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Chapter Twenty-four

A short time later, Ryan and I left Tara alone. I was drained from the revelations, and Tara was paler than before, clearly exhausted. We agreed to talk more soon, and I'd made her promise to let me help with anything she or Jenny needed, whether legal issues or the cancer treatment.

Ryan took my hand again as we exited the hospital for the parking lot. This time it was more comforting than romantic.

“Sorry again, this was a terrible date.”

He smiled. “I understand. You need questions answered, and I'm not talking about a murder investigation.”

“I'm not sure what to do about this family.”

He dug his keys out of his pocket as we reached the parking lot. “This obviously isn't the time to ask about your history with them. Maybe you'll share that with me sometime.”

I was relieved he didn't push. I thought through my schedule, and had an idea. “Do you have a black suit?” I remembered who I was talking to. “A dressy one, not a special-agent one?”

He nodded, his face showing no surprise or curiosity. Must be FBI training.

“How about I make this up to you tomorrow night? And I'll answer your questions.” I reconsidered. “Except I'm not sure it would be fun for you. Maybe it's not a good idea.”

Still holding my hand, Ryan pulled me to a stop. “Ask me, don't decide for me.”

“There's a gala tomorrow night celebrating the partnership between my primary sponsor, Beauté, and the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. We've got a fundraising walk in the morning through downtown and a party at night. Boring chicken, speeches, a live auction. Would you like to attend with me?”

He stepped closer. “Be your date?”

Something about his scent—woodsy, spicy, male—made that slow burn start up again. “You might be bored.”

“Would you like me to be there with you?” He watched me, and I had the distinct feeling this was the cop reading the suspect for truth.

“I would.”

He smiled and unlocked the Corvette. “I'd be happy to attend.”

As he drove me back to my hotel, I asked if he had any thoughts on Tara's story. “Or maybe you know something about the people involved? You've been based here a while now.”

“I can't share information about active investigations.”

“You do know something about someone?”

He laughed. “My job is finding out things about people. I can't tell you who or what. But I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know what you're hearing.”

“I'll take all the insight I can get.”

“Officially, I can't help. But I can talk things over with you, give you some advice, as long as it doesn't touch on active investigations.” He stopped at a light and turned to me. “You need to be careful. There are always rumors of backroom deals, political corruption, and money laundering that float around the West Coast. I don't know if your family members are involved, but they could be, so be subtle.”

“Now you've got me worried.”

“That'll keep you careful.” The light turned green, and we started moving. “Do you believe that neither Tara nor her sister killed Billy?”

“I want to.” I frowned, looking out the window at the massive, impeccable Beverly Hills homes we passed along Sunset Boulevard. “They both could have. I saw Tara there myself, and she admitted stalking Billy. Plus if her sister's that unbalanced, she could easily have struck out at the person responsible. So no, I don't entirely believe her.”

“I'm glad to hear it. You might make an investigator yet.”

If he only knew.

Ryan let me off at the Beverly Hills Hotel with a simple kiss on the cheek and a promise to pick me up the next night in black tie. I wandered the lush hotel grounds for a few minutes, trying to make sense of everything I'd heard. I'd believed terrible things of Billy and Holden. And of Edward, Billy's father. Hearing the same about Coleman, Holden's father, shouldn't be a surprise, but it was.

A series of questions played over and over in my head, like an earworm.
Did my father know what was going on? If he did, how could he live with it? If he didn't, how could he miss it?
I had no answers, yet. But I knew I'd have to talk to him about what I'd learned.

The next morning, I felt as dismayed and saddened as the night before. But I was at least more optimistic, thanks to the five thousand supporters of breast cancer research who turned up at the Bonaventure Hotel early on a Saturday morning to walk a 5K through downtown Los Angeles. After the walk was completed, the final speeches had been made, and the last sample packs of Beauté's products had been handed out, I settled into a thirtieth-floor conference room in the Beauté corporate offices with some of the executives.

My two-year contract with Beauté was in its last six months, and I'd expected the meeting to be a standard check-in. Instead, they told me Beauté was interested in continuing to sponsor me after my initial contract expired, especially if I moved to NASCAR or IndyCar. They asked me to compile estimated costs and options for different tier teams in both new series. And they wanted a contact at Frame Savings, to discuss coordinating approaches.

I felt numb and sat down on a bench outside the skyscraper, trying to process my good fortune. With the Frame Savings money, I could bring much-needed funding to Sandham Swift for the next year, as well as secure a ride in the Indy 500. Plus eek out an Indy Lights race or two. If I performed well enough, the amount would increase for the following year. The two sponsorships together would be funding enough for the Indy 500, other IndyCar races with a mid-level team,
and
testing with a NASCAR team. Maybe even running races in a feeder series to NASCAR.

Beauté and Frame Savings together could make all of my racing dreams come true. I took deep breaths to stop the world from spinning and called Holly.

“Why do you sound strange, Kate?” I heard clanks and whirring noises in the background from Miles' garage.

“Lightheaded.”

“What's wrong?” The background noise faded away. “Is everyone okay?”

