Red Flags (5 page)

Chapter Eight

I worked through shock over Don and Nikki's request for help as I drove down the hill from Bel Air. I instinctively wanted to rise to any challenge, and, I admit, I was curious why Billy was killed.

But you didn't like him, you don't care.

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, waiting at a red light on Melrose Avenue. It was true, I hadn't liked Billy. I didn't care that he wasn't around anymore, but I did care that he, or anyone, was murdered. That wasn't right. Anything I could do to make the world fairer or more just, I should do. Right?

Now you're a crusader for justice, Batgirl?

I spotted an open red curb and pulled over to call my best friend, manager, and PR person, Holly Wilson. Voicemail.

“Checking in, Holly. You won't believe what's going on. Or maybe you would. I feel like I've been dropped into the middle of a television show. It's Real-Housewives-meets-CSI. Or maybe it's Murder-She-Wrote-meets-the-Kardashians. You'd love it.” I paused. “I'd say I wish you were here, but I think I'm hearing you in my head. Tell Miles to win this weekend, and I'll see you Monday.”

I pulled back into traffic, thinking about Holly's upcoming public debut as the girlfriend of Miles Hanson, the most beloved NASCAR driver of the current era. She and Miles had been dating for a year and a half, but they'd been cautious about publicity. This would be her first weekend by his side on national television. My own experiences with Miles' super-fans made me doubtful they'd welcome her, but I'd kept my concerns to myself. After all, wrecking the man in a race—which I'd done—was different than dating him. I hoped. For her sake.

Holly returned my call when I was back in my hotel room. I filled her in on the last twenty-four hours and heard only silence for ten seconds. “I left you alone for two days, sugar.”

I laughed. “I'm not sure how this happens.”

“Are you all right about what your father told you?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I'm trying not to think about it right now. What I want to know is, would I benefit by looking into Billy's death for Don and Nikki?”

“It couldn't hurt to have the Long Beach race promoter—a man with influence—owe you.”

“And ditzy as she may be, Nikki's got access to serious funds.”

“Not a bad person to have on your side. But…”

“I know. My gut is screaming for me to stay away from my father's family. I don't need them in my life.”

“Do you
want
to find out why Billy was killed?”

“No. I mean, I'm curious, but happy to leave it to the police.”

“Do you feel like you need to?”

“Not sure.”

We were both quiet a minute, then she spoke. “Your decision. I'll do my job and remind you to focus on business. You're headed to the bank for the board meeting soon?”

“I am.” Even I heard my lack of enthusiasm.

“Be excited about the people planning to fund your racing for the next five years, Kate.”

“I'm grateful. I'm excited, you know that.” I sighed. “It's hard to separate my father and his family from the bank.”

“I know.” Her voice was stern. “But you need to go in there and charm the entire Frame Savings board of directors. This is business, not personal, even if some of the people in the room are your long-lost, and irritating, family. Suck it up, and give them what they want for their sponsorship dollars. Those don't grow on trees.”

I pictured Holly, one hand fisted on her hip, tossing her red, corkscrew curls. I took a deep breath, let it out, and took another. I sat up straight. “Okay, I'm good. Pleasant and professional. Appreciative and enthusiastic.” I paused. “I still don't know what to say to Nikki and Don.”

“Don't think about it until after tomorrow. Right now you need to focus on the sponsor meeting. After that you need to think about the IndyCar test. Do not distract yourself with anything else.”

Holly was right, the next twenty-four hours would be crucial to my racing career. Most of all, I needed to perform well in the boardroom and on the track. “I'll update you after the meeting.”

I tried to calm the butterflies in my stomach as I rode the elevator to the twentieth floor of the Frame Savings building in the Wilshire District. I arrived in the middle of a spacious lobby filled with brown leather furniture and oil paintings featuring Los Angeles. The sixtyish female behind a big, curving cherrywood desk took my name and asked me to wait for the break the board members were about to take. It was only five minutes before my father came out to greet me.

“Thanks for coming. Are you all right after our discussion this morning?”

“I'm fine, and I'm very happy to be here. To meet the team that's willing to support my career.” I eyed him. “Thank you again for making this happen for me.”

“You're welcome, though it didn't take much convincing. I wasn't even the first to propose you. Frame Savings has a long tradition in motorsports, we'd simply…gotten away from sponsoring anyone in the professional ranks.”

I knew he meant while the bank had sponsored his brother, Edward, and his nephews, Billy and Holden. The bank had withdrawn sponsorship from that trio fifteen months ago, after they tried to cheat their way to better results. I'd been instrumental in revealing those misdeeds, which apparently hadn't prejudiced the bank's board of directors against me.

“You're the perfect answer,” my father continued. “A professional with a long career ahead of her, and part of the family.”

“I'm glad that works for all of us.”

