Right, him. Stuart greeted them, and they shook hands all around—you know, like they'd all met before. But there wasn't anything romantic or even awkward between Monica and Stuart.” He paused and frowned. “No vibe directed at him at all, only at me.”

We'd cleared the Arena tents and slowed to stop outside Sandham Swift. “She made a play for you instead of Stuart?”

He shrugged. “Some, but Vinny didn't seem to like it. I'd said something about how Vinny and Monica looked like they could be related. Vinny looked annoyed, got all stiff. Monica laughed it off and moved close. Put her hand on my arm, leaned into me, brushed up against—you know.”

I did know, having watched it often enough from women on the prowl in pit lane. I heard my name called and saw Jack wave at me, without urgency, from the top of the pit box. I held up a finger to indicate one minute.

Turning back to Sam, I stuck my hand out. “Friends? Only?”

He looked like he wanted to hug me again, but he restrained himself. He shook. “I'd like that. Not sure about Paula, but I'd like it.”

“Up to you, Sam. I'll see you around.” I crossed the walkway and entered the pit space, then stopped and looked back to find him watching me. He had a strange expression on his face, a combination of pride, regret, and wistfulness. I raised my hand and turned back to talk to Jack. Miles had been watching the monitors, and he trailed me over to the command center.

I climbed up a step. Jack leaned over, pulled the radio headset off his ears.

“When Colby comes in, we're going to take a few extra seconds to check suspension linkages and clean out the grills. It's running a little warmer than usual, and Colby says there's some vibration in the left turns, which could be some pickup or marbles. We'll check everything out, maybe find some junk blocking a vent. Kate, it shouldn't mean more than five extra seconds after you get strapped in, but wanted you to know.”

I gave Jack a thumbs-up, then I joined Holly at the monitors. I updated her on Scott Brooklyn's information. “Everyone suspicious is turning out to have an alibi and couldn't have hurt Stuart.”

“Except Elizabeth.”

“Or one of the guys who could be Julio Arena. Nik Reyes, Joe Smith, or Raul—we don't know where they were. But that's all wild speculation and possibly racial profiling, I don't know.”

“I'll see if I can find out where they were.”

I hesitated. “Did you ever find out if Greg was accounted for?”

“Don't get timid now, Kate. No, I didn't. But…” She cocked her head to the side and stared at the ceiling of the tent. “Ian's sister Jennifer stuck her head into our team lounge yesterday, hoping Greg was there with Ian. That was before the drivers' meeting, right?”

“Was that what she wanted? I couldn't hear. It had to be before, because we went straight from the drivers' meeting to the autograph session to the grid.”

“Was it before the quick team meeting Jack held?”

It was painful thinking back to those pre-race hours, when we were all fresh, energetic, and hopeful. When Ian was still alive. Before Stuart was hurt. I thought back to Aunt Tee gathering us, Jack striding into the room, me looking for a seat. “It was right before. Jack had just come in the room, and Jennifer caught the door before it closed.”

Holly frowned. “That was around eleven-fifteen, and Jennifer said she hadn't seen Greg for at least half an hour, if not longer.”

“I don't want to even say it.”

“I know.” She sighed. “But that means Greg was missing at the right time. And he was mad at Stuart.”

“Maybe you can verify he was gone?”

“I'll check up on it.” She sounded as weighed down as I felt. Greg had been through so much, I felt terrible considering him as a suspect. He'd lost his wife, was being pushed out of his career, and then lost his son…how could I pile more on him?

Stuart didn't deserve to be hurt, no matter the reason.
The voice in my head was quiet, but devastating. I reconsidered, refocused.
If Greg hurt Stuart, he needs to pay.
I lived with that thought a moment, then nodded, satisfied my head was on straight again. I crossed to my shelf of gear and started suiting up.

I was ready with my helmet and gloves in hand, standing at the monitors with twenty minutes to go in the stint, when a prototype's suspension broke and the car skidded into the outer track wall. I pulled my helmet on as they threw the double-yellow to retrieve the broken car.

I gave Bruce a thumbs-up and pulled my gloves on as I walked forward to the pit wall, where the crew scrambled to their places. I stood to the side and closed my eyes, focusing on the sound of the cars circulating on the track and the feel of my own breathing. I emptied my mind of everything but the car.

This double-stint would be my last time behind the wheel in the race. I was going to make it a good one.

