Red Flags (2 page)

Chapter Two

I left Detective Barnes with my cell number and the mystery of who killed Billy. The other crimes I'd felt obligated to help solve had involved victims or suspects I cared about, including myself. This one did not.

My spirits lifted as I headed back to the day's activities. On my right was the Long Beach Arena, a big, round building with a huge mural of an underwater scene painted all the way around it. Yes, the building that hosted concerts, sports, and special events for the City of Long Beach was circular and blue, with life-size whales on it. Only in Southern California.

Ahead of me was a parking lot transformed into a paddock by the addition of chain link, racecars, and transport trailers. At the far side of the enclosure, I could see the brightly logoed Toyota Scions of the celebrity race competitors pulling off the track. I quickened my steps.

The conclusion of the second celebrity practice meant Media Day for the Grand Prix of Long Beach, or GPLB, was a wrap. We were ten days out from the race itself, plenty of time for local media to write stories about the coming event that would fire up the local population and increase attendance. To that end, the day was a dog-and-pony show.

In addition to getting to know the types of cars that would race during the GPLB weekend—including an IndyCar, a Porsche 911 GT3 R, and the celebrity cars—members of the press could interview the stars taking part in the ten-lap celebrity race to benefit charities. To get a real taste for the track, journalists strapped into pace cars for a hot lap at the hands of one of four pro drivers: the current Indy 500 champion, a drifting champion, a Pirelli World Challenge race winner, and me. I'd driven a couple dozen laps that day, and every passenger had exited the car with an ear-to-ear grin.

My driving duties were over for the day, but my work wasn't, since I was coaching the most famous of the celebrity competitors. I smiled at the security guard monitoring entry to the media area and hurried over to the Toyotas.

The celebrity race was made up of two groups: professional drivers from different forms of motorsport—motorcycle racing, drag racing, or even someone long-retired from sportscar racing—and a variety of celebrities from the music industry, movies, television, news, or other sports. The celebrities were always hit and miss, some years famous and attention-drawing, some years not so much. This year they'd hit the jackpot with a member of the current number-one boy-band and an Oscar-winner with critical success
and
starring roles in the two biggest box-office films of the last year. That was my client, Madelyn, or Maddie, Theabo.

I aimed for the scrum of media in the center of the celebrity cars, certain what I'd find: Maddie and the boy-band member back-to-back, fielding questions from reporters. I caught Maddie's eye and pointed to the temporary trailer where the race staff had set up for the day. She nodded, but kept talking.

Two months prior, I'd received a phone call out of the blue from a woman named Penny Warner, who was looking for a driving coach. We were most of the way through negotiations before she revealed she was calling for her employer, Maddie, one of the biggest names in movies. It took two hours for me to get over my fangirl freakout.

Maddie had gone through the standard celebrity training, four days at a track in the high desert north of L.A. But she wanted more instruction, feedback, and support. Since then, we'd met at different go-kart facilities to work on braking points and lines, and I'd prepped her as well as I could for driving the Long Beach track. But nothing compared to being out on the pavement, and part of my job was to help her make sense of her impressions.

I watched her handle the crush of fans and media, marveling that she didn't ignore anyone. I understood firsthand how a crowd of media and fans could press in on a person, and I'd only endured it briefly at a racetrack. Away from the track, I was virtually invisible. But everyone recognized Maddie, and she still handled the attention graciously, replying to greetings, smiling at photo-takers, and accommodating everyone who asked for a signature. She'd told me when we met that she knew her success was due to her fans, so she always gave them and the media time.

When she finally broke free from the reporters, we ducked into the office trailer, nodding to three staff members huddled over laptops at the far end of the room. Maddie leaned against a desk inside the door, draining the contents of a water bottle. She was thirty-three, with a slender build, an expressive face, and bouncy, wavy, auburn hair half the world coveted.

I eyed the flush in her cheeks. “How was it?”

“Nearly as much fun as sex.”

I laughed. “Did anything trip you up? Was the track what you expected?”

Since the Long Beach Grand Prix track was comprised of city streets, which had to be closed to traffic, it was only available during Media Day and the race weekend. The stands, barricades, and fencing lining the course would remain, but the walls shutting down public roads would be moved aside any minute now, to be set in place again a week from Thursday, when the race weekend began. Today's two sessions, both follow-alongs, single file behind an instructor, were the first time the celebrity competitors had seen the racing surface.

“You'd warned me,” she said, “but the walls were still closer after Turns 5 and 8 than I expected.”

The concrete walls brought in to define the temporary circuit were big and unforgiving, and to wring the most speed out of a car, we ran right next to them. More than one reporter during the day's laps had flinched at their proximity.

