Avoidable Contact

by Tammy Kaehler

  Not two minutes later, another team’s plans stuttered to a halt at the side of the racetrack as Race Control threw a double-yellow to retrieve a stalled car. The Mazda of our next-door neighbor, WiseGuy Racing, had no “go.” I knew their crew would hustle out of the pits, up the lane, and back to the garage to meet and fix the car. Tough break.

  “Full-course caution, Mike,” Bruce radioed. “Stopped car driver’s right between the International Horseshoe and the Kink. You’ll stay out, since we just pitted.”

  I gave Bruce and Jack a thumbs-up and climbed down from the cart. I could have kicked myself for moving when I did. When I reached the ground, there was Sam Remington again.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  10:15 P.M. | 15:55 HOURS REMAINING

  Sam was as focused on me as he’d been the last time he walked into my team’s pit space, but he wasn’t likely to start a conversation I wanted to avoid. This time he had his fiancée and an older gentleman with him.

  “Kate.” Sam put a hand on my shoulder. “Let me introduce you to Mr. Jimmy Baker. Mr. Baker, Kate Reilly.”

  I smiled with real pleasure as I offered a hand to the trim, smiling gentleman in front of me. He was taller than me—taller than Sam and Paula also—sporting salt-and-pepper hair and a blue-and-yellow striped bow tie.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Baker.” I pegged him as five or eight years younger than Gramps, but possessed of the same cheerful, feisty spirit. It was the twinkle in the eye that gave him away.

  Paula stood to the side looking as if she’d eaten a lemon. The other two didn’t notice, and I chose to ignore her.

  “Call me Jimmy, please, Kate. Lovely to meet you as well.”

  Sam patted me with the hand still resting on my shoulder. “Jimmy’s here with one of my sponsors—Belcher’s Supply.”

  I was familiar with the supplier of everything necessary to build, wire, or control a physical object. The brand featured prominently in my grandfather’s creations. After early days in sales and then as a race-shop apprentice, Gramps made a career out of weaving wiring harnesses for racecars, work he continued to the present day. More than one of his products circled the track at Daytona, including in my own car.

  “He especially wanted to meet you,” Sam went on.

  Jimmy smiled even wider. “I’ve been working for Belcher’s for thirty years, and I’ve handled your grandfather’s orders for twenty-five of them.”

  “You go way back with Gramps. Come to think of it, he’s talked about a Jimmy plenty of times.”

  He chuckled. “That’s likely me. We go back to when you’d just arrived on the scene. I’ve hoped to run into you on the circuit someday, and here we are, finally.”

  We chatted briefly about how often he got to races and what the track was like. Sam chimed in, obviously familiar with Jimmy from sponsor activities throughout the full racing season. Paula continued to stand aside and scowl at me.

  I walked the three of them to the tent opening to continue their tour and encouraged Jimmy to return to our pits or visit our driver lounge. They set off up pit lane, but almost immediately, Jimmy returned and tapped my shoulder.

  He spoke in a low voice. “Your grandfather put the call out to his network a couple hours ago for us to watch out for you.”

  To his network? Good grief. “I don’t—”

  “You probably do need watching out for.” Jimmy smiled. “Besides, I’ll thank you to humor a couple old men who’d like to pretend they’re being helpful.”

  I laughed. “Fair enough.”

  “Call or get word to me if you need anything at all.” He pressed a card in my hand. “Information, assistance—anything.”

  A new voice caught our attention, and we turned to see Tug fawning over Sam and Paula. Jimmy heard my sigh.

  “I’ve had my doubts about that Tug Brehan,” he muttered.

  “Why’s that?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “I suppose I should judge on the present, not the past, but I’ve been skeptical of his character since I saw him manipulate and backstab his way into a higher position—at the expense of someone else’s career.”

  It was all I could do not to turn and stare at Tug. “Where was that?”

  “In his early days with Grand-Am—six years ago now. Mind you, he’s never done anything like it again, not that I was aware of. But as a stand-in for your grandfather, I suggest you be careful placing your trust in him, Kate.”