Chapter Forty-nine

11:25 A.M. | 2:45 HOURS REMAINING

The team's twenty-fifth pit stop of the race nearly proved our undoing. The crew had been more or less awake for twenty-nine hours by the time I got in the car that morning, and they'd stayed alert and on point the whole time. Until the fumbles hit us all at once.

First I sat down on the right-side lap belt getting in and had to fish it out from under my behind once I was in place. Then I jammed my right shoulder belt in the central buckle wrong, requiring Bubs to release all the belts and re-buckle everything. Finally, it took Bubs three tries to plug in my helmet air hose. That was only what happened inside the car.

Outside, everything went smoothly until the guy wielding the air gun on the right-rear tire—Eric, the North Carolinian—cross-threaded the single, giant wheel nut. Everyone moves so fast during a pit stop that by the time Eric could tell the others what happened, tell them to stop so he could fix the nut, the car had been dropped off its jacks and I was pulling away.

I'd like to claim I felt something wrong with the car at the first revolution of the wheels. But I didn't. The reality was Bruce shouting “Stop!” in my ear, which sent both of my feet to the floor on clutch and brake. I was two pit stalls away, in the central no-man's lane between the full-pit-speed, passing-through lane on the right and the pit spaces on the left.

“Stay in neutral,” Bruce instructed. “Pulling you back. Wheel nut.”

I took my foot off the brake and clicked the paddle behind the steering wheel to put the car into neutral. Four crew members were already pushing the car back into our pit space, because cars couldn't reverse in pit lane, but they could be pushed or pulled by hand.

In position. Air jacks pop the car six inches into the air.
Brrrrrrrrrrt
, went the air gun. Silence. Tugging on the car.
Brrrrrrrrrrt
again. Something metallic clanked on the wheel.
Brrrrrrrrrrt
. Then the normal sound and sensation of a tire coming off, a tire going on, and a wheel nut being secured.
Brrrrrrrrrrt
. A hand in the air from Eric. Car bouncing down off the air jacks.

“Go, go, go, Kate.” Bruce's voice.

I shifted into gear and roared out again, unchallenged this time. I checked to be sure the speed limiter was on, because the last thing we needed was a pit lane speeding violation and penalty to go with the rest of it.

Every nerve screamed at me to get out there fast, make up the time we'd lost. But I chanted, “Stay calm, stay calm,” as I exited the tricky, curvy pit lane. Checked for traffic as I merged onto the track. Focused on the next turn in front of me, then the next one, thinking ahead to the one after that. Getting the new tires up to speed, feeling out the track again. Noting the changes since I'd been in the car and on the track six hours prior. I'd made it around the back straight and through the Bus Stop before Bruce checked in.

“Feel all right, Kate?”

“Fine. No wheel damage, right?”

“Good news is the wheel should be fine. Bad news is the leader in class is two cars behind you. If you can stay ahead of him, we won't go another lap down.”

I glanced in the mirror. A BMW ten car lengths behind me. Five car lengths behind him was a Porsche, the GT class leader.

Bruce radioed again. “The crew's really sorry. Do whatever you can out there.”

I thought about the crew who'd been up all night. Who'd fixed damaged cars with good humor and only mild complaint. I'd never worked with a more dedicated, talented group of people.

I pushed the radio button. “I'm on it, Bruce. Tell the crew not to worry.”

Then I drove my heart out.

My last stint in the race. My last chance to make my mark on the GT field. My final opportunity in this race to prove a point to the racing world. And to myself. To celebrate racing and feel the joy I knew was there, as a counterpoint to the sorrow we'd been feeling.

Suddenly this drive represented my career. My essence. Performing well in this moment would validate everything I'd worked for—sacrificed for—throughout my life. Everything Ian had represented, everything Stuart worked to deliver.

I drove as if in a trance, with no radio traffic back to the pits and no stray thoughts creeping in. Only regular spotter bulletins delivered by Millie in a steady monotone. I poured every last scrap of my energy and emotion into focus on the corner ahead, the car ahead, and the car after that. One by one I worked my way up to and past the GT runners in front of me, until—with the help of a lot of traffic—I'd put half a lap between myself and the GT leader.

Then I got lucky with a yellow flag—which flew with the overall race leader behind me, seconds away from passing me. He dropped back at the flashing yellow lights, and when the safety car picked him up, I continued around to join the back of the pack. I was still one lap down to the top four cars in class, but the GT class leader was three cars ahead of me.