“Since we have a few minutes, I thought I'd give you a quick tour of our headquarters.” James led the way to the elevator.

As we descended, he studied me. “That's one of the new shirts?”

Though the board would be in suits, I'd stuck with my uniform: team shirt and khakis. But this was a new white polo, sporting a prominent Frame Savings logo. “I thought I'd demonstrate that everyone seeing me sees Frame Savings.”

“It makes the point effectively.” He led the way through a glass door from the elevator lobby to a Frame Savings branch office on the building's ground floor.

“This is your flagship branch here in Los Angeles?” I asked. Until I started negotiating with them about a sponsorship deal, I hadn't known the East Coast-based bank was national or that it had a significant presence in Southern California.

“This was the first branch out west.” He related the bank's history as he led me back to the elevator and through the executive floors of the tower, introducing me to key personnel along the way.

I tensed as we rounded a corner on the nineteenth floor and discovered Edward Reilly-Stinson and Holden Sherain talking with an assistant outside Edward's large corner office. My father stayed cordial and professional. “Of course, you know Holden and my brother, Edward. Also Edward's assistant, Trina. Edward's jointly in charge of West Coast operations with Coleman Sherain. Holden's been running San Diego regional operations for the last year.”

I was surprised to see Edward at the office the day after his son was killed, especially given his red eyes and haggard demeanor. Holden was always grim and angry, in my experience, and today was no different.

“I'm very sorry for your loss,” I offered.

Silence.

After a few fraught seconds, my father spoke. “Kate, perhaps you'd wait by the elevators for a moment?”

“Sure.” I walked fifty feet away, turned the corner, and stopped before I reached the elevators. I could still hear most of what was said.

Edward spoke first. “I can't believe she's here. I can't believe you're going to pay her.”

My father remained calm. “Trina, will you take a break, please?” A pause, I presumed, while the assistant left. “Edward, you should be at home. I'm sure there are arrangements…”

“Holden's helping me make them. You stay out of it.”

“Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help.”

Edward barked out a ragged laugh. “If you cared, you wouldn't bring that—”

“Careful,” my father warned.

“
Fine
. You wouldn't bring her here. Not after what happened to Billy.”

“Kate had nothing to do with Billy's death. You're not thinking straight.”

He thinks I killed Billy?

Holden broke his silence. “You don't know her. You can't be sure.”

Chapter Nine

I had to stop myself from darting around the corner and yelling.
You don't know me either! How dare you insinuate I'd do anything that awful? I wasn't the one caught cheating at a race!

“Holden, Edward, I'm not going to hear it. Ever. Give up or get out.” My father's tone softened. “Ed. Both of you. Take time to grieve. Don't be here today.”

There was no response. I heard footsteps coming my way, so I tiptoed to the elevators.

My father reached past me to push the up button. “Sorry about that. It's a tough day for them. I know it can't have been easy for you yesterday, either. Identifying Billy. Thank you for doing that and for putting the police in touch.”

“Of course.”

“Everyone in the offices here is still a bit shocked.” He glanced at me. “Billy was working here at headquarters, you know.”

I hadn't known, and I bordered on “I didn't care.” Fortunately, the elevator arrived. Time to focus on the board meeting instead.

This time we passed through the big lobby on the twentieth floor and entered a small, plush anteroom of the executive boardroom. Half a dozen men and two women stood chatting next to a buffet of snacks and beverages. My father started the introductions.

The men were a blur of basic names—Bob, John, Tim, Mark—and executive titles from the financial ranks of big corporations. They were all friendly and welcoming. The only female board member was Sharon, CFO for a movie studio in town, and she was also pleasant, happy to hear I'd be on her studio lot later that day to visit Maddie.

The remaining woman in the room was an executive assistant. The brief words we exchanged, the glances she shot me, and her general demeanor told me she was territorial. She didn't like interlopers, particularly female ones. She also thought I was too young and too female to be so bold and confident—I got that from her derisive sniffs as I explained my racing career to two of the men. I hated it when another woman tried to keep me down, but I kept my frustration and sadness in check. Since I knew I couldn't change her mind, and since I'd only intrude on her turf briefly, I tried to ignore her attitude. I watched her soften and smile as someone new entered the room.

Coleman Sherain, Holden's father and president of the bank, was tall, with a jock's muscled physique on the verge of going soft and dark hair starting to gray at the temples. He wore a confident smile and radiated power, and I shook his hand with as steely a grip as I could muster. I'd spoken with him a few times, working out the details of the sponsorship, and met him briefly at the 12 Hours of Sebring race a month before. I'd been on guard at first, given his son's attitude toward me, but Coleman had been straightforward, professional, and emotionless. All business.