  I assured Jimmy I would and sent him away again with a kiss on the cheek. To my relief, Tug continued up pit lane with them. The list of people I could trust was dwindling.

  The GT class cars pitted, including the 29 car, which came in for a driver change. The cars in first and second place in the GTLM class stayed out with Mike, who was still in third. I watched the 29 car’s stop from an out-of-the-way corner of the tent. Then I returned to the monitors to watch the rest of the stops taking place up and down pit lane—including the Arena mega-team servicing six of their seven cars at once.

  Four laps later, the field was collected again, and we went back to green. Sadly, we proved the old saying “cautions breed cautions” true once again.

  This time, it was two GT cars in Turn 3, the International Horseshoe. The result was one damaged Porsche trailing a bumper, but continuing around the track back to the pits under its own power. The BMW it tangled with, however, was off-track driver’s left, stuffed into the tires. The live SGTV feed replayed the accident. Anyone who hadn’t caught it the first time reacted with winces and gasps.

  The Porsche, one of the Arena fleet, had completely and obviously misjudged the braking zone. It had barreled out of control through the turn, slamming into the BMW and sending it spinning into the tires—not unlike Ian’s accident. SGTV focused on the wounded Porsche entering the pits, identifying the car as one of the pro/am combinations and the driver as an amateur, Ed Grant. Which figured.

  Grant had been involved in two different incidents this year already, both resulting in multiple damaged cars. The accident at the winter test days, three weeks before this race, was clearly Grant’s fault, but no one was too outraged because we all knew amateurs made mistakes. Especially in the first practice session, when dozens of newcomers had only excitement to draw on, rather than experience.

  But then Grant got mixed up with a prototype during practice on Thursday before the race. That mistake sent the prototype into the wall of the tri-oval at nearly 200 mph. The extremely charitable might have called it a racing incident. The rest of us began to suspect that particular driver was a menace.

  “Not him again.” Bubs stood with me, watching the mess. “He’s a one-man wrecking ball.”

  Lars Pierson arrived for his on-deck shift in the 29 car and asked what happened. I pointed to the replay.

  Bubs jerked his thumb in the direction of the Arena pits, where we heard engine noise. “Back for repairs already.”

  Lars narrowed his eyes at the screen. “They should stand that driver down. He should no longer be allowed to race. He is a plague.”

  Leon Browning, fresh from the 29 car, walked over from a debrief with his crew chief and overheard Lars. “You’re right on that front.”

  “Weren’t you right there for this one, Leon?” I asked.

  “Aye, what a stupid git,” Leon bit out. “Totally Grant’s fault. You could see it coming yards away. I’m with Lars, Grant ought to be stood down.”

  “Have either of you ever seen that happen?” I hadn’t witnessed a series pulling a driver from a race because of poor skills—that problem usually took care of itself, with accidents that damaged cars beyond repair. But Leon and Lars both raced in Europe—Leon nearly full-time, only moonlighting in the States.

  Leon shook his head.

  Lars lifted a shoulder. “I know they can do it. I think the ACO—” he meant the Automobile Club de l’Ouest, the organizer of the
24 Hours of Le Mans “—pulled someone out a few years ago at Le Mans.”

  “I guess he’s bringing big money for the ride—extra, since he has to keep buying more car parts,” I offered. “The suppliers can’t hate that.”

  Leon snorted. “I don’t care how much he’s pouring into coffers. When he’s taking other cars out and endangering everyone on the track around him? Money can’t make up for someone who’s incapable of racing at this level.”

  I agreed, though I thought half a dozen amateurs had escaped the same fate as Grant only through sheer good luck. Dozens of amateurs competed in the 24 Hours of Daytona—and their skill level varied dramatically. But that’s what this race was all about.

  In silence, we watched the cars circle behind the pace car for three more laps. Leon shook his head, rousing himself. “I’ll be off to clean up. You two are in next?”

