Avoidable Contact

by Tammy Kaehler

  I turned back to Holly. “Leaving aside that Greg and Stuart are people we know, I’d say Greg has a lot of motivation to be mad at Stuart and maybe even lash out. But Stuart’s accident was before this race. Before the worst had happened to Greg.”

  “I don’t think Greg tried to kill Stuart. But if he’s that angry, who else is?”

  “Did you get anything on disgruntled former ALMS employees—or participants?”

  Holly held up fingers as she related names. “Jonathan Charles, of the right hook, was last seen in Seattle and isn’t around this weekend. Nik Reyes is spitting mad about his driver ranking changing—thanks to Stuart and others—which kept him out of the race. As a side note, Cecilia at CPG is no longer involved with Tug—though ‘involved’ was an overstatement.”

  “A revenge hookup?”

  “She loathes the Arena team with a passion, especially your favorite female. Any mention of them gets Cecilia riled up—I guess they closed ranks and denied any inappropriate relationship between Willie and Monica. Then went out of their way to belittle the Redemption team and Cecilia. She’s convinced the Arena team was behind pranks like garbage dumped in front of their tent overnight and a bunch of stolen flats of soda and sports drinks.”

  Holly saw my look of disgust and went on. “No proof, just suspicion. Back to Keith Ingram, in the Benchmark tent next door to her. Cecilia hasn’t interacted with him, but from what she’s seen, he’s an angry guy. On the other hand, Cecilia wouldn’t mind being extra friendly with your friend Raul. She was sneaking peeks at him when he was over at Benchmark.”

  I ignored whatever it was inside that felt like jealousy, because being jealous would be absurd. “I thought he drove for Redemption Racing?”

  “He does, but he was in Benchmark when I went past.” She paused. “He was in the Arena tent before that.”

  We were both quiet a moment, watching the 28 car on the monitors.

  Holly stood up. “I’ll head back out there. Spend more time at CPG and Redemption, get closer to Benchmark, and maybe get some scoop on Joe Smith.”

  “Be careful of the Kulik brothers and their guns.”

  She raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Small of the back. You know, arms around waists for photos? Creepy.” I looked around the pit space. “Do lots of people here carry guns? I’ve never thought about it.”

  “I’m sure they’re around, but I don’t know anyone who actively carries—besides security guards or cops.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—maybe that’s another question I shouldn’t ask.” All the same, I wonder about the brothers.

  I climbed down from the pit cart and headed for the port-a-potty again. Holly was waiting in the walkway for me when I got back.

  “Give it a minute, then look casually,” she whispered, pointedly looking away from the dark area of the former WiseGuy Racing pit space.

  I glanced into it—then quickly away. The light shining out from the open side of the Arena tent illuminated the faces of my uncle, two cousins, and Monica standing closely together. Talking, maybe arguing. The men looming over the woman—not that she needed backup. Predators took care of themselves.

  “I’d love to be a fly on the tent wall to hear what they’re saying.”

  Holly froze. “Maybe you can be.”

  “How do you figure?”

  She worried her bottom lip with an index finger. “Maybe there’s a way to hear what they’re saying.”

  “Tin cans on string don’t work, Holly.”

  “Webcams do.” She pointed to Tom, who sat on a plastic chair inside our pit space, directly behind the bank of monitors. He was busy typing on his laptop—a post to Twitter, Facebook, or the team blog, no doubt.

  Then I remembered. Part of Tom’s media efforts for this race included a live, streaming Webcam of the team in the pits. Right now the little ball-shaped camera was pointed at the team sitting around the screens.

  I tamped down on my growing excitement. “But we can’t use—”

  “He’s got a spare, and I know where there’s an extra laptop we can connect it to.”

  We turned enormous smiles on each other.

  “You’re brilliant,” I said.

  “I’ve always told you, my mama didn’t raise no fool. I’ll check that out.”

