Zeke’s eyes widened at my uncharacteristic on-camera fumble. I could see him forming another question as I attempted to speak past the lump in my throat.
Miles stepped into the breach, slinging an arm around my shoulder and drawing the camera’s attention. “We’re so ready for the next twenty-four hours, we’re speechless.” He smiled, and we all laughed at his joke before he went on. “They’re going to be intense. Exciting. Stressful and probably scary. But amazing. I think that’s how the whole team feels. And I’m honored to be here for the first time with such a strong team—strong in team dynamics and on the track. Y’all watch out for us.”
Zeke asked Miles a follow-up question about the difference between the stock cars he raced all year in NASCAR and the sportscar he was driving this weekend, and I struggled to keep a pleasant, happy look on my face. I was only partly successful.
Zeke tossed the live feed back to his broadcast partners in the booth and turned to me immediately. “Kate, what’s wrong?”
I sagged against Miles’ side, and my eyes filled with tears. Stop it, Kate!
“Kate?!” Zeke had known me for a dozen years, and he’d rarely seen me cry—tears weren’t allowed in Kate Reilly’s rulebook.
I took a deep breath and straightened. “Sorry, Zeke. Sorry, Miles, and thanks.”
Miles squeezed me in a brief hug and returned to the other side of the car. Zeke’s eyes widened in shock as Tom spoke in his ear.
I grabbed Zeke’s hand. “If he’s telling you about Stuart, don’t broadcast it.”
He looked hurt. “Don’t offend me, Katie-Q.” He hauled me in for a quick hug and whispered in my ear. “He’s an ass-kicker, Katie. He’ll fight this. Hang in there.”
I nodded. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
Zeke stepped back. Every trace of my pseudo-big brother was gone, replaced by my racing mentor and coach. He put his hands on my shoulders. “Katie, you focus on the race and on doing your best. That’s all you can control, so be great. Use your emotion to perform. You hear me?”
I smiled for real this time. “I owe you one.”
“Katie-Q, you owe me more than that.” His sunny, outrageous smile took up half of his face. “Text me if you need anything else. I’ll be in the SGTV broadcast booth for the race.” With that, he ran down the pit lane after his cameraman.
I turned back to my team and the car and saw Tom and Holly standing with the police detective and the speedway cop.
Tom waved me over, his curly brown hair already looking unruly and disheveled. “If you sneak out now, you have a few minutes to talk—maybe over in Victory Lane?”
Latham shrugged agreement. I led the cops and Holly past teams forming lines next to their cars. We crossed through the pits into the gated area with a podium wide enough for two dozen people. I stopped and faced the officers, fear and anxiety dragging at me. I wished I could sit down.
“Ms. Reilly, we’ll keep this brief.” Latham flipped open his notebook.
“Kate,” I corrected, studying the two officers. Latham, the DBPD detective, was mid-forties, polished, and obviously in charge. Track-cop Webster was at least fifteen years older and fond of jingling the change in his jacket pocket.
“Kate. Can you walk me through your day?” Latham saw my surprise and held up a hand. “A formality. We ask everyone.”
I should have remembered the drill from past investigations I’d been part of—including the one in Connecticut where I’d been prime suspect for a while. “Holly and I drove over from the hotel about nine this morning. Aside from the social media thing in the Fan Zone at ten, we were in the team lounge—the room on the end of the building next to the rear garages—or in the garage until I went to the series driver meeting at eleven thirty-five. After that it was directly to the autograph session in the Fan Zone and out here to the grid.”
Webster spoke up. “You were in those places only? Never went anywhere else?”
“The bathroom at the end of our lounge building, that’s all.”
“Twenty minutes,” Holly said. “That’s as long as she was ever out of my sight all day. Even then, you were halfway between the garage and the lounge talking to fans, right, Kate?”
“Talking to fans and Stuart,” I confirmed.
Holly jammed her fists on her hips and looked at the cops. “She didn’t have time to get a car outside the track and run him down.”