  “After Paulo’s double-stint,” Lars agreed.

  “One more stint for Mike, Colby for a triple. Then me. Maybe around one.” I did some rough calculations. “You’ll be back in around four or five tomorrow morning?”

  “Aye, something like that. I’m away now for a wee bit of a meal and sleep.” Leon waved and set off up pit lane.

  Lars went to talk to his crew chief. I moved forward to the pit wall to take a look at the damaged Arena car. The biggest problem was the torn-up radiator, which had leaked fluid all the way from the point of impact and now bled onto pit lane.

  The team opted to push the car back to the garage to make the repair—which shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, assuming no other damage. Back on track a few laps down didn’t seem like justice, not when the BMW might be out of the race through no fault of its own. But justice wasn’t up to me. Besides, I should know life was hardly fair these days.

  Grant had climbed out of the car. As I watched, he stripped off his gloves and unfastened his helmet, all the while talking with a member of his crew. He waved off an SGTV pit reporter and turned to observe the crew rolling away the car he’d wrecked. Then Grant pulled his helmet and balaclava off and accepted a towel from a young, blond man, clapping a hand to the towel-delivery guy’s shoulder.

  I sat down hard on the wall. The two men were carbon copies of each other, separated by twenty or thirty years.

  The younger man was my cousin, Billy. Which made Ed Grant, the scourge of the paddock, my uncle.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  10:40 P.M. | 15:30 HOURS REMAINING

  I caught Holly’s eye back in the hospitality corner of the tent and waved her over, whispering my discovery in her ear. We watched my uncle turn away from the car being repaired and disappear into his tent—snubbing the SGTV reporter once again.

  “I would not have guessed that,” she said. “Ed Grant and Edward Reilly-Stinson. Maybe Grant’s his middle name?”

  “Must be. At least I don’t have to deal with jokes or questions about being related.”

  “Your racing talent clearly came from your mother’s side.”

  We headed out to the walkway again, the better to observe comings and goings at the Arena team. I caught sight of movement in the pit space next door, but my brief hope we’d see their car pull up faded quickly. It was activity of the wrong kind: WiseGuy Racing packing up its gear. I returned to our crew at the monitors and asked what they’d heard.

  “Electrical,” reported one of the tire changers. “Something fatal. No replacement parts.”

  I shook my head, sorry for everyone on the WiseGuy team who’d spent immense amounts of time and money to get a car to the track and ready to race, but who’d go home with nothing to show for it—not even the badge of honor of taking the checkered flag. In a race like this, the ultimate glory was a podium finish—with winning being nearer a miracle. Simply to be running at the end was a monumental achievement. Teams that folded up early would get a better and warmer night’s sleep tonight than any of us at the track. But no one welcomed that rest. Everyone wanted to be here.

  Stuart should be here, dammit. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, sure it was time for news from the hospital or for more information from Foster Calhoun.

  “Anything?” Holly asked.

  “Nothing. From anyone.” I texted Polly at the hospital. Then I texted again apologizing for so many messages.

  “Do we know anything we can tell Calhoun?” Holly continued.

  I shook my head. “Do we know anything at all?” I felt tired and emotionally wrung out, overwhelmed with the enormity of it all. Worse, I had no idea who to believe or how to figure out who the culprit was. Foster Calhoun was pointing us at Arena, but did I agree with him? Did I have a better idea? Did I have the stamina to answer those questions while also trying to make sense of the senseless—Ian’s death? While also facing fifteen and a half more hours of racing?

  Holly put both hands on my shoulders and turned me toward the hospitality area. “Sugar, you need a pick-me-up.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Coffee and a snack. Then we’ll sit down.”

  She collected a banana, some peanut butter, and a Styrofoam cup of coffee with sugar and cream. We took seats on the 30 car’s empty pit box. The field continued to circle the track behind the safety car, while the last track vehicle pulled away from Turn 3, cleanup complete. I estimated they’d go back to green in another three laps.