  She looked both ways prior to crossing the walkway—we’d seen plenty of collisions between running crew or speeding carts and unwary pedestrians. She took one step, stopped, and turned back to me.

  “Remember how you said sources might come to you?” She gestured down pit lane, to Scott Brooklyn, SGTV pit reporter, walking toward us. He was clearly off duty and in no hurry.

  I grinned at Holly. “On it.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  1:05 A.M. | 13:05 HOURS REMAINING

  Holly disappeared into our pits. I waited for Brooklyn’s approach. When he was close enough, I waved him over.

  “What can I do for you, Kate?” He leaned a shoulder against the chain-link fence next to me, an amused look on his face. “Ready to make a statement?”

  The man behind Racing’s Ringer, the current hot motorsports gossip blog, managed to stay anonymous to the racing world to everyone but me and Holly. Even after he tipped me off to his identity at the ALMS championship banquet last October, I’d never confronted him about it directly.

  Now I looked him in the eye. “This isn’t about SGTV, Scott.”

  “Even better. You have an eyewitness account for me?”

  I pictured the cartoon of two eyeballs in a racecar that accompanied any news originating from him or his trusted lieutenants. “No. I hate that graphic.”

  He shrugged. “Part of the brand.”

  “I need information.”

  “What do I get in return?”

  “You owe me.” I crossed my arms over my chest, intending the combative gesture.

  “If I don’t help you? What then?”

  “Ask someone else? I don’t…” Then I understood.

  He nodded. “Is this the first step of blackmail? Do I need to be in constant fear you’ll tell the world?”

  “Blackmail!” My voice was louder than I intended in a lull between nearby racecars.

  “Hahahaha!” Scott looked around at the heads turned our way and pretended the word had been a big joke. “Laugh, you idiot,” he hissed at me.

  As I forced a few chuckles and a smile, I saw three of our crew members go back about their business.

  I dropped the pretense. “I have ethics. Unless you slam me for no reason again, I’m not going to gossip about you. However, you owe me for being a jerk last year. If I need to know something, I’m going to ask. Like I’m asking now.”

  He looked me in the eye. “Sorry. You have information that could damage me. I don’t know what you’d do or who you’d tell.”

  “You gave me the information that could damage you. I only told Holly, and she won’t say a word.”

  “You told a girlfriend, not Stuart? Your own boyfriend?”

  “You’re questioning me keeping your secret?” I felt my face heat. I’d had more than one opportunity to tell Stuart about the Ringer’s identity. I hadn’t done so, for reasons I wasn’t sure of.

  Scott let loose with a genuine laugh this time, quietly. “No, sorry again. Thank you. Peace? Uneasy friends?”

  I considered his outstretched hand for a moment, then shook. “Maybe not friends. Yet. Peace, sure. Some trust. I’ll keep your secrets if you keep mine.”

  He tucked his hands in the pockets of his SGTV windbreaker. “What kind of secrets do you have, Kate?”

  “You think I’ll spill them that easily?”

  Another smile. “Worth a try. What kind of information are you looking for?”

  “What do you know about Keith Ingram, lately of the ALMS, now worki
ng for Benchmark Racing?”

  “I know he felt underappreciated and angry he didn’t get a job in the new administration. But he’s not one to adopt the party line, so I’m not surprised he wasn’t brought over.”

  “He doesn’t like to play by the rules?”

  Scott rubbed his chin. “He’s not a rule-breaker, exactly, but he likes doing things his own way. He’s maybe more of a renegade than the new Series would want, especially given the media scrutiny it’ll have for the first couple years.”

  “Is Ingram still angry? At anyone in particular?”

  He caught on quickly. “Is that what you’re looking for? Who might have hurt Stuart? It wasn’t an accident?”

  “You can’t use this—at least not yet.” I waited for his nod in response. “I’ve talked to someone who saw a car with a track parking pass hit Stuart. I’m trying to understand who might have a grudge against him.”