I started laughing. “Fine. Better than fine.” I explained Beauté's offer and the different possibilities that had occurred to me.

“Hooo-leeeee shit, sugar. Seriously?”

“Seems like.”

“Well, then. Think carefully about what path you want most. We'll round up the numbers and give them a tempting package for the direction you want to go.” She paused. “Now, as your friend. Go celebrate a little. You're in Beverly Hills! Splurge on something outrageous. Do some recon for when I get there Monday.”

I took Holly's advice and headed for Rodeo Drive, three blocks of shops with every imaginable luxury brand. I resolved to enter at least every other store, despite feeling out of my depth in both price and style. I browsed patterned leather sneakers, gold leather jackets, skimpy sundresses, and fringed handbags, trying to keep a nonchalant expression on my face. As if I spent $1,640 on a handbag every week. Or $780 on a scarf.

I was one in a long stream of tourists strolling up and down the line of shops, and I enjoyed letting the colors and textures of the goods wash over me. Thinking of which outrageous outfits to tease Holly with. Waiting for something to catch my eye. Wandering in total anonymity.

Until the fifth store. A little white puffball of a dog ran toward me at the front of the display area, where I stood stroking cashmere tank tops. The dog made a beeline for me, yapping and snarling ferociously. It stopped, sniffed my shoes, and propped its front paws on my shin.

I saw a pink tongue and a bejeweled collar. “Pookie?”

A shriek came from the back of the store. “My baby!”

I recognized the voice. With a sigh, I scooped Pookie up to reunite her with her owner.

Even more surprising than finding Nikki Gray in a store on Rodeo Drive—maybe not surprising after all—or finding she'd brought Pookie-bear with her, was discovering her other companion. Elizabeth Rogers, Ms. Totally Bland, herself.

Elizabeth sat in a plush chair and typed on her cell phone, not worried about the dog. Nikki was looking under clothing racks.

“I think you lost something,” I announced.

Elizabeth's head whipped up, her scowl at her phone turning to a smile.

Nikki emitted another shriek and extricated herself from the merchandise, revealing leopard-print leggings and a purple silk blouse. “Sweetums!” She waved her hands.

I handed the dog over as Nikki scolded her. “Bad doggie. Why Pookie run away from mama? Silly Pookie-bear.” Finger shaking gave way to nuzzling from both parties.

Elizabeth stood up and gave me the celebrity hug—hand lightly patting back, air kiss to one cheek. “What a surprise! What are you up to, Kate?” She laughed. “Shopping, of course.”

“Seeing the sights.”

“They are something.” We shared a smile as Nikki stopped communing with her dog and turned to me.

“Kate, thank you for rescuing Pookie.” She was dressed down, not quite as much eyeliner and maybe only one set of false eyelashes. Minimal diamonds.

“Where's the camera crew?”

Nikki tucked the dog inside her Hermes Birkin bag open on a chair. She tapped Pookie on the nose one last time. “Stay.” She turned to me. “Day off for them. Shopping day for me.”

“Plus a little business.” Elizabeth retook her seat.

“I'm interrupting.”

“No, no.” Nikki wrinkled her nose without moving her forehead. “We're shopping
and
talking
and
getting to know each other. And a teensy bit of business. Mostly a girls' afternoon out, so say you'll join us!” She clapped her hands.

“Sounds like fun.”
And a cultural experience.

Chapter Twenty-five

Nikki threw questions over her shoulder as often as she pulled items from the rack to hand to a discreet saleswoman.

“So Kate,” she began, “have you found anything out to help us?” Without letting me respond, she spoke in a loud, fake whisper to Elizabeth. “Kate's going to help me and Donnie make sure poor Billy's death doesn't hurt the race.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Elizabeth asked.

I shrugged. “Ask around about who might have wanted him dead. Give Nikki and Don a quiet heads-up if the result will reflect badly on the race organization. Or the race itself.” Nikki focused on a blouse, and I leaned toward Elizabeth and lowered my voice. “I'm not really sure, but it's making her happy for me to ask a few questions.”

“I understand.”

“Figured.” I raised my voice again. “I don't have a lot of information yet, but maybe you can tell me more about him.”

“He's dead. Why do you need to talk about him?” Nikki asked, as Pookie barked punctuation from her purse-perch.

I managed not to roll my eyes, but it was tough. “Figuring out who killed him means figuring out why it happened. That usually has something to do with who he was.”

“Unless it was a random event,” Elizabeth suggested. “But that's pretty unlikely.”

I was grateful Elizabeth seemed to understand, and I appreciated the glint of humor in her eyes as she watched me deal with Nikki.

“Okay.” Nikki stared into the distance, a lurid yellow silk blouse drooping unnoticed from a hanger in her hand. “Billy.”

It was the first time I'd seen her show any reaction to his death. “Sorry. It must be difficult for you. How long had you been dating?”

She snapped to attention, frowning at the blouse and replacing it on the rack. “A few months.”

“How did you meet?”

“A party for race sponsors and executives.”

Would I have to pry every tidbit loose?
“What made you get involved?”

Nikki swiveled to look at me, incredulous. “To start with, hot. Hot, hot, hot. I mean twenty-four-year-old body hot.”

