“About that,” Latham began. “What’s the last thing you got from him? Can we see?”
I handed over my phone and tried to process Calhoun’s death—his murder—while they copied the information down in a notebook and took screenshots. I felt disconnected, unnerved by the news. Calhoun was a cipher. He’d only existed for me via text message—yet he’d been a real person, killed deliberately.
I didn’t know how to mourn him. If I should. Too much injury, death, and grief this weekend. It’s all too much. I wanted the race over. I wanted to get the hell out of Daytona Beach.
Holly broke the silence. “What was he doing at the track? He was the one wanting to stay away.”
“He turned in his article overnight and sent it to me, also. Said he was coming to the track to see the cops and meet me,” I told her. I looked to the cops. “Shouldn’t you have Stuart’s phone? I’m sure Calhoun would have kept it with him.”
They exchanged a glance, and Latham answered. “We’re trying to determine why he was here and why he was in that parking area, but we don’t know. I was hoping we might find a clue in your interactions with him.” He sighed. “We didn’t find Mr. Telarday’s phone with Calhoun. Nor was it in the car we’ve identified as his. We’ve got to assume his killer has that phone and a record of your conversations with him.”
I gasped for breath. Some faceless, heartless creep had run down my boyfriend, killed Calhoun, and now knew I’d been trying to identify him. I shivered. I didn’t know who to guard against.
“You need to be very careful now, Ms. Reilly,” Webster said. “Don’t go anywhere alone.” He looked at Holly. “You either. Get someone else to go with you if it’s only the two of you.”
“What if someone tries to get to Stuart?” I asked.
“We’ve got an officer at the hospital,” Latham assured me. “And before you ask, we’re looking into the team Calhoun was focused on. Tell us if you have any information we can use. And be careful.” With a final nod, he and Webster left the pits. Holly and I sat down in the nearest chairs.
“Wow,” she finally said.
“No kidding.” My thoughts were an incoherent jumble of everything I’d learned in the last thirty minutes. When in doubt, focus on the car. I stood to watch Colby on the monitors, and I asked Tom how the 29 car was doing.
“They had a close encounter with an over-excited prototype driver. It had to be towed back to the garage—heavy rear end damage. But both crews pitched in, changed out the left-rear suspension, and got bodywork replaced or taped down. Took about twenty minutes off-track, so we’re down something like a dozen laps.”
“At least they’re still running.”
“Right, not like the thirteen cars that have parked and closed up shop so far.”
With just over four hours to go until we saw the checkers, the rising tension was palpable up and down pit lane. The nerves I felt about a murderer on the loose were a bonus.
Chapter Forty-five
10:05 A.M. | 4:05 HOURS REMAINING
Holly nudged my side. “Videos,” she mouthed, and waved to me to follow her to the unused pit box.
She handed me a pair of earbuds as she opened a folder on the laptop and double-clicked one of two video files. I plugged the earbuds in and tried to understand what I heard and saw. The video was only the vague outline of three pairs of shoes next to the metal structure of a tire rack. The audio was more interesting—Tug and two other male voices, one of which was completely unintelligible. But the third was familiar. On the second time through the recording, I identified my cousin Billy. That made the third one likely to be Holden.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t make out much of what they said. Tug asked what he could do to help them, Holden said something short, and Billy possibly elaborated with, “We want to be sure there are no…make sure we have strategies in place to prevent that.”
Tug: “I’ve already gone way beyond—I’m not sure what more I can do. But you know I’m happy to help you.”
Billy: “So you understand the situation and are ready to step in, should it be necessary.…disastrous for all of us…word might get out you weren’t where you were supposed to be.”
A car went down pit lane on the tape, drowning out everything but one last statement from Billy: “We’ll check in with you later and let you know what we need.”
Where was Tug supposed to be? And when? Was he outside the track running Stuart down? Not according to Ryan, unless he’d lied to me. I shook myself. Billy’s statement could mean anything. It could be completely innocuous—though with Billy and Holden involved, “innocuous” was unlikely. Either way, I needed to keep an eye on Tug’s interactions with them and anyone next door.
I pulled an earbud out of one ear. “I’m not sure what that told me.”
“Seems like how to make sure Grant gets money to keep racing.”
“Does that mean Tug’s crooked? If he was offering to help them?”
She shrugged. “Or he could be listening and not planning to help.”
“I’m not sure about that guy. Is he what he pretends to be?”
“He’s a tough one to read.”
I shook my head and put the earbud back in, then clicked on the next file. It was a shorter clip, but I could tell immediately who was speaking: Richard Arena and Monica Frank. They’d whispered, but they must have been closer to the microphone, because every word was clear.
Arena: “What are you doing about the situation?”
Monica: “Making sure we’re covered for the appropriate time. Making sure no one has any reason to connect us to him.”
Arena, forceful: “That might be hard to do. You’re not keeping a low profile with those photos online.”
Monica, unconcerned: “That’s nothing. Two consenting adults, who cares? No one knows about my cousin. Everything’s under control.”