  “Or who benefits from him out of the way, right?” I nodded and he went on. “Hard to tell with Keith. He seems to be settled at Benchmark, but I get a weird vibe from that team. I’m not sure if it’s from him, their media guy, or what.” He eyed me. “Want me to ask around?”

  “Depends on what you want in return.”

  “This one’s a freebie. The next one, I’ll take out in anonymous tips.”

  I sighed. “Here’s the next one. What do you know about Tug Brehan?”

  “Good old Tug. Stepping into Stuart’s shoes for this race—shoes he might have felt should have been his in the first place, which is undoubtedly why you’re asking. Good at his job, if not quite as smooth, polished, or experienced as Stuart. Job history before Grand-Am unknown—I’ll see what I can find out. Extremely popular with the ladies—the resident player in the Series.”

  “More than Marco?” I referenced an Italian Ferrari driver I knew from the ALMS who was notorious for having a new girlfriend on his arm at every race—despite a wife and children at home in Italy.

  “Marco’s got overt charm—you know you’re being hit on. Tug has a more subtle approach, apparently—the kind of guy who can charm the pants off you without you noticing. What I’ve heard, anyway.”

  “That sounds like coercion.”

  “My impression is there’s no need for coercion. Plenty of options out there for him—and no single one important enough to chase if they’re not interested.”

  “That’s sad.”

  He shrugged. “Sex without the heart being involved—isn’t that what all men want?”

  I heard bitterness in his voice and wondered if he was still smarting from the breakup of his last relationship. I didn’t feel comfortable asking. “Maybe we all want that once in a while, but not as a permanent lifestyle.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be hurting Tug—or the women he’s involved with, who he tends to stay friendly with.”

  “Like Cecilia, down at CPG?”

  “Exactly—though he’s usually smart enough to stay out of messes like her divorce. I’m surprised he’s still on good terms with Willie and the Arena folks—but charm is Tug’s superpower.”

  “How ambitious is he?”

  “I wouldn’t say ambitious enough to run his boss down.”

  “What about Elizabeth Rogers?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Her either—though I agree. Something odd there.”

  “Any idea what?”

  “Other than a blank slate, no. I’ll ask around.”

  “That’s two I’ll owe you. Let’s go for the trifecta: what do you know about why Joe Smith fought with Arena last year? For that matter, who is Joe Smith?”

  “Joe Smith’s real identity—second biggest mystery in the paddock. I have no idea who he really is, but I know he comes from a whole lot of money. Do you know anything?”

  I told him no.

  “No one’s talking about last year’s blowout between Arena and Smith,” he continued. “But if I had to guess, I’d say it had to do with Smith wanting to bend the rules, and Arena not allowing it.”

  “Really?” I lowered my voice, leaning toward him. “Arena? Isn’t he halfway to a crook already? Federal investigators and all?”

  Scott started nodding halfway through my questions. “Except I hear he’s squeaky clean with the racing team. Unnecessarily so.”

  I knew most people in racing followed the old saying, “If you ain’t cheatin’, you ain’t tryin’.” Personally, I abided by the rules I was given for driving and on-track behavior. And I believed my team owner that—like any team in the paddock or in racing—our team might push the rules, but didn’t break them. I knew different teams interpreted the rules more strictly or more loosely than others.

  But I wouldn’t have pegged the resident bad guy as least likely to cheat.

  “He’s extremely vocal about it, too,” Scott went on. “Or, I should say, his spokesperson is, as Arena himself doesn’t talk to media. But Arena’s hatchet man-slash-media guy Ryan—”

  “‘Hatchet man?’”

  Scott shrugged. “It’s what everyone says about him.”

  “Seems like everyone says the same thing—the same phrase.”

  “Maybe he puts it out there, so people don’t mess with him or the team?”

  I shrugged.

  “Anyway,” Scott said, “Ryan makes such a point of how the team adheres one hundred percent to the technical specifications, I figure they’re either cheating like crazy or not cheating at all to compensate for cheating in the rest of his business enterprise.”