  “What’s going on in that head?” Holly prepared to make notes.

  I spoke quietly. “Do we believe Calhoun about Stuart’s accident? That someone from the Arena team did it?”

  Holly pursed her lips. “Look at it this way. Stuart was hit. The person didn’t stop. That makes it a crime, and the driver ought to be punished.”

  “True.”

  “Maybe it’s a simple accident, but the driver didn’t stop. Or maybe it was a deliberate hit. Either way, we want to know who did it.”

  “But if we do what Calhoun wants and focus on Arena, are we investigating Stuart’s accident or investigating the team?” I could hear the frustration in my own voice.

  She pointed to the banana. “Eat. How did you figure out who killed Wade Becker? Or Ellie?”

  I swallowed the bite of food and sipped some coffee. “Dumb luck?”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Try again.”

  “I talked to people. Asked questions. Put two and two together.” I took another bite and considered. “I see your point. Let’s funnel Calhoun the details he wants. On top of that, you and I will become the biggest gossips this race has ever seen—at least you will. Everyone talks to you. I can’t leave the pits much—though you never know who will come to me. Then we’ll see how the information we collect adds up.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Holly took my phone and accessed the message thread with Calhoun. “Starting with telling the reporter who we see connected with the Arena team.”

  “I’m not sure where to start with ‘connected.’ Is that known associates? Anyone we see in the tent? Random visitors might not be connected to the team at all.” I shook my head. “Hell, he can make sense of it all. Calhoun wants names, we give him names.”

  “What about the cops? What do we tell them?”

  “Everything they’re willing to hear.”

  The safety car went by on the front straight, sixty-some cars in its wake. The noise made speech pointless for a moment.

  Holly stopped thumb-typing. “Calhoun wanted us to tell him about sponsors and anyone associating with the team.”

  “We gave him sponsors—unless you noticed any other tiny stickers on the car?” For the privilege of logos on a racecar and official team uniforms, sponsors paid varying amounts of money—from small all the way up to enormous, corresponding to size and frequency of the logo.

  “I haven’t seen anything new. What about people?”

  “Aside from sponsor reps and team members, we’ve seen the technician and he
ad guy from Michelin.”

  Holly typed names.

  I kept thinking. “They’d have to have a Porsche rep—that was a face I recognized. A woman, Sabine Bauer. But I’m not coming up with other suppliers.”

  “Forget suppliers. Think about walking past the tent and tell me who you saw.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to picture the scene any of the times we’d passed. I frowned. “My father. My cousins—but I don’t know if they count as sponsor representatives.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Tell me people.”

  “Pyotr and Vladimir. What’s their last name?”

  “Kulik.”

  I opened my eyes. “What are they, anyway? Russian mafia?”

  “We don’t ask those things, Kate.” Holly raised her eyebrows. “They’re representing Kulik Vodka.”

  “The vodka car, of course.” I murmured. “Their minder Vinny was with them, too.”

  I looked to the monitors. The safety car’s flashing lights were turned off, which meant they’d go green the next time past us. “We didn’t see Tug in there, but he must have stopped, because he went to every other tent, right?”

  “And Elizabeth with him, I’d guess.”

  “Elizabeth. She’s so…”

  “Forgettable?”

  “I was going to say unmemorable, compared to Tug.”

  Holly snorted. “That boy does have charisma.”

  “Do we count reporters? Scott Brooklyn was there.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll give it all to Calhoun.”

  The noise increased as the cars powered through the tri-oval to take the green. We stopped talking to watch the monitors. Mike held station in third place, fighting off a challenge from a factory Corvette behind him.

  I heard a shout from the pits behind us even before I saw the action on-screen. More overeager drivers, more contact. This time in the West Horseshoe, in the infield. Two cars banging, brushing sides. An impatient prototype diving inside a Viper and paying the price. Both cars continued, but the prototype’s left front fender broke loose and started shredding, sending bits of bodywork flying.