Avoidable Contact

by Tammy Kaehler

  As I scooped up a pile of fruit salad and a blueberry muffin, I considered the idea of Arena—a poor boy from Southern California—becoming a money man for the mafia. I expected it could only be done by the kind of ruthless businessman Arena was reputed to be. Does the Mob only stick to Italians, or is that only in the movies? For that matter, could the Mob be the Russians, not the Italians? Maybe the Kuliks were involved with Arena. I’d seen them with Arena and Monica enough.

  I sighed and broke open the muffin. I could speculate in circles for hours.

  “May I?” I looked up to see the hatchet man himself, Ryan Johnston, pointing to the seat across the table from me.

  “Be my guest.” I tried to hide my surprise. Linda’s provided long rows of open-seating tables, and there were plenty of unoccupied open seats. I wondered what Ryan wanted.

  He cleared his throat. “You’re heading back to the pits now, correct?”

  “That’s right. How’s everything for your cars?”

  “Mixed.” He sipped his coffee. “As could be expected.”

  Alibis, Kate. “You have so many sponsors your team must have to do a ton of hospitality work.”

  He nodded, chewing, so I went on. “Did you have pre-race stuff planned for your guests or only activities once the race started?”

  “All morning also. Of course, some of our sponsors are also drivers, so they had obligations, but their guests would participate. For instance your—” he caught my involuntary tensing and changed course. “For instance, our main Frame Savings representative is also driving, but his son and nephew participated in the full slate of morning activities.”

  “You get them all doing everything together? That’s impressive.”

  “All of them were with our hospitality leader from nine in the morning to the green flag.” He looked me steadily in the eye, as if he knew the information I was trying to get out of him. “The drivers, on the other hand, were on their own until the mandatory driver’s meeting at eleven-thirty.”

  That meant Billy and Holden couldn’t have run Stuart down—but Uncle Eddie might have had time. If he had a reason.

  Who else had alibis? The cops told me Richard Arena and Monica did.

  Ryan stood up and retrieved a blueberry muffin. He gestured to the half-muffin remaining on my plate as he sat down. “That looked good.”

  I broke off another piece. “Someone told me you were the media guy for your team, is that right?”

  “Whatever Richard needs, really. Some media work.” He nibbled on his muffin. “Yesterday it was negotiations with the Series—Tug and I were hashing details out right up until the autograph session.” He stopped picking at his food and looked at me. “In fact, Stuart Telarday left us together for the offsite meeting where he was hurt. Such a shame.”

  I caught my breath. That meant Tug couldn’t have done it. Nor could Ryan. Elizabeth could have, since she was called to the track after the accident.

  Ryan looked at his watch, jolting me out of my thoughts. It was time for me to be on my way also. We both stood up.

  To my surprise, he held out a hand. “It was nice to chat. I hope the rest of your race is smooth.”

  I shook, but warily. I knew what I’d gotten out of the conversation, but I didn’t know what he’d found interesting or useful. I’d given away my connection to Ed Grant and the cousins, but I didn’t think that was news to him.

  Unless he could tell I was after alibies for the time of Stuart’s attack?

  I didn’t have time to figure it out. I needed to find how the 28 Corvette was doing—and how soon I could get in it again.

  Chapter Forty-three

  9:30 A.M. | 4:40 HOURS REMAINING

  Five minutes later I was in the transport trailer, talking to Aunt Tee, catching up on what had happened in the race while I’d slept through the dawn.

  Miles had a brush with a curb that started to make the right front tire go down, but he’d gotten to the pits before it did any damage to the car or before losing more laps. The 28 car was one lap down to the four cars remaining on the lead lap and one lap up on the two cars behind us, with Mike currently behind the wheel. We were all encouraged by how well the car continued to run—also that we’d stayed out of trouble so far. But no one was counting any chickens.