I unclenched my fingers from the headphone cables and forced myself to stay calm. Was she ensuring they had alibis for the time of Stuart’s death? For the time of Calhoun’s death? And who’s her cousin?
“Two consenting adults,” my eye! I handed the earphones back to Holly and went out to the pit walkway. I leaned my forehead against the metal of the fence and breathed. Reminded myself Stuart was honorable and logical. Even if he was mad or disappointed in me, he wouldn’t have initiated a kiss without severing ties with me first.
I wondered if Monica had an ulterior motive for ending up in those photos with him or if she couldn’t resist trying to corrupt the incorruptible.
“The day can’t be that bad already.” I turned to see Miles grinning at me. “The car’s still doing well.”
I stood up straight and held out a hand to shake. “Nice drive, partner.”
He ignored my hand and hugged me. “Great drive to you, partner. What a fantastic race to be part of.”
I patted his back and stepped away. “You starting to like these endurance races?”
“Yeah, I’m getting the hang of this car and this kind of thing—with all the classes, especially. It’s really different than Cup racing.”
“Car’s pretty different, anyway. And we’re on the twisty stuff, not only lefts.” I elbowed him in the side to let him know I was teasing him about the lack of road courses in NASCAR’s season.
“I wish we did more road courses, silly as those Cup cars are on them. I’m sure enjoying this car.”
“It’s feeling better?”
“Sure is. When I got in the car for my second stint, right after you this morning, I finally felt like everything had slowed down. Felt like I could really contribute to the team, now that I’m better at driving the car.”
“Shoot, Miles, you were good at driving the car from the beginning. I’m not sure I can stand you getting much better—you’ll take my job.”
“Look who’s talking, Ms. Fast-Lap of the Race.�
� He grinned. “Last I heard that was still holding.” He headed into the pit tent with a wave.
I felt pure pleasure for the first time in the whole race. All the crap going on in the outside world can’t stop me from doing what I do best: kicking butt on the racetrack.
Flush with that boost of confidence, when I felt my phone wiggle in my pocket and pulled it out to see a long email from my father, I took a leap. I sent a text message asking if we could talk briefly, because I had something to tell him. I was tired of tiptoeing around him and, by extension, covering up for his family members. He deserved to know what his nephews were up to and what they and his brother had to say to me. I needed to know if he endorsed their attitudes.
The thought of my cousins reminded me to contact SGTV reporter Scott Brooklyn, aka Racing’s Ringer. Since I didn’t have his cell number, I typed a quick message via the Ringer’s site to find me.
Only then did I skim the information my father sent. He’d given me some of the same facts about Arena’s background I’d heard from other sources, but from the business world’s perspective. The only new tidbit was details about Arena founding a non-profit organization aimed at stopping juvenile recidivism.
It was the first mention of any charitable offering from Arena or his organizations. I wondered if he was trying to help his brother—or his younger self. Richard Arena had been a young parolee and had managed to become a success in the white-collar world. Perhaps he was trying to turn other lives around. I felt grudging respect for him, if that were the case. I had my doubts he was still law-abiding, but he couldn’t be all villain if he was trying to keep young people from committing more crimes.
Helping his brother…could he have helped his brother to a new career? Nik Reyes walked past me, headed for the bottom end of pit lane. My heart skipped a beat. Could Nik Reyes be Julio Arena? Or was I starting to suspect everyone?
A bigger and more frightening question occurred to me. Could Raul be Julio Arena? Could I be attracted to a murderer?
Holly must have seen the stricken expression on my face. She scrambled down from the pit cart and crossed to me. I explained my thought process.
“Don’t freak out about it, sugar. Let me do a little digging.” She pulled out her phone and started tapping away. “Besides, wouldn’t it make more sense to use a non-Latino name? Something no one would think twice about?”
I considered her point, and we turned to each other with the same thought. I said the words aloud. “Something like Joe Smith?”
“You know who else fits age and general appearance?” She looked amused. “Tug Brehan.”
“Talk about hiding in plain sight. I wonder…”
She went back to working her phone while I turned over different possibilities. Then she stopped and held up her phone.
Under the photo of Raul Salas were lines of biographical data. He was two years older than me, and he’d been born in July. In Rosarito, Mexico.
Chapter Forty-six
10:15 A.M. | 3:55 HOURS REMAINING
After I fought down my alarm, I sent a message to Detective Latham asking if he’d looked into Raul Salas at all. If Raul could be Julio Arena.
I crossed back into our pits to pour myself some coffee and watch the action on the monitor. Cup in hand, I watched Colby take the car around the track. I also let my mind drift over the new information.
I wasn’t going to touch Calhoun’s evidence of Richard Arena’s involvement in money laundering. Maybe it was wrapped up in a motive for hurting Stuart and killing Calhoun—but I’d leave that one to the cops. Or maybe the Feds. At least to Calhoun’s editor to run the story.
I couldn’t say I was surprised by the information from Joe Smith and Jason Carnegie, that money ruled the world in the Arena tent—witness my grasping, greedy cousins’ attempts to throw it around to bribe spotters. The Arena team and that part of my father’s family are a match made in heaven. I was surprised Arena didn’t have the imagination to understand money alone couldn’t solve racing problems. That would ultimately limit his team’s success.