“Easy, Ms. Wilson,” Latham said. “We don’t think either of you did. Mr. Sandham and Mr. Albright have already confirmed neither of you could have left the track today. But we do want as full a picture as possible. Kate, when did you see Mr. Telarday and what did you talk with him about?”
My breath hitched and my chest felt constricted. I didn’t want to relive the argument that could be the last interaction I’d ever have with Stuart. I heard the on-track announcer introducing the mayor of Daytona Beach, “here to say a few words,” as the cops and Holly waited me out.
I swallowed. “It was a few minutes before eleven. He was annoyed with me for canceling dinner with him last night.”
“Why did you cancel?” Latham asked.
“I was tired, worried about today. Concerned going out with him would result in more exposure than I wanted.” Both men looked confused. “It’s not publicly known we’ve been dating. I like keeping my private life private.”
Holly rolled her eyes. “Worst-kept secret in racing.”
“I didn’t want to deal with it last night.”
Latham nodded. “He was angry this morning?”
“Angry is too strong. Annoyed. Irritated.” I paused, remembering. “But you know? He was also self-righteous.”
“You were angry?” Latham asked.
Webster chimed in. “You said something about a jealous rage this morning?”
I opened my mouth for a denial, then reconsidered. “I was angry, hurt, keyed up for the race.” I shivered. The chill was only partly from the breeze and cloud cover. “Stuart warned me about misleading photos on a racing blogger’s site. He’d gone to the restaurant last night anyway, and a woman involved with a racing team joined him for a drink. At some point, she kissed him—uninvited, he claimed. Someone took photos. He assured me it wasn’t what it looked like.”
Webster jingled change. “You described him as self-righteous?”
“Maybe I imagined it. But I got a vibe of ‘this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t canceled.’”
I answered “no” to the next four questions they asked: did I know the woman from the photos, did I know anyone who had a grudge against Stuart, was there anyone who’d want to hurt him, and did I know why he’d have been off-track at a restaurant this morning. I felt useless.
“You’re telling me everyone likes your boyfriend?” Webster looked skeptical.
I looked from Webster to Latham. “My turn. Who’s in charge here?” Why is the Speedway security guy grilling me?
Webster rolled his shoulders. “We like to handle our own problems at the track. Bigger situations? We call in the City PD, but stay in the loop. Besides, I taught this guy everything he knows.”
“Webster was my partner at the police department until he retired last summer,” Latham said. “Officially, I’m in charge.” He grinned at the older man. “Webster has a hard time letting go.”
Webster flushed. “The Speedway’s my turf. We’ve got a short period of time to get answers. No sense sugarcoating everything.”
Latham kept smiling. I got the sense it was a well-worn argument.
With a flourish, the announcer introduced the national anthem singer, a minor country-western star. The familiar music rang out.
I checked the time on my phone. “We’ve got two minutes to a flyover, then the cars start up and roll off. I can’t tell you much, and if I’m not going to the hospital—” I took a breath to stop my quivering chin
. “I need to get to the pits. Shouldn’t you be out trying to find the car or something? Figuring out who did this?”
“We’re working on it.” Latham flipped his notebook closed. “You know Stuart well. You probably know who he interacts with, works with, likes, and doesn’t like—that information can help us. Think about it more.” He handed business cards to me and to Holly. “Call or text if you have any thoughts at all.”
“Also, any of the security guys can reach me on their radios,” Webster added.
My face heated. “I don’t mean to put the race above Stuart, but I can’t—”
I was drowned out by the early arrival of a C-17 military cargo plane making a low pass above us.
Latham spoke when we could hear again. “It’s a lot to take in at once. Give it some thought, and get back to us with any names, ideas, or anything you’ve got.”
Holly patted my shoulder and spoke to him. “We’ll be in touch soon.”
We left the officers conferring in Victory Lane. As we hustled down the pit lane walkway, we heard the four famous words over the PA, “Drivers, start your engines!”