We talked corners for a few minutes until I saw Maddie shiver. “You need to get changed before you catch a chill. Keep thinking about the track, and draw your racing line on the track map I gave you.”

“You're still coming to the party this evening?” Maddie asked. “And the studio tomorrow? Penny has a car arranged for tonight.”

“She does, but I don't need the car and driver. I drive for a living.”

“It's easier. You can drink what you like, enjoy yourself, and not be unsafe driving home. Plus parking in the hills is a bitch.” She put a hand on my arm. “For all you're helping me, it's the least I can do. Besides, this way, I won't worry about you.”

I gave in. “What do I wear tonight? I've never been to a party in Hollywood.”

“Anything you want, Kate. You'll see ripped jeans and sequins, sometimes on the same person.” She smiled. “I'll see you later.”

I followed her out of the trailer and watched her purposeful stride through the fenced area, her ever-present personal assistant, Penny, next to her. The fenced-off parking lot was rapidly draining of vehicles as the celebrity race staff took the Toyotas back to their staging area. My work was done. I collected my belongings from the lone IndyCar trailer, waving at one of the IndyCar Series executives as he passed. I also nodded at a member of the grand prix organization, then stopped when she spoke to me.

“Thanks again for giving the press a thrill, Kate.”

“You bet.” I shook her hand. “You're Erica?”

“Erica Aarons. Your team media guy, Tom, said you'd let me set up some interviews while you're in L.A. for the next week. If that's all right, I'll make a plan.”

After swapping contact information, I continued on my way to the GPLB media center in the basement of the Performing Arts Center building, which—combined with the whale-muraled arena, a hotel, and the convention center—formed the heart of the Long Beach circuit. I ducked inside, downstairs, and into the women's bathroom. One thing I loved about this race facility was the abundance of real bathrooms. I'd been in lots of porta-potties in my career, and I preferred running water.

I swung the door open and came face-to-face with Elizabeth Rogers, part of the operations team for the SportsCar Championship, or SCC, the series I competed in.

Elizabeth saw me and dissolved into tears. “Kate, did you hear what happened? Holden is devastated.”

My spirits fell to the ground with a thump. Billy. Dead.

Chapter Three

I blinked away the image of Billy on the ground, dented and bloody. “I heard, yes.” I used the excuse of going into a stall to assemble my thoughts.

As I washed my hands a minute later, I studied Elizabeth. Aside from her red eyes and blotchy skin, her long, straight, blond hair—an Alice in Wonderland look—was her most distinguishing feature. Though we'd become acquainted through her role in operations for the SCC, I'd never gotten past the surface with her. Never seen emotion. Until now.

I dried my hands and turned to her, leaning against the counter. “Were you close to Billy?”

“Since I've been seeing Holden, Billy and I have gotten to be good friends. You know how close the two of them are. Were.” That set off another round of slow tears rolling down her cheeks. “I feel so badly for what Holden's going through.”

“You spoke with him?”

Another nod and a hiccupped sob. “Once I found out from the GPLB staff, I had to tell him. Holden deserved to know right away, from someone who cares.”

Holden Sherain deserves a swift kick in the rear. No, be charitable. Even if you don't like him, feel sorry for him. He must be devastated.
I thought about Billy, beaten to death and abandoned in the parking structure. I came up with more sympathy for both cousins.

I was fumbling for what to say to Elizabeth—I didn't know how to console her and didn't want to ask after Holden—when there was a commotion outside the door. It swung open to reveal a woman who looked like she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere on her way to a mall. I caught a flash of diamonds and a glimpse of a red-soled shoe.
Forget a mall, she's AWOL from Rodeo Drive.

She pointed at someone outside. “Not this time. Stay there.” She closed the door and slumped against it, only then noticing us watching her, our mouths agape.

I'd never seen her before, but Elizabeth had. Within seconds of the door closing, Elizabeth flung herself at the newcomer. “Nikki! I'm so sorry! How are you coping?”

Judging by her lack of tears or distress, Nikki was coping fine, except, perhaps, with Elizabeth. She patted Elizabeth on the back and extricated herself from the embrace.

She turned to me with a pageant smile, featuring loads of straight, blue-white teeth. “I'm Nikki Gray. Pardon the intrusion.”

Everything about Nikki was overdone and big, unless it was supposed to be small: tiny waist, impressive cleavage, full golden-brown hair, skyscraper heels, and sparkly diamonds and other gemstones. At first glance, she was the young, slim, tan L.A. stereotype. With a second look, I revised my estimation of her age and number of surgical procedures upward, seeing the unnaturally taut skin under her eyes and the way the corners of her plump mouth tilted up even at rest.

