Red Flags (22 page)

Chapter Forty-two

I heard people calling my name, and I quickly stuffed the note back in my purse, as I pulled my emotions together. Holly threw her wrap around my shoulders to warm me as Elizabeth and her boss, Tug Brehan, VP of operations for the SCC, rushed toward us from behind the staircase.

“Are you all right?” Tug asked me.

“What happened?” Elizabeth chimed in.

Alexa appeared, repeating both questions, buying me more time to consider how to respond. My insides still trembled in shock.

I went with the easy question. “A couple bumps and bruises, nothing serious.”

“You're sure?” Elizabeth asked, and I nodded.

“We started to hear the wildest stories,” Tug put in. “You tripped. You were pushed. You were avoiding a mugger. You bet someone you could jump over a small car parked at the curb.” He grinned. “I'd have figured on the latter, but I know you like to keep your superpowers under wraps.”

I made myself chuckle. “Nothing so newsworthy, I'm afraid. I stumbled over someone, tried to save a fall, and launched instead. Dumb and very embarrassing.”

Holly looked at me, then at the others. “Given the circumstances, we'll skip the party.”

Tug narrowed his eyes, studying my face. “Entirely your choice.”

“You're sure you're all right?” Alexa stepped forward and took my hand.

I smiled at her. “I'll be fine, thank you.”

“Good, stay in shape for the weekend.” She paused. “We may have a situation you could help us with. I'll be in touch when I know.”

That did a lot to calm my nerves. What worked even better to help me relax was the bubble bath I soaked in back at the hotel.

Holly perched on the wide ledge next to the tub. “That enough bubbles for you, sugar?”

I nodded, happy to feel tensed muscles starting to relax.

“It's time to ask who did this. The obvious answer is Billy's killer.”

“Which means Billy's killer isn't anyone at last night's dinner. Or Don or Nikki.”

“Unless someone didn't believe you.”

“Or wanted to keep me on the job.”

Holly tapped a finger to her lips. “The rational person would stay away, like the note says. You know, when the haunted house tells you not to go in, you don't go in?”

“I tried to stay away. I told people I was going to!” I smacked the water, spraying bubbles. “I can't sit here waiting to be attacked again.” I sobered, reliving the shove and my fall in slow motion. Feeling the panic again. The loss of control and the certainty I'd be hurt. The fear. I shuddered. “I was lucky.”

“True. So if the result of being attacked is you keep investigating, who benefits?”

“Nikki. But only if she thought threatening me would make me keep going.”

“It only takes knowing you a little bit.”

I flicked a bubble at her. “I might really have been hurt.”

“Or killed,” Holly put in.

I swallowed hard. “But if whoever shoved me expected it to make me stop…”

“We're back to people who didn't know, didn't believe you, or wanted to be sure your decision stayed made because you were scared or out of commission. Which doesn't narrow down the field much.”

“Try not at all.” I sighed. “It's not that I want to keep at this. Or that I feel I've made any progress. Anyone I suspect has an alibi I can't break, like Nikki or Don. Or they have no motive at all and they're people I can't possibly investigate, like Coleman or Holden.”

“Or it's someone you don't want it to be. Meaning Tara or her sister.”

“Maybe I should stop.” I stared at the bubbles. “I'm not doing anything but sticking my nose into everyone else's business. I've got no results, and I'm taking time away from the job I'm paid for. I might even be jeopardizing my future with my sponsors.”

“Your mood has more swings than a park. Turn your brain off. The circus comes to town tomorrow, so you'll have a change of scenery and a whole new set of people to talk to.” She meant the racing community, set to arrive at the Long Beach track the next day.

I sank down further in the water. “Thank goodness we can go to a racetrack. This Beverly-Hills-and-Hollywood lifestyle is too much for me.”

“You'll feel better tomorrow.”