I tried to quell my nausea. “Was that it? Sex?”

“Not that it wouldn't be enough,” Elizabeth noted, amused.

Nikki flicked through hangers. “He was going to help me understand the racing world. I hadn't been involved before, since my husband ran the event. But now that it's my responsibility, I wanted an insider's help, and he convinced me he had all the connections I'd ever need.”

I opened my mouth to ask the next question, but Nikki whipped around. “I'm going to go try things on.” She stalked off to the dressing room.

I exchanged shrugs with Elizabeth and sat down in the remaining chair. Another shop worker appeared and offered us glasses of water, then held a tiny dish to Pookie's mouth and waited while the dog lapped it up.

When she left, I turned to Elizabeth. “I didn't know you were friends with Nikki.”

She held up a hand and wiggled it back and forth. “Friends? Colleagues? Business associates? I contacted her on behalf of the series, to help her grow into her new role. Plus, I've been out on this coast a lot, seeing Holden. Nikki would call and want me to talk to her about racing. Or want me to go shopping with her.” She paused. “That is, watch her shop.”

We smiled at each other, and I felt a connection with her for the first time, which emboldened me to bring up my family. “I know that my looking into Billy's death is odd, since it's no secret he and I—and Holden—haven't been friends.”

“So I understand.”

“Nikki and Don asked, for the sake of the race.” I didn't mention Frame Savings or Coleman's additional pressure.

Elizabeth wasn't as judgmental as I'd expected anyone allied with Holden to be. “It's good of you to want to help. Even if you don't solve the crime, it might bring comfort to people like Nikki to have you involved.”

“I'll leave catching a murderer for the cops. I want to do what I can to make sure racing isn't tainted by this.”

“That's really great of you.” She leaned forward. “I'd also be happy to help you make sure the racing world is still seen as honest and respectable.”

Crooks and cheaters were legion in racing's history, so I thought she aimed too high. But I was happy for the support. “Thanks. How much did you see Billy in the last year?”

“About once a month, with Holden, of course. Holden and Billy also spent time together when I wasn't around.”

“Did you know what he was doing? How he was doing?”

“Working at the branch here. I'm not sure how it was going. His side of the story was that people didn't respect good ideas or respect him. He was frustrated with the entrenched bureaucracy at the bank, but he was fired up to make changes.” She paused. “He felt the branch job was an attempt to marginalize him, to keep him from his rightful role in the bank structure. I remember him saying, more than once, ‘I'll show them they won't keep me down long.'”

A job many people would give their right arm for, and he thought it wasn't worthy of him? What a useless sack of—no, Kate, no judgment.
I gritted
my teeth.

Nikki exited the dressing room in a swirl of green chiffon. She'd put a long, flowing, yet backless top over her zebra-striped leggings. I blinked. No, the other leggings had been leopard.

“What do you girls think?”

Elizabeth winked at me. “You look great, Nikki. The green really makes your eyes pop.”

Nikki swept back into the changing room, and I turned to Elizabeth. “Where does she wear something like that?”

“No idea.”

“Billy was making big plans and changes at work. Any idea what he did outside of it?”

“Aside from Nikki?”

I'd walked into that one. “Dating her, check. Anything else you heard about?”

“Coleman was taking Billy under his wing in the community.”

“Volunteer work?”

“More like getting to know the local business community,” Elizabeth replied. “Making connections to bring business into the bank. Breakfast meetings, dinners to entertain people, that sort of thing.”

“I heard something about a Thursday morning breakfast meeting of influential businessmen. The local movers and shakers.”

Nikki appeared in front of us again, in a screaming, hot pink bustier paired with the same zebra leggings. My eyes watered in response to the color.

“I remember something about the big dogs,” Elizabeth said to me.

“You mean the BDBC.” Nikki tossed the words over her shoulder as she examined herself in the mirror, hands to hips, curving her shoulders forward to emphasize her breasts.

“BDBC?” I asked.

“The Big Dog Breakfast Club. All the boys who meet Thursday mornings.” Nikki met my eyes in the mirror. “That's not the
real
name. That's what my husband called it.”

I exchanged equally confused glances with Elizabeth. “Your husband was in it?”

“The boys helped him make all kinds of money. He used to say it was the best club he'd ever joined. That the boys would never steer him wrong.” She looked at the rings she wore and smiled. “I liked the group because when he made money from it, he'd buy me more baubles.”

Considering the “baubles” she wore represented dozens of carats of gems, I understood her affection for it. “What kind of deals?”

“He wouldn't tell me, which was strange, since he told me more than I ever wanted to know about the catsup factory.”

Don't ask.

“Do you know who else was in the club?” Elizabeth asked.

Nikki shrugged. “Coleman Sherain. Billy, sort of. Do you want me to find out more?”

“I'd appreciate it.” I watched Nikki shifting back and forth to examine her shoes in the mirror. Five-inch, pink, translucent, strappy heels. “You know Coleman Sherain?”

She spoke first to Elizabeth. “I'm sorry, dearest, for what I'm about to say.” She turned to me. “I hate that asshole.”