But none of that knowledge brought me closer to figuring out who’d run Stuart down. Or who killed Calhoun—because I assumed the two were connected. I pulled out my phone and sent that question to Latham.
Our conversation at Redemption Racing confirmed Arena was everything I didn’t like about the racing world: money-grubbing, arrogant, and focused on winning. We all wanted to win, but for most of us, the fun was in racing, not only winning. If it was only about the dollars and the trophies, you missed something. Joe Smith got that, too, which impressed me.
I wonder if we’ll ever know who he really is. It seems like he comes from some serious money, but doesn’t want to use much of it. Wants to earn his way, instead. I could respect that.
“Kate?”
I looked up at my father. My heart leapt into my throat, and I led him over to the pair of plastic chairs at the quiet side of the tent.
He spoke before I could gather my thoughts. “What’s wrong? How can I help?”
“I’m not sure there’s anything you can do. But I felt like you should know….” I sighed. “I’m no good at this.”
“At what?”
I waved my hand around. “This family stuff. Do you keep quiet when people are being assholes? Do you tell someone about it? Whose feelings am I trying to save? I guess it’s yours, not theirs—”
“Kate, tell me whatever it is.”
“Billy and Holden. And your brother.”
He sat back, either relaxed or resigned. “Now what?”
“The boys were apparently up on the spotter’s stand in the early hours of the morning, trying to bribe spotters from other teams to sabotage their cars.”
He didn’t speak, only rubbed a hand over his eyes. I went on. “No one knows their names, but someone up there saw the Arena team name on a badge. And there can’t be too many pairs of young, wealthy, arrogant cousins associated with that team.”
“Likely not. Thank you, I—”
“There’s more. They’re trying to scare me away from you and your family. Holden’s made comments about always watching me. Most recently, they made threats about staying away and not trying for any Reilly money.”
In spite of my father’s aghast expression, I added, “Then again, I didn’t know there ever was Reilly money, which is a conversation I’ll have with my grandparents sometime soon.”
“I’m finding this hard to believe.” He waved a hand as I bristled. “Bad choice of words. I believe you. I’m simply astonished by them.” He cleared his throat. “When did this begin?”
“It’s how they’ve always been, since I met them. Back at Petit.”
He sat forward. “They made threats then?”
“Then, now.” I shrugged. “It’s how they are. I couldn’t figure out why, until they said something last night. They seem to think I’d take sponsorship money they or your brother would otherwise get.”
He blew out a breath and sat up straight. “Let’s get this straight. They’ve been acting aggressively and threatening you for three months, and you haven’t said anything to me?”
“I haven’t seen them between Petit Le Mans and now. At first it was silly squabbling, schoolyard kid stuff. I could handle it.”
“It has changed?”
“The stuff with the spotters and the intentional physical intimidation—” I saw anger flash over his face. “Blocking the walkway, so we had to talk to them, that’s all.” I paused. He really wouldn’t like the story about his brother. “They didn’t touch us or threaten to. But it got to be too much. I felt like I was covering up for them, which I have no interest in doing.”
“Good. They’re also trying to bribe other teams’ crew to sabotage cars?”
“That’s what I heard, from my spotter and from another team whose spotter was also involved. It was around
three in the morning. I’ve also seen them in close conversation with Tug Brehan and Monica Frank—the kind of discussions that look like plotting or scheming.”
He shook his head. “You asked why they might be doing this. I know of a possible explanation, but frankly, theirs is not a reasonable response to the situation.”
I’d never thought Billy and Holden to be much troubled by reason, but I kept my mouth shut.
He went on. “I need to request you keep this information to yourself—it’s probably confidential board information I shouldn’t be sharing, but it’s clearly impacting you.”
“Of course.”
“It’s true Edward’s racing is sponsored by the bank—‘sponsored’ is the polite word,” my father explained. “‘Primarily funded’ is more accurate. Has been for almost two decades now. It was his interest in racing that led to the bank sponsoring the American Le Mans Series in the past and now the United SportsCar Championship. And the bank feels it has benefited from its participation in racing. That’s not the issue.”
“There’s an issue?”
“For some years now, the bank hasn’t seen any benefits to its funding of Edward. No return on its investment—due in equal parts to lack of finishes, exorbitant costs for equipment, and unfavorable mentions on-air or in print. Edward was given funds for this race with the option for more if he finished fifth or better and generated good publicity or mentions. I expect that’s what’s behind his…determination, as well as Billy and Holden’s efforts.”
“Does Holden race also?”
“He and Billy both, in lower ranks so far. They also receive bank sponsorship, but not as much as Edward.”
“Maybe they think if your brother loses sponsorship, they’ll have less chance of getting more in the future?”
“That’s probably an accurate deduction.” His smile was bleak. “Neither Billy nor Holden has proven to be a wise investment so far, which, while not involving the bank’s money, is common knowledge.”
“Maybe Billy and Holden feel challenged or intimidated by me, because I’m a better driver, with other, bigger sponsorships. Not because I’m going to take away the bank’s money.”
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