She was right. Even after a night of brooding and the occasional nightmare about falling, I woke up Thursday morning equal parts upbeat, pissed off, and determined. Determined to be a good little soldier looking into Billy's death for my sponsor and the racing organization. Pissed off at the coward who'd pushed me. Or had me pushed. Adamant I wouldn't let him win. I'd keep doggedly asking questions—even if I didn't know what I was doing—until the cops caught Billy's murderer.

I also woke needing answers from Don Kessberg. He'd be busy that day, with the race weekend starting. But at least I knew where to find him.

As I drove the rental car south to Long Beach, Holly asked if Coleman Sherain was still my number one suspect.

“That's what you told Nikki yesterday. I wondered what his motive could have been.” She tipped her new, oversized Gucci sunglasses down her nose at me. “Mind you, I agree. Coleman is the sleaziest of a pretty sleazy bunch, except for maybe Uncle Edward. But you can't figure Edward killed his only son.”

“Fathers have killed their sons before. But no, I don't think Edward had anything to do with it.” I watched traffic in the lanes ahead as I considered. “If Coleman did it, I think it was to preserve his lifestyle. His West Coast wife and kids, connections to sketchy businessmen, access to power. Probably some kind of illegal business practices. He's that type. While that doesn't mean he's a killer, it's a motive if Billy was messing things up for him.”

“Or drawing too much attention to their practices.” She looked out the window at the rows of palm trees visible over the high wall of the 405 freeway. “If it was him, how did he get to you last night? We didn't see him. And why?”

“With his connections, he could hire someone. Maybe he didn't believe I was serious, so he thought he'd make sure of it.”

She might have said more, but my phone rang. She batted my hand away from it. “Hands free, remember? It's Alexa.” She put the call on speakerphone.

“Kate, how are you feeling today?” Alexa began.

“A little stiff, but nothing that won't work itself out. How's everything at the track?”

“Setup's going fine, but we've got a problem. I'm sure you know Sasha Ivanov is our Indy Lights driver. He's had a visa problem, and he's stuck at home in the Ukraine. Can't get out for the race. We're short a driver.”

I grinned at Holly. “Is that something I can help you with?”

“I'm hoping,” she replied. “Would you like to drive that car for us this weekend? I know it's not an oval, but it'll still be good practice for you. And good exposure.”

I clamped down on my emotions and nerves. “I need to check the schedule. In addition to the SCC times, I need to be available for the celebrity race sessions, to fulfill my obligations there.”

“I heard you're coaching Maddie Theabo. How's she doing?”

“She's got skills. She should do well.”

“Great. I'm looking at the schedule now, and of course, nothing's on track at the same time. Indy Lights qualifies right after the Pro/Celebrity race ends, but as I remember, there's time in between. I think we can get you where you need to be for all three.”

Holly mouthed the word “sponsors” at me, and I nodded. “Alexa, do you need to check this with your sponsors?”

“Already cleared. After the tabloid photos from the test day that included sponsor logos on the car, they're thrilled. If Frame Savings or Beauté want to kick in funding to get their logos in, we can find them a prominent location. But it's not a requirement. Funding is covered. We need a hot shoe. You in?”

“I'll need to clear it with Jack at Sandham Swift Racing, as a courtesy. But assuming he's fine with it, heck yeah, I'm in. Thank you.”

“Great. Find me in the IndyCar paddock this afternoon. I'll get a seat dug up, and we'll get you settled in the car.”

It took me two miles of highway to find my voice again. “It's starting.”

“Sugar, you're gonna be busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.” She laughed at herself. “But it sure is starting.”

Chapter Forty-three

After turning in my rental car at the small, charming Long Beach Airport, Holly and I piled into a taxi for the seven-mile drive across town to the Renaissance Hotel, our home for the next few days. We checked in early, tossed our bags into our rooms, and crossed the bustling Ocean Boulevard to the main entrance of what was quickly becoming the Grand Prix track.

Thursday was setup day for everyone. The larger track structures and miles of fencing had been installed over the last couple months, and with cars scheduled to take to the track for official practice at seven forty-five the next morning, kicking off three days of nonstop activity, it was time for the final touches. Those included the large concert stage on the plaza in front of the Performing Arts Center, vendor setup in the convention center's exhibition hall, and the arrival of the racing competitors.