Sixty-eight cars roared to life. The sound of all that horsepower broke through my anxiety and fired my blood.
Chapter Three
2:00 P.M. | 0:10 TO GREEN FLAG
Holly and I joined the flood of drivers and crew washing down pit lane to their team spaces. Each car in the race was assigned one pit space to pull into on the active or “hot” side of pit lane, as well as a corresponding, pole-framed, tented space for team operations on the other side of a low pit wall. We hurried down the crowded walkway behind the tents, sidestepping racks of equipment and golf carts full of people. The buzz in the air was all about Stuart.
“That was fast,” I muttered.
“The paddock grapevine is mighty effective.”
Four spaces down the lane, Duncan Forsythe from the factory Corvette team, running a pair of new C7.Rs, stopped me with a hand on my arm.
“You take Stuart our best wishes, when you see him, Kate.” Duncan leaned close to be heard over the noise of the cars pulling off the grid. “We’re all praying for him.”
I managed to smile weakly before moving on.
I spoke in Holly’s ear. “How does everyone know about Stuart’s accident already? And how does Duncan know about my relationship?”
“It’s not the secret you think it is, Kate.”
“I really hate that.”
We saw the answer to my first question in the next pit space we passed. Tug spoke with a small knot of people, dealing out business cards. His somber expression wasn’t helped by the gleam of excitement in his eye.
I made a disgusted sound.
The last of the cars exited pit lane. Holly spoke softly in the sudden quiet. “The logical explanation is he’s telling people why they won’t be able to contact Stuart and to contact Tug instead.” She dodged around a flatbed cart loaded with tool chests and car body parts.
“I suppose that’s reasonable. But he doesn’t have to look like he’s enjoying it.”
We reached what seemed like a mile of tent for a team running seven cars. One more team space, then Sandham Swift. The pit space would be the team’s nerve center for the next twenty-four hours—and the center of my world, even if my heart and thoughts strayed to an unidentified hospital operating room.
Once inside the tent, I joined the other Sandham Swift drivers in front of the array of monitors behind the command center, our largest pit cart—an eight-foot tall, rolling toolbox with two levels of seating on top. Hanging from the upper levels of the cart were fifteen screens, twelve of them showing a camera feed from different corners or vantage points on the track. The remaining three showed the timing and scoring list for the field, the live feed from SGTV’s broadcast, and the in-car camera mounted in my number 28 Corvette.
The monitors were vital. All we could see from the pits was a section of the track between the start/finish line and Turn 1. The bank of screens allowed us to track the progress of Sandham Swift’s cars around the track almost continuously.
Sandham Swift’s three-car pit space was packed tent-wall to tent-wall with crew, drivers, support staff, and guests. We were four-deep in front of the monitors. I wiggled forward to stand next to two of my three co-drivers in the 28 car, Miles Hanson and Colby Lascuola. The fourth member of our driving team—Mike Munroe, my regular co-driver for the full racing season—was behind the wheel, preparing to take the green. Each of Sandham Swift’s three cars would be piloted by four drivers taking turns behind the wheel. The car and crew went the full twenty-four hour duration, but individual drivers got to rest between shifts.
Miles patted my shoulder, and Colby smiled as the field paraded by on the front straight. I saw Mike’s hands on the in-car camera feed as he swung the wheel back and forth, making the car swerve and hopefully keeping debris off the tires. The ambient car noise died down again as the field processed into the infield portion of the track. One of the other Sandham Swift drivers turned to me.
“Kate, we’ll get this out of the way, shall we?” Leon Browning, a twenty-one-year-old Scot who matched me in height and outshined me in sartorial flair, had raced with Mike and me the previous year. He was part of the foursome in the 29 car for this race. While Leon could usually be counted on for a ready joke, he was subdued now. He glanced at the other Sandham Swift drivers, then back at me. “I’m speaking for all of us when I say we’re praying for Stuart, and we’re ready to support you any way you need.”