I noted my own flat hair, how the little bit of mascara I'd put on that morning had run under my eyes, and that I'd somehow collected a stain on the front of my white team polo. I dragged a finger under each eye to scrape away mascara. “Kate Reilly. Public place. All yours.”

She tee-heed. “I simply had to have a break from those cameras.”

Elizabeth sniffed, though her eyes were dry. “You've got the crew here? But what are you doing about Billy? You know what happened? You can't be using that on your show!”

“They've been here all day.” Nikki turned to me and smiled brightly. “I'm shooting a reality show pilot about my life since my husband's death in a tragic badminton accident.”

I kept my mouth shut, not sure how badminton could be tragic or how tragedy translated to her chipper tone. Not sure how she and Elizabeth knew each other or how Billy fit in. Especially a dead Billy.

“But,” Elizabeth put in, “you were dating.”

I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly.

Nikki moved to the counter and peered at her reflection in the mirror. “I heard what happened. Poor Billy.” She turned to me again. “We were spending time together. ‘Dating' sounds so high school, doesn't it?” She tittered.

What soap opera had I been dropped into? She'd been sleeping with Billy? What did she see in him other than a pretty face and a twenty-four-year-old body?
Oh, right. Hello, rich, bimbo, Southern California cougar.

“Won't it look bad if you're not upset?” Elizabeth asked.

Nikki pouted again, watching herself in the mirror, as if verifying a pout was a good look for her—it was—and patted Elizabeth's cheek. “The first thing you learn about reality television is not to deal with real emotion on-camera. Tamara made that mistake a couple seasons ago on her show about running her spa in Santa Monica.” The last was addressed to me, before she looked back at Elizabeth. “I feel terrible about Billy, but I'll handle that at home, alone. Not in front of the cameras.” Nikki might have frowned, the barest wrinkling of her brow. “But honestly, it's not as if we were deeply in love. We'd only known each other a couple months.”

I couldn't tell if she was unaffected by Billy's death or if she had the self-control to hold off grieving until later.

She fluttered her fingers. “Excuse me a minute while I tinkle.” She tiptoed off to the stalls in her stripper heels.

I also wondered if the clueless persona was an act or a way of life.
I'd never heard anyone over the age of five use the word “tinkle.” My whole experience in that bathroom had felt like a visit to a foreign country. One I was ready to leave.

I looked at a visibly calmer Elizabeth. “Will you be all right?”

“I'll be fine. Holden is on his way here from San Diego, so I'll pull myself together to be strong for him.” Her eyes got watery again, and she took a deep breath. “It's kind of you to ask.”

I left, thinking it was the most intimate conversation I'd ever had with Elizabeth. Then again, murder brought all kinds of people and behavior out of the woodwork.

I exited the bathroom into the glare of lights and the stares of cameras, which were quickly lowered when they saw I wasn't Nikki.

“Sorry,” called a man with a clipboard.

I exited the media center building, still blinking away spots in my eyes, and almost ran into someone.

“Easy there, Kate.” I heard a hint of laughter in a voice I recognized.

“Ryan Johnston. It's been a while.”

To be precise, it had been fifteen months since the grim and emotional 24 Hours of Daytona where I'd met Ryan, an FBI agent undercover with a team run by a money-laundering, murderous, thug-harboring crook. Of course, no one had known Ryan was FBI until I'd unmasked the killer who tried to abduct my half-sister, Lara. I still thought Ryan could have done more to keep Lara safe, but I'd long since accepted he'd had different priorities.

“Good to see you, Kate.” He smiled, offering a hand. His grip was like the rest of him: mild-mannered on the surface, hints of iron underneath. “How's Stuart Telarday doing?”

Stuart had been the killer's first victim at Daytona, though Stuart had been critically injured in an engineered hit-and-run accident, not killed. It had been a long road to recovery, and Stuart's physical healing was happening faster than the emotional. “Pretty well. He may never regain all of his memory, at least around the accident. But he's mobile now and getting back to full health.”

“Are you still seeing him?”

I looked at Ryan in surprise. “What does that have to do with Billy?”

“Who's Billy?”

“The dead guy over in the garage.” I pointed to the structure. “Billy Reilly-Stinson.”

“More dead bodies?”

“Isn't that why you're here? I can't imagine why Billy would interest the FBI.”

“He hadn't caught our attention yet, though, having met him, it was only a matter of time. I'm here to see the Series in action again. And to see you.”

“Me?”

“I realize you're probably leaving after today, but you'll be back in a week?”

“I'm staying until the race.”

His grin animated his entire face. “Are you still seeing Stuart? Or anyone else?”

I did the math and smiled. “Are you asking me out?”