I pitted with the GT field, praying the crew were back to their typical sharp standards. I stopped the car on my marks. Fuel going in. Tires being changed. Bubs on my side and Eric on the passenger side scrubbing at the windscreen. They jerked away. Bruce in my ear, “Go, go, go!” The guy in front waving me out into pit lane.

That felt quick. That felt quick!

Bruce confirmed it, sharing even better news. “We leapfrogged the GT leader. We are now back on the lead lap.”

He didn't have to add, “If Kate can stay there,” because come hell or high water, as Gramps would say, I would.

I dropped quickly back into the zone and picked off cars ahead of me. I used all the power and performance that Corvette had to offer during the next forty minutes. I was determined and inspired. I made sure the racing world—especially our competitors in this new United SportsCar Championship—knew Sandham Swift Racing was a contender. As was Kate Reilly.

Deep down, I knew my determination to prove myself was directly related to the size of the stage I was performing on. The 24 Hours of Daytona tempted teams and drivers from all over the world and across every form of racing to compete. We had four IndyCar champions in the field, seven Le Mans champions, and three NASCAR champions—including Miles on my own team. If little Kate Reilly—short, slim, twenty-five year old
female
—could match the performance of those thirty- and forty-something champion men?

My lips curved into a smile under my helmet.
They wouldn't forget me.

Those thoughts flashed through my head as I took a breath down the back straight. Then I wiped my mind clear of everything except the Bus Stop turn and the Ferrari ahead of me.

Six laps later, I snuck past the Ferrari into Turn 1.

Three turns later, Bruce radioed to tell me I was P4 in class and ten laps away from pitting to change to Miles. Two laps later, we got another full-course caution.

I savored the last laps at safety-car speed, enjoying the view of the track. Reveling in the music of the racecar.

Then I followed the GT leaders out of NASCAR 4 into pit lane, unplugging cables and tubes. Loosening belts. I stopped, got out of the car, out of Miles' way, over the wall. Pulled off my gloves, watching anxiously as the crew performed a perfect, smooth service. I pulled my helmet and balaclava off and watched as the crew sent the car away.

For a moment, as the car—the excitement—moved on without me, as the crew swarmed around the car and Miles, I felt bereft.

My sense of aloneness lasted only a nanosecond, because no sooner had the car disappeared down pit lane than the crew surrounded me, whooping, pounding me on the back, and picking me up in giant bear hugs of thanks. This time my eyes watered with tears of joy and relief.

Some minutes later, the crew dispersed to put away their gear. I collected a cold towel and bottle of water before climbing onto the pit cart to review my stints in the car. A quick chat with Jack and Bruce—who confirmed they didn't need me on-deck for the last stint of the race—and I sat back to drink a bottle of water and wipe my face down with the wet towel Aunt Tee had handed me.

That's when, out of the blue, I finally processed what Lara had been trying to tell me. What my gut had been trying to tell me since I saw Ian's accident.

She'd talked to “the guy from the car,” who discovered nothing wrong, “no brakes, no nothing.” I saw the accident in my mind's eye again and understood. The report was the throttle had stuck wide open, and the driver's attempt to step on the brakes hadn't stopped the car. But I'd seen no brake lights—that's what had gnawed at my insides since the wreck. I hurried down the steps of the pit box and found Alex Hanley, our brake expert, in the back of the tent.

“Alex, say my throttle stuck. If I stepped on the brakes, would they do anything to slow the car? Would the brake lights still go on?”

He put his hands to his hips, his splayed-out elbows mirroring his bowed legs. “You're not worried 'boutcher own throttle or brakes, are you?” The frown on his face didn't match the lines in his tanned face. Alex more typically beamed ear-to-ear at all times.

I shook my head. “A question, in general.”

“I'd say yes, then. If yer throttle was wide open, but you pushed the pedal, the brakes'd still do something. Unless the brakes failed at the same time as the throttle stuck—but that'd be nigh on impossible.” He scratched his head. “Maybe not impossible they'd both go, but mighty unusual.” He considered further. “But if you stepped on the brakes, ye'd still getcher brake lights.”

I thanked him, and he got back to work with a jaunty wave.

No brake lights meant the driver hadn't tried to stop. And given Lara's message of “nothing wrong,” I wondered if the throttle had malfunctioned after all. The only conclusion I could draw was the driver had deliberately tried to take our car out. It was pure bad luck that he'd killed Ian in the process.

But why?

The 30 car had competed in the GT Daytona class. I knew some people who weren't above bribery and really needed a good finish in that class.

Were my cousins responsible for Ian's death?