I looked from Leon to the others, most of whom were watching me and nodding. “I—thanks, but—”
Leon stopped me. “We agreed the best thing is not to natter on about updates and such. We’ll expect to hear from someone if there’s news and expect you to tell us if you need anything at all. Otherwise, we’ll speak to you only about racing. Right?”
They understood. Relief and gratitude welled up inside me, and I blinked the corresponding tears back. “Thank you. Sincerely.”
A few of the other drivers reached out and patted my shoulder or gave me a thumbs-up. I smiled my thanks.
“Right, then.” Leon gave a sharp nod. “Let’s one of us go and win this thing.”
“I’d settle for survival.” On more than one front.
The field of cars stretched across four monitors as they made the transition from the infield to the banked turns of the speedway on their second of four laps behind the pace car.
With the cars on the other side of the track, I could hear Tom behind me, obviously answering questions for visitors. “The United SportsCar Championship has two classes of prototypes—those are cars built for racing, not for the street—competing at the same time as two classes of GT sportscars—those are versions of recognizable street vehicles.”
I heard a murmur in response, and Tom spoke again. “This race is our ‘Big Game,’ so everyone wants to drive. That’s why you see pros from other types of racing and amateurs who never do anything else all year. Everyone wants to be part of it—and lots of teams add extra cars for it, like we’ve done.”
Jack and the co-owner of the team, Ed Swift, had branched out for this race, fielding a third car for a talented group of three amateur drivers and the pro they’d hired to partner and coach them. That pro was Ian Davenport, a twenty-five-year-old from the IndyCar series and the son of Greg Davenport, Holly’s former boss at Western Racing.
As the cars passed the pits again, starting their third lap, Ian nudged Leon out of the way and stood next to me. “We’re both in for the third shift.”
“What did you have in mind?”
He grinned. “Slowest lap buys the kettle corn. Fastest picks the stands for midnight viewing.”
Driving together for the first time this week, Ian and I had discovered two points of remarkable similarity: nearly identical lap times in all driving conditions
and massive sweet tooths. We’d stolen a golf cart Thursday afternoon to scout out good race-viewing spots around the track and had agreed to watch a bit of the night action together.
“Have your money ready, big shot,” I responded.
“That’s Rookie Big Shot of the Year to you.” He stuck his nose in the air and flicked imaginary dust from his shoulders.
I couldn’t help a chuckle. Ian was the current hot, young thing in the American open-wheel world, taking rookie of the year honors the previous year and even leading the Indy 500 on his first attempt.
Christine—or Chris—Syfert, one of the amateurs driving the 30 car and one of his coaching students, spoke up from his other side. “I wouldn’t bet against the woman, Ian. You never know how far we’ll go to win a challenge.”
“You don’t think I’ve taught you all my tricks, do you?” Ian winked at her.
I turned to the monitors again, picking out the three Sandham Swift Corvettes. The number 28 was a new Corvette Stingray, the C7.R, competing in the GT Le Mans class, for sportscars that adhered to specifications for the 24 Hours of Le Mans. GTLMs were mostly piloted by professional drivers.
In a dramatic upset, Mike had qualified our number 28 second in GTLM behind the pole sitter, a BMW Z4. The shock was our scrappy privateer team, the only privateer running a brand-new Stingray—due to the benevolence of General Motors—out-qualifying the better-equipped and better-funded factory team. Come race time, they wouldn’t be behind us for long, but we’d savored the qualifying result.
Sandham Swift’s 29 and 30 cars were previous-generation Corvettes, the C6.R, competing in the GT Daytona class. GTDs were run to similar car specifications, for a mix of amateur and pro drivers. Lars Pierson, a regular co-driver of my sister car, the number 29, had qualified that car eighth. Thomas Kendall, the rock-star-turned-racecar-driver and owner of the number 30, had qualified his car fifteenth.
On screen, I noticed the 30 sandwiched by matching silver and purple cars from Arena Motorsports, the mega-team up the way.
Avoidable Contact Page 2