The evening before, semi-trucks containing cars and equipment had rolled in to four different areas of the track compound: IndyCar teams in the center of the infield, Indy Lights teams inside the sports arena building, World Challenge cars at one end of the exhibition hall, and SCC teams in a parking lot outside the track next to Turn 11.

Today was a day of business, before the fans arrived and the show began, as teams set up their equipment and cars. My first stop, first priority, was Sandham Swift Racing in the SportsCar Championship paddock. Holly and I waved to friends as we cruised down the row of teams, finding Sandham Swift's assigned spot near the end of the main aisle, directly across from the technical inspection tent.

Aunt Tee, our team mom, unfolded chairs and spread tablecloths in the small hospitality area at the rear of our space, while the crew was hard at work prepping the 28 car, which Mike Munroe and I shared. Since this race was for only two of the four SCC classes, our sister car, the 29, wasn't racing with us this weekend. The paddock felt extra small with only one Corvette.

“About time you got here, Reilly.” Mike leaned against a toolbox, watching the crew.

I gave him a quick hug. “Good to see you, too.”

He turned to Holly to tease her about her NASCAR debut, and I enjoyed the sight of my big, burly co-driver towering over my petite friend. I went into the hauler we used for our gear and team meetings and greeted our team owner, Jack Sandham.

“I hear the test went well last week,” Jack offered.

I wondered who he'd heard from, but didn't ask. “Well enough they're asking me to drive their Lights car this weekend because their driver's stuck in the Ukraine.”

“That Sasha kid?”

“Right. I told them you needed to be on board if I was going to do it.”

Jack crossed his arms over his chest and glowered down at me. He wore nothing but black on his tall, lanky body, and he was as intimidating as a man twice his bulk, all due to attitude. Except I knew better. He had a hard outer shell and a soft center.

I faced him, crossing my own arms. “The Corvette stays top priority.”

“I should let you do this? What's in it for me?”

I knew he wouldn't stand in the way, but I kept playing the game. “A mention in every interview, though it'll be awkward if they're asking me for beauty secrets.”

He barked out a laugh. “You do that. Tell them I say women should only wear black eyeliner.”

“It's the classic for a reason.” I eyed him. “Are we good?”

He finally smiled and dropped his arms. “Go do your thing, kid. You'll be busy.”

“Thanks, you're right. Saturday'll be tight because of the celebrity race also.”

Jack rubbed his hands together. “Right. Madelyn Theabo. How's she doing? Should I put my money on her?”

“I'm taking her in the pool to win.” Sandham Swift Racing put together a betting pool every year for the celebrity race, each of us picking a winner and the first to crash. There were always crashes in the celebrity race, usually multiple wrecks. In fact, it wasn't unusual for half of the ten-lap race to be run under caution to clean up accidents.

“Then I for sure won't pick her to wreck,” Jack replied.

We talked through Friday and Saturday's schedules for a few moments, working out where I needed to be, and when, for Sandham Swift. Then I hollered at Mike to join me toting our firesuits, helmets, and other gear to technical inspection for approval. While we stood watching the Series technical team sort through our clothing, I explained to Mike the triple-duty I'd be pulling that weekend. “I figure that means you'll do the qualifying.”

He nodded, his shaggy brown hair flopping around. “It was my turn, anyway. That's great for you. So your Indy plans are moving ahead? For next year?”

“Looks like. For a couple years, along with other things I'm not ready to talk about.”

“I'm going to hate when you're not my regular co-driver.” He hooked an arm around my neck and rubbed his knuckles on the top of my head.

I batted at his hands to extricate myself. “I'm not leaving soon, Mike.” But his words made me sad at the thought I would someday.

He smiled. “We'll kick ass together until you do. And I'll come see you at the 500.”

“I'll hold you to that.”

