Red Flags (4 page)

Chapter Six

My first thoughts Wednesday, the morning after the party, were of three different men: Lucas Tolani, Ryan Johnston, and Billy Reilly-Stinson. Lying in my fluffy bed, I felt smug about dates with two of them. And, despite the fact we hated each other, I felt sympathy for Billy and the people who'd loved him. He'd never again know the anticipation of a first date or the comfort of a bed like this. I remembered the scene and grimaced. It hadn't been a gentle way to die.

I shook off my mood and got ready to meet my father, James Hightower Reilly III, for breakfast at the famous Canter's Deli on Fairfax. I didn't spot the celebrities that apparently flocked there, but I did see a woman in a wedding dress sitting at a table. No one else paid any attention to her. As we settled into an orange-red vinyl booth, my father saw me looking around.

“It's an L.A. institution,” he told me. “Been here more than eighty years, open twenty-four hours. I love diners.”

Yet another thing we share.
“Holly hates it when I want to stop at every hometown spot.”

After we'd ordered corned beef hash and eggs for him and an avocado, mushroom, and Swiss omelet for me, conversation lagged. We'd gotten the pleasantries out of the way on the drive over. Now it was time for the heavy topics.

After a lifetime of no connection, I was slowly coming to terms with my father. And possibly with his wife and two children. The other members of the family I'd met were “uncle” Edward, “cousin” Billy, and “cousin” Holden. They'd greeted me with open hostility and disdain, which stemmed from the events surrounding my birth, when my mother died and my father walked away, leaving me to be raised by my maternal grandparents.

My father claimed not to have known his family gave money to my grandmother when she took me home with her, and whether that was a kind gesture to help with my rearing or a payoff to stay away from the Reilly family forever was under dispute. My father believed the former. My uncle and cousins believed the worst. The bigger question that had nagged at me for the last year, if not my whole life, was why my father had walked away from his newborn child all those years ago.

My father took a deep breath. “Did you talk with your grandparents?”

“Yes. Did you get information from your family?”

“I did. But first, I want us to agree we won't blindly adhere to either story. That we'll work together and agree on the truth.”

“You think one side is lying?”

“I'm suggesting one person's truth isn't the same as another's. I'm also suggesting we commit to staying civil, since the families couldn't manage that.” He paused. “My relationship with you is more important to me than my family being right twenty-six years ago. I don't want to lose you again.”

I tried to decide how I'd feel rejecting what my grandparents had told me. My father and I had made progress in our relationship over the past year, and I was starting to trust him with my thoughts and emotions. But I didn't feel connected to him, not the way I was connected to my grandparents.

“Can you do that, Kate? Can you commit to working with me on this relationship and promise not to walk away when it gets difficult?”

I sucked in a breath.
Direct hit.
Different responses leapt to my lips, including “The way you walked away from me all those years ago?” and “Maybe I don't want this relationship if it means betraying my grandparents.” But I held onto them. Finally responded. “I'll do my best.”

The facts weren't disputed. My parents fell in love, married, and had me while they were students at Boston University. But three days after my birth, my mother died in the hospital. I'd gone home with my mother's parents, and I'd had no contact with my father or his family until three years ago. That's where stories diverged.

One year ago, Billy and Holden informed me my father's family had paid my grandparents to take me away. Since that information was news to my father also, we agreed to ask our respective families what had happened. I'd been dreading today's discussion.

My father wasn't a popular subject in my grandparents' house—his name was anathema, in fact. But I was an adult now, and I needed information. It took me nine months to wear my grandmother down. Three months after I'd finally cornered her, she still barely spoke to me. I didn't have the full story, but I had the idea.

My father cleared his throat. “Would you like to start with what you learned?”

“It wasn't much.” I paused. “You have to understand, my grandmother doesn't talk about you or your family. It was all I could do to get her to confirm she'd talked with members of the Reilly family back then. She wouldn't say who. She said all parties agreed I should be raised by her and Gramps, and that was that.”

“And the question of money?”

“She said your family provided some funds for my upbringing.”

“That's it?”

“That's all she'd tell me, but Gramps helped me piece together more of the story. He has no more love for the Reillys than Grandmother does, but he understands I need to know.” I sighed. “That's what Grandmother can't see. I'm going to make my own decisions, and it's better for me to have all the facts.”

“I'm sorry they're still so angry.” He pressed his lips together and looked away.

“Me, too. I don't like hurting them.”

We stayed quiet while the waitress delivered our meals.

“Gramps nosed around and figured out my savings account was started with a deposit of fifty thousand dollars, so that must have been from your family.” I dug into my omelet. “I didn't get any further details about who Grandmother spoke with or what was discussed. All she'd ever say was you and the Reillys didn't care about me, didn't want me, and wouldn't see me in the hospital, which we know is untrue, based on the photo you gave me of your father holding me. Gramps said Grandmother came back from Boston with me and all she said was, ‘We will raise the child, and we will never communicate with them.'”

I looked up from my plate to see my father staring out the window with tears in his eyes. I hadn't ever seen him emotional about the past, and it startled me. “I shouldn't have dumped all that on you at once.”