  Colby was due to get in the car in fifteen minutes, so I picked up a radio and headed that direction, with a short detour on the way through the Fan Zone. I climbed the stairs to the Fan Deck on top of the garage building and joined scores of race fans peering down on the activity below, looking out over the infield, and catching sight of the racecars zooming around the banked curves at both ends of the track.

  The Daytona Speedway was a city unto itself. It had a carnival, a family fun zone, a food area, a lake with boats on it, and multiple camping areas, including a quiet zone, a rowdy area, and a gated community for the teams. As Holly had put it, the only thing missing from Speedway-world was a bowling alley. Campers lined the track in the infield, most of them sporting rooftop observation decks from which fans watched the action. I knew most fans would have been awake many hours already—if they’d ever slept—and would be huddled for warmth around their fires or stationed atop their rigs, clutching coffee or beer, and following the action.

  In the silence between cars on the front stretch, I heard shouts and the revving of an engine below me. I looked down to the paddock lane to see crew and fans scatter—the latter doing so less adeptly than team members—as a prototype rolled toward the garage. I recognized the silver machine with white and red stripes I’d followed during the long caution the night before, one of the three cars battling for the overall race lead at the time. Team members in silver and red firesuits arrived on a run from the pits, followed shortly thereafter by media representatives. Within seconds, a crowd five deep had formed around the opening to the car’s garage space.

  I turned my back to the railing and looked across the infield, across the lake, to the back straight. Took deep breaths of crisp air scented delicately with fuel, rubber, and hot oil. I was sorry I’d missed the sunrise over the track, a magical time for drivers and teams after the long, cold night before. But even three hours after sunrise, I felt a sense of rebirth. A sense of a fresh start. Sure, cars and teams looked worn and bedraggled, but in the way of warriors who’d fought long and hard and knew their work wasn’t yet done. I wished Stuart were here to experience the moment with me.

  Time to get back to work.

  My phone buzzed with a message as I went down the stairs nearest the pit lane. I deleted the new piece of spam email, but in doing so, I discovered an email that had arrived overnight from Calhoun. A long one, with a draft of his article attached. He’d sent the article to his editor, but he also wanted me and Holly to see what we’d been helping him with. He’d somehow anticipated my question about Stuart, writing, I hoped Stuart could tell me something about the company or team backing Arena’s race entry. Looking for a money chain from one corporation to another. Maybe also who the sponsor companies are. Backing corporations, not only what’s on the car. I didn’t get anything from him.

  “No surprise there,” I muttered.

  What Calhoun did have was a list of what looked like nine company names, starting with Arena Motorsports and including three others I recognized as sponsors of various Arena cars. The three sponsor companies belonged to two different parent companies I’d never heard of. Both of those belonged to a single corporation: Belmont Enterprises. Another one I’d never heard of.

  Calhoun’s brief explanation at the end was clear. This is what I hoped Stuart could verify or confirm. Info and connections I’ve constructed from various sources. Proves money laundering.

  Then a final surprise: I’ve finished my article, so I’ll come to the track to talk to the cops. Looking forward to meeting you, Kate. Thanks for the help.

  I stopped at the bottom of the s
tairs. “Looking forward to meeting you, too, Calhoun,” I muttered, typing that reply. I wanted to meet this guy face-to-face.

  A text message came in, the notification appearing on my screen over the email. It was Latham, asking if I had anything new and where I’d be for the next hour.

  Holly should have passed on the stuff from last night, background on you-know-who, I typed back. Also got an email from him with his article and a list of companies possibly involved in money laundering.

  Latham responded with his email address and a warning: Easily a motive for murder. We’ll come find you soon.

  I told him I’d for sure be in my own pits in twenty minutes, then asked if they’d figured out yet who attacked Stuart.

  Not yet. Getting closer, was his reply.

  I had to be content with that. I started toward Sandham Swift, but a text message from Holly diverted me to the Redemption Racing pits instead. I poked my head in the double-wide setup a few spaces above the Arena tent. Holly stood with two men and waved me over.

