“What’s with Joe Smith?”
“We all know it’s an alias, we just don’t know for what. Or who or why.”
“Have you met him?”
“Seen him,” she said. “Ordinary, late twenties, dark, sort of Latin looking. Decent driver—not a pro, but a good and improving amateur who must bring money.”
“Is the alias to hide where the money’s coming from?”
“We assume. Did I mention the reason Willie and Cecilia split was because Willie had an affair with a woman who works for Arena Motorsports?”
“No doubt who that is.”
Holly agreed. “Also, Joe Smith used to race with Arena, until a heated fight in the paddock at this race last year. By mid-year, Redemption Racing appeared with Joe and Robert featured. Rumor has it Stuart was involved in helping Redemption get connected, supplied, and approved in time to run half a season last year.”
“To summarize: there’s more than one person up at Redemption Racing, and the sister team of CPG, who’s got it in for Arena Motorsports. Also the existence of Redemption Racing might be a reason for someone at the Arena team to be mad at Stuart.”
“Bingo. And if you want pure gossip—”
“Why stop now?”
“There’s the man Cecilia took up with right after she and Willie split—he was responsible for spreading the news that Willie and Monica were sneaking around.” She nodded down pit lane.
Tug Brehan exited the Arena tent, shooting his cuffs and looking up and down the walkway. Elizabeth Rogers appeared a moment later, escorted by evil cousin number one, Holden Sherain. It was difficult not to stare at the group open-mouthed.
“That’s quite a story,” I muttered. “And that’s quite a trio.”
“I’m not sure of Tug’s role, but the other two remind me of Little Red Riding Hood and the big, bad wolf.”
“Elizabeth looks enamored.” Every bit of body language, plus what I could see of her facial expression, said the blonde, bland Elizabeth was infatuated, flirting with Sherain. His body, in contrast, read as no more interested or less aloof than usual. But I couldn’t see his face.
Holly shrugged. “Maybe he’s into her.”
“The soap opera you told me, Holly. As entertaining as it is, how does any of it relate to someone hurting Stuart? Or—” I glanced around and lowered my voice further “—to Arena being a crook?”
“I’m not sure. I’m curious why Joe Smith bailed out so fast on a good car. Plus I know there’s still a lot of anger, at least on Redemption’s side. I wonder if there are revenge or retribution plays in process.”
“Maybe you can find out.” I stopped there. Tug and Elizabeth were on approach.
“Are you both out here studying the stars?” Tug had a smile on his face. “Reading the zodiac to predict what will happen in the race?”
“Getting some air.” I wasn’t in a mood to be teased.
He sobered. “No more word yet, I’m sorry.”
“How’s everything going from your end?” Holly asked.
Tug shook his head, smiling again. “It hasn’t been the easiest race. Terrible events to be dealing with. But I think we have things sufficiently in hand.”
“And fortunately,” Elizabeth put in, her voice low and firm, “It’s not as if we were new to the job.”
Holly turned to her. “You’re now back to the jobs you held in Grand-Am last year?”
Tug let Elizabeth respond. “The same positions, yes, though the landscape has shifted significantly.”
I studied their contrasting styles and personalities and understood the choice of Stuart over them. Stuart offered the whole package, while Tug and Elizabeth made a balanced team. For the first time I wondered exactly how difficult it had been for them to lose the jobs they’d had. To lose the influence they’d wielded—or a career, in Elizabeth’s case. I wondered how hungry they were for power.
“I’ve heard the merging of two series into one hasn’t always gone smoothly,” Holly put in. “I know at least one person who was angry about not being given a position in the new Series. Felt undervalued for the work he’d done over the years. Threw around some pretty dramatic words.”
Elizabeth looked as composed and impassive as ever.
“That’s been straightened out.” Tug waved his hands in denial. “He’s quite happy now at Benchmark.”
Holly agreed. “The other guy hasn’t found a job yet, has he?”