He shook his head. “I didn't know how much it was, but I knew they'd handed over money. They say your grandmother demanded it for taking you.”

A mouthful of eggs prevented me from an outraged response.

“I don't believe it,” he said. “Any more than you believe every word your grandmother said about me and my family.”

“Fair enough. Lots of bias on both sides. Who's ‘they'?”

“My mother and my brother.”

I set down my coffee cup with a clunk. “Your brother Edward. Maybe that explains why he hates me so much. But how old was he?”

“Only twenty.”

“And he was involved in your business?”

“He wouldn't have seen it as my business, but as family business.”

“That's bullshit.”

“It's how the Reilly family has always operated.”

“And you put up with that?” I paused, feeling a tightness in my chest. “I should ask this instead, why did you put up with that? Why did you let them get in your business?”

He took a long, deep breath and released it. “That's the explanation I owe you. I've been trying to prepare for it, and I'm not sure I have an acceptable response.”

I waited.

“I have reasons, but no excuse. I failed you. I know that, and I can't tell you the pain I feel knowing how much of your life I missed. How sorry I am I wasn't there.”

“That's
now
. I need to understand then.” Regrets didn't help me make sense of the past.

“I was devastated. I'd never lost anyone close to me before, and I was out of my mind grieving for your mother. My family swooped in, patting my hand and telling me not to worry about anything. By the time I understood what was happening, I was back at home.” He stared out the window again, his eyes—his whole face—bleak. “I woke up one morning and asked about the funeral.” He turned back to me. “Your grandparents had taken your mother back to New Mexico to bury. They'd taken you with them.”

“You could have come after me.”

“I should have. The truth is, I wasn't strong enough to go against my family.” He paused. “They told me your grandmother called me a killer and told me to stay away. They said she'd threatened to come after me and my family if I attempted to see you.”

“That doesn't sound like my grandmother at all.”

“I only half-believed it, but I understood she didn't want me around. My family didn't want us in contact either. That was too much pressure to fight.”

My chest was tight. “Even though you'd have been fighting for me?”

He froze, eyes on his plate. He opened and closed his mouth twice. “I was young and foolish. A coward.”

Has that changed?
“You went against your family when you found me three years ago.”

“Over the years, I'd wanted to find you, but I told myself my appearance would disrupt your life. Then, when we were both in the racing world, it seemed like fate.”

I wasn't sure I was happy with fate, but when it came to my relationship with my father, I'd learned not to make knee-jerk responses. Especially not to voice them. I needed time to sort through my feelings about his story.

Chapter Seven

While I drove back to the Beverly Hills Hotel, emotions still reeling from my father's revelations, I received a voicemail from Nikki Gray—with no trace of a giggle—asking me to talk with her and Don Kessberg, because only I could help them.

I debated ignoring the message, but professional responsibility got the better of me, and I called her back, then detoured to her Bel Air mansion. She'd offered no specifics, only begged me to meet with her and Don, telling me they needed my help to save the Long Beach Grand Prix from “certain disaster.” I didn't believe her dire predictions, but I'd been unable to resist her repeated entreaties. I pulled into her driveway ready for anything. Or so I thought.

To start with, her house wasn't what I expected. Given Nikki's overblown appearance, I'd braced myself for artificial Tuscan opulence. Instead, the space I entered was all clean lines and walls of glass. Nikki pranced ahead on another pair of platform heels to an enormous living room with one open wall looking south, from the ocean to downtown L.A.

“It's an amazing sight, isn't it?” Don claimed my attention and shook my hand. “Thanks for meeting with us, Kate.”

“Nikki said you're desperate. I have no idea how you think I can help you.” I sat down in a low, dark-gray leather armchair and watched him as he settled in the matching chair opposite me. He had the lean build of an athlete and a full head of thick, white hair.

Nikki sank down on the couch to my right, kicking off her shoes and tucking her bare feet under her—no small achievement in a short, skin-tight, stretchy dress.

I jumped as the small accent pillow next to Nikki stood up and stretched.

Nikki noticed and giggled, the same high-pitched fake sound as the day before. “Pookie-bear surprised Kate, didn't she?” She picked up the white fluff, which resolved itself into a tiny dog, and made kissing sounds. A little pink tongue darted out to lick Nikki's face, and I thought I saw jewels glinting on the dog's collar.

“You had a different dog yesterday.” I couldn't tell what breed this one was, but the other had been a silvery-gray and black Yorkie.

“That was Teenie. She went better with my outfit.”

As I worked to keep the surprise and amusement off my face, I saw three more dogs run across the backyard. A large, brown Lab with a big tongue hanging out of a graying face and a Terrier-mix nipping at the Lab's heels. Bringing up the rear was a short, golden fuzzball, wearing a blue vest with an insignia I couldn't read, that stumbled and rolled butt-over-head before righting itself and dashing out of sight.

Don cleared his throat. “Dogs aside.”

“What exactly do you think I can do?” I glanced from Nikki to Don.

“I think you know I'm the president of the Long Beach Grand Prix organization. What you may not know is Nikki owns the race event itself.”