  “Kate, meet Joe Smith.” She gestured to a short, dark guy who didn’t look the late-twenties Holly estimated. Nor did he look rich and famous enough to need anonymity. He did look smart and confident. We shook hands.

  Holly went on. “And Jason Carnegie, who runs Redemption.” I shifted and extended my hand to a man only a few years older than me. In contrast to Joe Smith—or whatever his real name was—Jason had the open face and easy grin of a businessman. Or a salesman.

  Jason shook my hand. “Kate, a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Carnegie? Related to the Carnegie of CPG?” I asked.

  “CPG is Daniel, my older brother,” he said easily. “Welcome to Redemption. Our casa es su casa. Make yourself at home.”

  I thanked him and looked at Holly. I wasn’t sure what her plan was.

  “I was talking with Joe and Jason about some of the difficult interactions we’ve had with the Arena team at this race. I knew they’ve had their issues in the past. The big question is,” Holly said, looking from one man to the other. “If there’s anything in particular we should know in dealing with them. Frankly, any leverage we can use if they try to pull rank or size or intimidate us?”

  Jason looked at Joe Smith and spoke carefully. “I would recommend being careful trusting them.”

  When neither one said anything more, I offered, “We’re having problems with some of the people on that team. Specifically, Ed Grant, who started to get violent. Only one person under that tent seemed to care. The rest acted like I deserved it. We didn’t know if that was a pattern of behavior. If there’s anything to be done about it.”

  Give to get, Gramps always said, and it worked this time.

  Joe Smith shook his head. “In my experience, there’s nothing to be done. On that team, more than anywhere, only money talks. They think money solves everything—lack of experience, lack of respect, you name it. Pay for what you need.”

  “That contradicts something else we’d heard,” Holly put in. “That Arena keeps his race team operating on the up-and-up. Won’t allow any bending of the rules or cheating.”

  Jason agreed. “Everything that team does is well within the rules—for all the good it does him. Most people understand there’s money and there are the intangibles. Some groups of people won’t ever work together well, no matter how much you pay for salaries, training, or equipment. Other groups of people can come together with sub-par tools and little practice, yet create magic.”

  “Believe me,” Joe said. “That team doesn’t understand the magic. They try to bulldoze their way forward with money.” He shrugged. “In the end, I couldn’t operate that way. I could play that game, but that’s not how I want to go about racing. Plus, I don’t want to be around the kind of people he’s bringing into the team. Like Grant.”

  “I get that,” I muttered.

  “I’ll tell you a secret of theirs,” Joe offered. “They’re connected to Benchmark Racing—partners or something.”

  Holly echoed my thoughts. “So?”

  Joe grinned. “I know, right? They treat every useless bit of information like a trade secret.” He gave a sharp laugh. “Like who some of their less-than-savory guests are for a race weekend. Some of them look like stereotypical mobsters—no idea if that’s what they are. But between the drivers and the guests, I wanted no part of the team.”

  I could see why he’d gotten out fast.

  Jason returned a wave from one of his crew on the pit box, then turned back to us. “Thing is, Arena’s ‘don’t cheat’ reputation took a beating overnight. You hear about the spotter scandal?”

  Chapter Forty-four

  9:45 A.M. | 4:25 HOURS REMAINING

  “I’d forgotten about the spotter thing,” I said. “I was in the car at the time. Two guys? Around three in the morning?”

  “Idiots,” Jason said. “Got up there and started throwing around hints about favors and payoffs for telling drivers the wrong thing. Who thinks that will work?”

  Holly smiled. “People who think money talks louder than anything else. Is it for sure they were from Arena’s team?”

  “Our guys saw an Arena badge when it slipped out of one of the idiots’ pockets. Not sure exactly who they are, but one of them called the other ‘cousin.’”

  I’m sure of their identities. I kept my disgust off my face and the information to myself. “Anything going to happen to them?”