Once inspection was done, I promised to meet Mike again in an hour for a track walk and headed off to check in with Alexa. She took me over to the Beermeier Racing Indy Lights team inside the round sports arena and introduced me to the crew of the car I'd be driving: the number 47, sponsored by Kremer Building Supply. They were different men than I'd worked with at the Beermeier test the week before, since that had been the IndyCar Series team. Tristan Rhys, the race engineer, was especially welcoming.

I sat in the car, using a seat for a recent test-driver they said was a similar size to me. They weren't wrong, but that other driver wasn't female, so the fit was pretty tight in the hip area. I squeezed into it, though it wasn't what I'd call comfortable, especially with my right hip sore from my fall the night before. I'd make it work.

One of the mechanics leaned over me to buckle the seatbelts and ratcheted them down with ridiculous, unnecessary force. I gasped in surprise and pain as he yanked straps across my bruised side.

I heard him muttering under his breath. “Don't belong here. Think you're better than everyone else. Don't deserve this.” And more in the same vein.

It was so unexpected, I didn't know how to respond. Tristan saw the stunned look on my face and the angry one on the mechanic's and hustled over to pull the guy away, talking to him sharply and sending him out of the building. I wondered if the mechanic knew my father's family or if he hated me for me.

Tristan knelt down next to the car. “I'm sorry, Kate. What did he say?”

“That I didn't belong here.”

“I hope you know that's not true. We're happy to have you, and I'm sorry he didn't make you feel welcome. He has a nephew who tested with us, so he may think his nephew should be here. But that's no excuse. I'll speak to Alexa about him.”

I didn't ask if I'd displaced the mechanic's nephew. I didn't want to know and didn't care. That was racing. We scrambled for every opportunity we could get, on the track or off, and sometimes it came down to luck and timing. I'd been on the opposite side of it myself. If he was good and persistent, the nephew would get his chance. But not this weekend.

“We'll keep him out of your way for the weekend.” Tristan looked down at my lap. “The seat okay?”

“It's a tight fit, but it'll work.”

“Great, let's get the pedals fitted.” He turned to the rest of the crew. “Pickle, help us?”

A young, slender man with a buzz cut trotted over and cheerfully adjusted the pedals forward and back to suit me, and we got the car set up. I spent a few minutes with Tristan discussing my past experience with Lights cars, my car setup preferences versus those of their regular driver, and what radio communication I liked to receive while in the car. We also went over the timing of meetings and on-track sessions, and I added them to my master list. Everything was doable except for the Indy Lights driver autograph session, which was scheduled at the same time as the mandatory SCC Series driver meeting. Tristan assured me he'd get approval for me to miss it, and we parted, satisfied on all sides.

Holly waited for me in the sun outside the big rollup door of the arena, where the Lights cars went in and out. The angry mechanic stood to the side, smoking. I ignored the glare he shot me.

“What's his problem?” Holly asked.

“Nothing I can fix. There's the weekend's head honcho, Don Kessberg.” I waved as Don walked by, and he returned the gesture.

Holly turned to watch him as we started back through the IndyCar paddock to reach the SCC area. “That's interesting.”

“Don is?”

“If he's asking you to look into Billy's death. Also ironic. Don didn't like Billy.”

“You didn't know who Don was, how do you know that?”

“It's my assumption, based on the screaming match I heard at Petit last year.”

“Billy was at Petit Le Mans?”

“I didn't tell you I saw him. You didn't need the added stress.”

I wasn't sure how I felt about that. “Go on.”

“I saw Billy and a man—who I now know is Don Kessberg—in an argument behind the Series hospitality tent one day. At least, Don was arguing. Billy stood there with that insufferable, smug rich-kid look he has. Had.” She shook her head. “I never figured out what they were talking about, but Don wasn't happy about it. He was using colorful language. Telling Billy he'd beat the tar out of him if he tried anything. Said he didn't care who Billy was sleeping with, he'd stop Billy from throwing her money away. Said Billy would ruin everything only over Don's dead body.”

I looked at Holly. “Or Billy's?”