Tug looked uncomfortable. “Not that I’m aware of, but you know, the new structure didn’t suit everyone. Tough decisions had to be made.”
Someone from a team farther down pit lane paused as he walked past, asking Tug a question. While he responded, Elizabeth stepped closer to me and put a hand on my arm.
“I know you’re concerned about Stuart, but believe me, the moment we hear anything, we’ll let you know,” she murmured.
I didn’t like the thought of strangers as the conduit for news of my boyfriend’s fate, but there was little I could do about it. “I appreciate it.”
“I hope his situation isn’t hampering your efforts in the race. I want to see a woman do well, so give ’em hell out there.”
“That’s my plan.”
She smiled. “I also know Stuart wouldn’t want his problems to get in the way of your racing.”
I fought to keep my expression neutral. She wasn’t hired by the new Series. She never worked with him. How did she know him?
Chapter Twenty-six
11:25 P.M. | 14:45 HOURS REMAINING
“It’s clear he’s a man of compassion and integrity.” Elizabeth kept elaborating on Stuart’s character. “And understanding. He appears to be wonderful as a mentor and a problem-solver.”
I struggled for a response. “He’s a great guy.”
With a final pat on my arm, Elizabeth turned to Tug and asked him something about a meeting. She looked serene, a small smile on her lips.
In contrast, she’d left me unsettled. I wondered how she had any idea what Stuart was like. How she presumed to know what he’d think or say. Had he tried to hire her? Made her any promises? I needed to get a grip and stop overreacting. Stop assuming betrayal.
Tom Albright crossed the walkway from our pits and greeted everyone.
“How’re the cars running, Tom?” Tug asked.
“The two we have left are running well. How’s everything on the Series level?”
I easily read the expressions that flashed over Tug’s face. He started to respond with enthusiasm, remembered Stuart’s accident, Ian’s death, and his audience, then reconsidered his level of exuberance. He belatedly struck a balance between confidence and regret. “We’re getting everything taken care of.”
A little more poker face, and he might be a worthy successor to Stuart.
The man I thought was Richard Arena exited his pit space and looked at our group. He strode quickly in our direction, calling Tug’s name from some paces away.
Tug turned around. “Richard, what can I do for you?”
Arena reached us and glanced around, greeting Elizabeth and studying me for a long moment. I pegged him as mid-forties, tall and slender, but muscled. He had pale, pock-marked skin, short brown hair, and brown eyes. Up close I could see he exuded confidence and power, mostly via the expression on his face that suggested he was prepared for the rest of the world to disgust or disappoint him. Arrogance of that sort annoyed me.
I held his gaze until he stepped forward, offering his hand. “Richard Arena.”
“Kate Reilly.” I shook, making sure to return a strong grip. “This is Tom Albright, with Sandham Swift, and Holly Wilson, my manager.”
He nodded at them, but didn’t offer his hand. He looked speculatively again at me before cracking a very small smile. Then he turned to Tug. “Can you or Elizabeth provide us assistance with something?”
Tug glanced at Elizabeth, who stepped forward instantly. “Anything we can do, Mr. Arena,” she replied.
“Richard, please.”
Tug addressed the rest of us. “Please excuse us. We’ll check back with you all later. Kate, we’ll be in touch the minute there’s anything to tell.”
“My apologies,” Arena said, as he led Tug and Elizabeth away.
“I’m not sure what I think about him.” Tom sounded thoughtful. “Kate, Jack wanted to update you on the car when you’ve got a minute.”
“Be there shortly,” I promised
Before I followed Tom back to the tent, I turned to Holly. “You never told me the stories about Series people who lost their jobs in the merger. How’d you hear?”
She looked smug. “All fishing.”
“You made that up?”
“You bet. Now we’ve got someone to talk to.”
“I suppose there’s only one former Series employee working at Benchmark Racing?”
“Their new Team Manager, Keith Ingram.”