  Jason shook his head. “No real harm done, because no one took them seriously. I’m not even sure how the Series would handle something like this.” He glanced at the monitors above his pit box again. “Anyway, you guys be careful with that team. Let us know if you need anything—like backup.” He smiled and left us.

  “I’ve got to go prep, myself,” Joe said, offering a hand to both me and Holly.

  “Have fun out there,” I said. “And thanks for the info.”

  “It goes no further than us,” Holly promised.

  I waited until we were out of the Redemption Racing pits before exploding. “I can’t believe my loser cousins will get away with their behavior. There’s got to be some way—” I turned to Holly. “Our favorite racing blogger should hear about it.”

  Her cheek-splitting grin matched mine. “Genius, sugar. I’m on it.”

  “I owe him. I’d better tell him.” I spent ten seconds congratulating myself and starting to compose the text message I’d write, when I saw who was traveling up pit lane in our direction. First was Lara Reilly, looking anxious. But I was more concerned about the two men behind her, also headed toward me. Detective Latham from the Daytona PD and Officer Webster from the Speedway looked even more gloomy than when they’d told me about Stuart the day before.

  Is Stuart—no, he’s all right. Polly or Tug would tell me if he wasn’t, not the detectives. What else is wrong?

  “Kate, do you have a minute?”

  Lara stopped in front of me, a little breathless.

  I jerked my eyes from the still-advancing detectives to Lara. “I don’t think so.” Her face fell, and I remembered how I’d treated her the last time. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to avoid you. I swear.” Of course, that’s what I’d tell her, even if I were. “I’ve got to talk to these guys, and then get to my pits. Can I find you after my stint?”

  She turned and saw the cops standing three paces away, waiting for me. She got more nervous. “That’s fine. I hope you’re not in trouble or anything. I don’t even know if what I wanted to tell you is important—maybe it’s not, so listen, don’t worry about it. It’s just—talking to the guy from the car, and something should be wrong but nothing really was, you know? No brakes, no nothing.” She stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry. It’s probably nothing. I’ll find you later.” She took off up pit lane.

  I looked a question at Holly.

  “No idea either,” she responded.

&n
bsp; I shook my head, squared my shoulders, and approached the officers.

  “Are you going back to your pits?” Latham asked.

  At my nod, he stood to the side and gestured. “Let’s get you both down there.” He and Webster fell in behind us as we made our way past three prototype pit spaces and then the Arena Motorsports team. It felt like we were being trailed by bodyguards.

  We arrived at Sandham Swift, where the crew was cleaning up after the stop to change Mike to Colby. I gestured the officers to seats or coffee. “Give me a second to check in, then we can talk.” I let Jack and Bruce know I was there and patted a sweaty Mike on the back. Then I returned to the cops, ready for whatever questions they had about interactions with the reporter.

  I dug my phone out of my pocket as I approached them. “I haven’t gotten anything else from Calhoun since that email. He hasn’t responded to our last texts.”

  Webster nudged us to the side of the tent, farther away from the rest of the team.

  Latham frowned. “You’re not going to hear anything else.”

  I didn’t understand. “Since he’s done with the article, you mean? Did you guys get to him and arrest him? Confiscate Stuart’s phone?”

  Latham shook his head. Beside me, Holly sucked in a gasp of air.

  I started to feel a heaviness in my chest and shoulders.

  Latham spoke. “Calhoun’s dead.”

  I heard Holly muttering, “Shit, shit, shit.”

  I agreed with her and wiped my eyes. I wasn’t sure why I was crying, since I didn’t actually know the man. “What happened?”

  “Bludgeoned with a regular ol’ tire iron,” Webster told us. “Over in the infield parking by NASCAR 3, other side of one of the bathroom buildings. ‘Round dawn.”

  “You’re sure it’s—” Latham’s nod cut off Holly’s question.

  I shuddered. While I was sleeping a few hundred yards away, Calhoun was killed. “No wonder we had no more messages from him.”