His smile stretched wider, but didn't touch his eyes. “Good to see you again, Kate. Glad to have you on the team.” I wondered if the coolness and insincerity I felt came from him or from my own mistrust of his son. He adjusted his tie and glanced around. “Let's resume.”

Once we were all settled around the large conference table in the next room, Coleman took charge, the executive assistant typing on a laptop as he spoke. He started by introducing me to the room, waving a hand at nameplates in front of each member. Then he requested a summary of the contract and planned expenditures be read out by the assistant and asked me to explain my plans in more detail, without the contractual language.

I stood and remembered to smile before launching into my story. I outlined my early days and success in go-karts and Star Mazda, then my leap to sportscars. “I love racing the Corvette, and the people at Sandham Swift Racing have been wonderful. But I have dreams of racing other, faster cars on bigger stages and tracks. That's where Frame Savings comes in. I'm excited to represent the Frame Savings name and brand to a larger and broader audience.”

One of the board members—Robert Roberts, he went by “Bob”—asked exactly what I meant by “bigger stages.”

“I have a big career wish list: the Daytona 500, 24 Hours of Le Mans, Indy 500, and more. Each race is in a different series and requires a different kind of car, but that means I have a lot of options, depending on where you'd like to see Frame Savings represented.”

“It also means money,” another man mumbled, halfway down the table.

I turned to him. “You're right. I said those were on my wish list. I didn't say I expected to race them all. I make choices about where I race. It's my career, after all.” I smiled and saw answering grins on a couple faces. “But I'm aware where I end up is also dependent on my partners. Where the money is coming from, and what goals that organization has.”

I glanced around the table. “Which brings me to a question for this group. I've had conversations with the executive team, but I'd like to be sure I understand
your
goals for your sponsorship dollars. Where do you want to see Frame Savings in the racing world? And how can I get you there?”

The man who'd mumbled about money snorted. “We'd like to get attention for winning, instead of for trailing the pack or being reprimanded by the people in charge.”

Coleman looked down his nose. “We're all in agreement. That's why we've got a professional. How many podiums were you on last year, Kate?”

“Six podiums from ten races, with one win, three seconds, and two third places. In what's widely regarded as the most competitive class in current racing.”

I saw signs of satisfaction, and I hated to burst their bubbles. “I want to set your expectations correctly. Those results come from a team that works together extremely well—has done so for almost a dozen years now, including before I came along three years ago. It didn't happen overnight.”

Coleman took the floor and adjusted his tie again. “We've discussed a measured approach to building Kate's skills, the team around her, and her exposure, as well as ours.”

The grouchy man spoke again. “What about our spend? What do we get during this slow build? And how long will this take? Why aren't we at the 500 this year?”

“We'll go next year.” I cut through the murmurs running around the room. “And for at least two years after that. That's thirteen months to the first Frame Savings car at the Indy 500. We'll set modest goals that year, such as qualifying for and finishing the race. I'll have bigger hopes and expectations for the years that follow.”

I met the eyes of each board member. “As much as I'd love to get out there next month for this year's race, it's a terrible idea on a variety of levels. We need time to find the right team and prep the car, and I need to get comfortable with both. That's why, this year, I'll run some lower-level races with a team that could take us to Indy next year, to get used to an open-wheel car again and to try out the team.”

“And you're testing tomorrow.” My father spoke for the first time.

“Tomorrow I'm on the oval in Fontana with that team, testing an IndyCar on the track.”

“How can you do that, if you're driving for your current team?” Sharon, the lone female on the board, asked.

“My contract with Sandham Swift means I drive their Corvette in the SportsCar Championship. It doesn't prohibit me from driving other cars in other series, though I clear other rides with Sandham Swift out of courtesy. I can have more than one driving contract, like I can have multiple sponsors.”

“What kind of car is it, and have you driven one before? Driven on an oval?” Bob wanted to know.

“IndyCars are what's considered open-wheel, meaning no fenders around the wheels, as well as open-cockpit, meaning no roof. I drove smaller, less-powerful open-wheel cars in my Star Mazda days. Some of those races were on ovals, and I've also driven other kinds of cars on oval dirt tracks here and there. But the answer is I haven't done much of either, so I need practice before tackling the fastest cars on the biggest oval at the Indianapolis 500.”

I answered questions for another fifteen minutes about my racing plans and how those had changed, based on their sponsorship. One board member insisted I should move straight to NASCAR, to “make a splash.” I explained why sending me into a high-level series with zero experience in the cars or tracks was a recipe for disaster, whereas building slowly would get us somewhere. I think I got my point across.

At least, they all seemed satisfied when they called for a break after an hour and twenty minutes. But there was one last topic on a few minds.

“We've covered the racing, Kate,” noted Bob, as everyone pushed back their chairs and stood up from the table. “What about Billy's murder? I assume you'll get that figured out also.”