“He was what in the ALMS?” I asked.
“Something technical regulations. Not quite at the top, but close.”
“Who made the decision to not hire him?”
Holly raised an eyebrow at me. “A committee headed by USCC’s VP of Operations.”
“Stuart. Keith Ingram could be mad at him.”
“You’d think Keith would be over it by now.” She shrugged. “One way to find out.”
“You know him?”
“I must know someone at Benchmark. If not, I have two good friends at Carnegie, right next door.”
“People talk to you more than they talk to me. How about you see what you can dig up on Arena, Monica, and anyone else on that team? Plus anyone who’s got a problem with Stuart?”
“I’m on it. A gossip tour through the pits.”
“Find out if there’s anyone who’s mad about the merger in general. And get anything you can about Tug and Elizabeth.” I related what Elizabeth had said to me.
“There’s some attitude under all that bland.” She paused. “I’ll try to figure out who the ‘other guy’ is, the one Tug said hadn’t found a job yet. Plus see how mad Nik Reyes and any other drivers who lost out on rides might be.” She frowned. “And I’ll find out how Greg’s doing.”
I looked at my phone for the time: 11:30. This was turning into the longest day of my life, and I had hours—more than two of them behind the wheel—yet to go. “You going now?”
“Seems like a good time. You’re not in for a while?”
I shook my head. “Colby for a triple, then me.”
The phone buzzed in my hand, a text message from Zeke. I held it so Holly could see also.
“Shouldn’t he be asleep?” She asked.
“You’d think.”
We both read his words.
I remembered something I’d heard right after the Feds came calling for Arena early last year. It was questions about where the team’s previous team computer/media guy had gone. Someone said the Feds wanted to talk to him and even asked people from other teams if they’d seen or heard from him, but no one in the paddock knew where he’d gone. Speculation ran wild Arena had gotten rid of a witness to stuff Arena wanted kept quiet. That’s all rumor and my bad memory, but FYI.
Holly and I looked at each other, eyes wide.
I found my voice first. “Are you kidding me?”
Chapter Twenty-seven
11:32 P.M. | 14:38 HOURS REMAINING
The phone buzzed in my hand again, and another message appeared from Zeke:
Got a note from a media friend who said, Feds aside (Arena only questioned, remember), the closest Arena has ever been linked to illegal activity was his brother’s doing. Brother (Julio) killed someone—details unknown—in retaliation. Arena not involved. Brother disappeared before he could be arrested, out of the country, never heard from again. Arena questioned, not charged. Otherwise, Arena’s clean. Lots suspected, never any real evidence.
Another buzz. Same pal knows about Calhoun. Word is he’s a cowboy. Totally unorthodox, hardly ever plays by the rules, but gets results. Also brilliant. Watch your back.
I looked at Holly. “Did I tell Calhoun he couldn’t quote me in his article?”
She shook her head.
I typed a quick message to the reporter: I’m off the record. Don’t quote me unless you ask first.
The phone vibrated in my hand five seconds later, Calhoun this time. Can I call you an “unnamed source in the paddock?”
I messaged back my agreement, then added, Explain again why Arena would hurt Stuart if YOU are writing an article?
The response: I’m not entirely sure. Best I can figure is Stuart might have given me information on the team—financials? Supplier companies? But I know there’s something to find, given the reaction.
“Unethical behavior doesn’t sound like Stuart,” Holly noted.
“But it does sound like a cowboy who doesn’t always play by the rules. I don’t like how it takes someone being hurt to prove his point.”
A new message: Thanks for the names you sent. Anything else for me?
My brain was full, and the image of Stuart getting hit started playing in my head. I offered the phone to Holly. “Can you update him? And maybe send Detective Latham screenshots of what Calhoun says?”
“Sure. You go chat with Jack. Drink more water.”