  “The latter’s my guess.”

  His eyes sharpened. “What have you heard?”

  “Anonymous source?”

  He whipped out his phone to type notes.

  I glanced around again and spoke even more quietly. “Lots of shady practices in his other businesses. Search online about his security system company and a fugitive brother.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “The guy who saw Stuart get hit told me. He’s on the case.”

  “What case?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I can work with that.” He slipped the phone back in his pocket. “I’ll let you know what I find out. Keep me posted on any other details I can use.”

  “Deal. You didn’t hear this from me.”

  “That’d be impossible, since everyone knows you hate the Ringer.”

  “True. By the way, what’s the first biggest mystery in the paddock?”

  Scott grinned. “The Ringer’s identity, of course. Catch you later.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  1:15 A.M. | 12:55 HOURS REMAINING

  I texted Holly the broad strokes of Scott’s information and suggested she nose around more about Arena’s insistence on aboveboard race tactics. Then I collected another bottle of water and climbed up to the second level of seats in the main pit cart where I had a good view of the monitors and our pit spaces, as well as access to talk to Jack if necessary.

  I settled in to study the rhythm of the car, track, and race as much as possible by watching the camera feeds. My attempt was short-lived. Only five minutes later, someone did something stupid again—and Colby had nowhere to go.

  As it so often had, the trouble involved the Arena Motorsports number 54 car—Uncle Eddie’s car, though he wasn’t behind the wheel.

  The amateur driver, Brody van Huff, was clearly headed for disaster in the infield. Perhaps he was pushing hard to make up the handful of laps he was down. Or he overestimated his own driving ability. But he was driving over the edge, which no one did for long.

  Colby was in exactly the right place to be a target for van Huff. First she was a goal car to reach and attempt to overtake—not that doing so was likely for an amateur driving in a lower-level class. Second, she served as a catcher’s mitt for van Huff’s out-of-control car. In later hours and days, ma
ny would ask Colby if her actions and the outcome of the clash between cars was accidental or deliberate. She’d merely smile.

  I knew better. I knew no one was quite that good—and we’d been lucky.

  Van Huff blew his line and speed for the Kink, and got sucked offline, driver’s right. His Porsche skated over the wet grass, careening out of control toward Turn 5, aiming straight for the 28 Corvette. Colby was a sitting duck. All she could do was brake as hard as possible. And maybe pray. All of us in the Sandham Swift pits held our breaths, pressed our right feet to imaginary brake pedals, and prayed with her.

  It worked, barely. Van Huff’s Porsche skittered across the front of the 28, ripping up the bumper but avoiding serious damage. Then something strange happened. As van Huff’s car cleared the Corvette, the Porsche jolted and its back end spun away from our car, almost as if Colby nudged the throttle mid-slide and flicked van Huff’s car off of hers. Except that would have required near-impossible reaction times.

  Whatever the reason, van Huff continued his slide-and-spin into the tire wall outside Turn 5, impacting heavily. Double-yellow flags. Full-course caution.

  Our crew’s cries of dismay over the damage to our car turned into self-righteous mutterings of “Bastard had that coming” and “Now will they park that car?”

  I thought van Huff might have saved the Series the trouble.

  Even as our crew members made those comments, they readied tools and car parts and scrambled to don their protective gear. They brought forward the spare nose—bumper, lights, front undertray, and more—along with racks of tools and supplies for fixing or changing suspension parts, taping together or cutting off body panels, and making any other repair that might be required. The crew that would remain behind the wall also prepared foot-wide strips of extra-thick, super-sticky crash tape.

  When Colby pitted with the GT classes, we were relieved to see only superficial bodywork damage and a slow leak in the right-front tire. The crew used five sheets of crash tape to hold the bumper together and keep the right-front headlight in place. Four new tires and fuel, and Colby was back out. Lucky.