I glanced at her, now rubbing noses with Pookie. Pookie-bear? I'd soon be ready for a movie role myself, with all the practice I had in hiding my thoughts.

Nikki settled the dog on her lap. “My late husband, Quentin, owned the naming and promotion rights for the race, which I inherited a few months ago. I leave most everything to Don to handle.”

“I've been running the day-to-day of the event for the last seven years,” he explained. “While we've missed Quentin, we've been able to carry on smoothly.”

“I still don't understand why I'm here.” I looked between the two again.

Don sat forward. “We're uneasy about negative publicity for the race and the race organization concerning Billy's death.”

“His murder,” Nikki corrected.

“I know they say all publicity is good publicity, but I'm not sure that will be the case. At Nikki's request, Billy had recently gotten involved, helping us put on the event.” Don spoke the last few words through a clenched jaw.

“Billy had experience in the racing world, you know,” Nikki explained, as she adjusted her trio of pink sparkly—diamond?—bracelets.

I made a non-committal sound. I'd seen Billy's “racing experience” at Daytona when he ran roughshod over ethical behavior and series rules to advance his father's position.

“We're concerned the race organization will come out the worse for the police investigation into his death. Or that a killer on the loose at the racetrack will affect attendance.” Don paused, jaw tense. “Billy managed to ruffle a few feathers within the organization, so we're looking for some damage control.”

“I'm still not clear—”

“Isn't it obvious?” Nikki leaned forward, her breasts defying gravity by staying in her dress. “Donnie here is afraid he'll be arrested for Billy's murder, and we want you to figure out who really did it.”

Don sighed, but didn't speak.

Oh, no. No, no, no. Not a chance.
When I had air in my lungs, I asked the obvious. “Why do you think I can do anything? You should be talking to the police.”

“They're already looking at me,” Don returned. “I don't—can't—trust them to look deeper. You've caught three murderers. You know racing. People will talk to you.”

“People will also talk to a private investigator when you hire one. I'm a racecar driver, not a detective!” I took a couple deep breaths to calm down.

“The cops won't care about preserving the reputation of the longest-running street race in North America,” Don pointed out. “And a PI can't talk to people in the racing world like you can. The racing world will trust you to investigate, because you've done it before.”

“Please?” Nikki pleaded.

I tried to marshal my arguments. All I came up with was,
No, no, no, no, no.

Nikki narrowed her eyes at me. “You don't want to be responsible for the destruction of the Long Beach Grand Prix, do you?”

“That's not on me.”

Don's face hardened. “But you could help save its reputation. Could you live with knowing Billy ended the long tradition of the race, when you could have prevented it?”

Nikki lifted Pookie and rubbed the fluffy dog against her cheek. “I don't know, Donnie. I'm not so sure she's right for the job. Maybe she should stick to driving.”

“Right,” I replied. “That makes sense.”

“She has so much to do already. So much to prove. This would clearly be too much.”

“Right, thank you. I…” I stared at her. “What?”

Her eyes widened. “As a woman, I understand the uphill climb it is to be taken seriously. I see how hard it is for you to prove yourself every weekend, I wouldn't want to give men more reason to think you can't cut it.”

I stared at her.
How did this go from “help us” to “you're a sub-par driver”? I'm not falling for that trick.

“Don't say no right now,” Don jumped in. “Please consider it.”

Nikki smiled, slyly. “I'll make sure it's worth your while.”

“This isn't about money.”

“But you always need sponsorship,” she continued. “I know a lot of people. I could make things easier for you.”

I imagined the corollary: she could also make things more difficult for me. I saw a flicker of something in her eyes, before she nuzzled Pookie and gave me another smile. A more calculating one this time. My feelings warred with each other.
Oh, hell, no,
doing battle with,
I'll show them.

I turned to Don. “Do the police think you killed Billy?”

He gazed out at the magnificent view of Los Angeles. “If they don't, they will, after they stop thinking Nikki did.”

“Did you?”

Nikki giggled. “Donnie couldn't do that.”

“Donnie” grimaced, and I thought he probably could have. I turned to Nikki. “Did
you
?”

Her eyes went wide. “Why would I?”

“You were tired of him?” I speculated.

“Tired? Oh, my, no. He could be sweet, and he was talented.” She purred the last word.

Don shifted in his seat, uncomfortably. I felt nauseated.

Nikki pouted. “But he was going to leave me soon.”

“The cops were asking if that's why she killed him,” Don added.

Her brow creased that tiny amount. “Why would I? He'd be gone either way.”

She had a point.

“So you'll consider looking into it for us,” Don said. A statement, not a question.

I opened my mouth to decline, but he cut me off. “Consider it, please, that's all we're asking.”

“It's not
all
we're asking,” Nikki put in.

Don nodded. “For now, it is.”

They wouldn't hear “no,” I wasn't going to say “yes,” and I had another meeting to get to, so I took the contact information they handed me and got out of there.

As I looked back at them from my car, Don held a hand up in farewell and Nikki waved Pookie's paw at me. I understood their level of concern about the race organization, but didn't get how they thought I could help. I also couldn't comprehend their alliance. How two such different people worked together. How he could put up with her.

I didn't understand a lot.