I climbed up next to Jack on the command center, nodding a hello to Bruce on his other side. Jack filled me in on the car per Mike’s reports—the important detail was no sustained damage from the two cut tires. Colby was about to get in for her three stints of approximately an hour each.
“We’ll need to do the brake job in the next couple hours,” Jack went on. “They’re wearing like we thought they would—rears will go the distance, fronts will be good for fifteen or sixteen hours. Since we’re in the zone now, we’ll change the fronts when we get a good, long caution. Could be on your watch.”
“No problem.”
He studied me. “You look tired. Did you rest?”
“Too much going on. I’m not physically tired. It’s the mental part—Stuart, Ian. When I get in and focus on the car, I’ll be fine.”
“Reilly, if you’re not in shape to be in that car, say so.”
I smiled. “No heroics. I’m good.”
He grunted and settled the radio headset back on the ear nearest me. I took that as agreement and dismissal.
I parked myself in front of the monitors with a bottle of water as a Ferrari slipped past Mike on the back straight. A quick check of the timing and scoring chart told me the Ferrari was nine laps down, not fighting for position. Mike was holding onto seventh place, one lap down to the leaders. Still time to climb back up to the pointy end of the order.
Five minutes later, Holly joined me and returned my phone. “Read the messages when you want to refresh your memory.” She lowered her voice. “Calhoun mentioned looking at who’s next door—he asked for photos, if we can swing it—but also where that team is interacting with people. Other pits, the paddock, motorhome area, or wherever. I’ll keep an eye out.”
As a best friend, Holly was worth her weight in gold. “Thank you. Listen, go sleep if you need to. Just because I can’t doesn’t mean you have to stay awake.
“I’ve been storing up rest for the three months of off-season. I’m doing fine. Text if you need me.”
She headed out in search of information, and I returned to the television screens with relief. I followed Mike from monitor to monitor for four or five laps, watching to see if he’d modified his line and searching for evidence of changes to the track itself. The dirt and debris in the Bus Stop was a given. New, but not unexpected, was the grass on the outside of Turn 3 being torn up, which also contributed to debris o
ff-line.
After a while I scrolled through the messages Holly had sent to Calhoun, telling him who we’d seen where and who my father reported being with the team. She’d also forwarded Zeke’s information about Arena’s brother.
I thought for a minute about what I knew and didn’t know, then typed a message to Calhoun myself. Tell me something about your article. So far you say he’s bad and rumors here say he’s pushy. Why should we believe you? Why should we do all this for you?
I was surprised by the quick response.
Fair enough, he wrote. Bottom line is Arena’s laundering money, and I can almost prove it. I know for sure he’s made a career and a fortune out of preying on the already downtrodden in our society. Deliberately targeting poor decision-makers and profiting from their actions. Not crimes, but not nice.
One arm of his business enterprise is Laundromats: some with machines known to break often, driving business to the associated dry cleaning or laundry service. Some with exorbitantly priced coffee shops or salons attached to sell services while you wait. Some with pawn shops attached.
Another arm is home security companies with a twist. His sales team tends to show up in neighborhoods where there’s been a rash of burglaries a couple months prior. They make sales capitalizing on residents’ fears. I don’t have solid proof, but circumstantial evidence suggests he’s behind the burglaries in the first place. And his security systems suck.
The idea of crossing Richard Arena was less appealing now. I texted back: Is he dangerous? I heard something about a missing witness.
He wrote: Funny thing, he isn’t personally a violent guy. He’s even mocked for being afraid to get dirty. Won’t carry a gun. But he’s got scary friends, and he condones violence on occasion.
I guess his brother got the violent gene? I returned.
Calhoun didn’t reply for so long, I thought he’d shut down. Then a reply: I’m an idiot. It was Arena’s brother who tried to run me off the road on the drive home last night. I saw him in Daytona Beach and didn’t realize it—though he must have recognized me. But that won’t be enough to stop me from exposing his brother as a vulture picking over the bones of human misfortune.
Avoidable Contact Page 14
