Dead Man’s Switch
Page 1
Dead Man’s Switch
A Kate Reilly Racing Mystery
Tammy Kaehler
www.tammykaehler.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2011 by Tammy Kaehler
First Edition 2011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2011920319
ISBN: 9781590588819 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781590588833 Trade Paperback
ISBN: 9781615952847 epub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
To Pattie and Pam.
For opening doors and inspiring me to step through them.
To Chet.
For everything, always.
Acknowledgments
Begin at the beginning…I was raised to love books, laugh at silly humor, and appreciate an ironic twist. My family (by blood and love) nurtured those traits, and I thank you Gail Vann, Roger and Aggie Kaehler, and Richard and Barbara Fichtel (whom I still miss daily). Thank you to my best friends Chet Johnston, Pam Wheeler, Leticia Buckley, and Lara Kallander, who never doubted I could do it, if I only would.
I owe a great debt to the racing world for the generosity shown me long before this amounted to anything. Extra special thanks go to Shane Mahoney and Steve Wesoloski for enthusiasm and answers to random queries over the years, as well as to Andrew Davis for teaching me (sort of) what it’s like to be a racecar driver and making sure I get it right—any errors are mine, not your doing. For fielding questions and continuing to entertain and inspire me, thank you to Patrick Long, Johnny O’Connell, Doug Fehan, Kevin Buckler and The Racer’s Group, Leigh Diffey and Dorsey Schroeder (and the whole SPEED team), Pattie Mayer, Tim Mayer, Lauren Elkins, Drew Bergwall, Ed Triolo, Charlie Cook, Beaux Barfield, Bob Dickinson, and Julie Bentley. Kudos and thanks to Dr. Panoz for conceiving an amazing racing series.
Thank you to Dr. Jason Black, from whom all literary medical information (and ongoing friendship) flows.
Thank yous also to those who started, encouraged, maintained, and cheered my fiction writing: Leslie Keenan and her Wednesday writing group, as well as Book Passage for doing so much to celebrate books and writers. Special shouts-out to Christine Harvey, Wendy Howard, Tracy Tandy, and Cary Sparks for “being here for me” from 400 miles away. Thank you to Hallie Ephron for timely and critical guidance (whether she knew it or not). To Harley Jane Kozak, Wendy Hornsby, and Simon Wood for inspiring me, cheering me on, and taking me under your wings. And to Joan Hansen for producing amazing literary events that allowed me to meet many wonderful authors.
Finally, many, many thanks to my agent, Lucienne Diver, who kept assuring me she believed in Kate and would find her a home. More bouquets of gratitude to Annette Rogers for taking me in, to the incredible Barbara Peters for showing me how to find the diamond under all the rough, and to Jessica, Rob, and the rest of the Poisoned Pen staff and authors for making me part of the family.
Author’s Note
Fans of racing will notice that I have been creative in my descriptions of Lime Rock and the American Le Mans Series. The track surface and configuration, as well as the ALMS class structure, have undergone restructuring in the years since I wrote this, and I chose to preserve the pre-renovated character of both. I have similarly combined real companies, organizations, and locations with entirely fictional characters. I hope readers will forgive those liberties and enjoy the ride.
Map
Chapter One
My first big break in auto racing came at the expense of someone’s life. But I took it.
You have to have that attitude in racing. Sometimes you lose because your clutch cable breaks or your tire blows, and sometimes you win because disasters strike faster teams. No asterisks get posted next to those wins, no explanations. It’s just racing. Sometimes you have it rough, and sometimes you get lucky.
On this day, I got lucky and the driver I replaced…“unlucky” would be an understatement. We’re talking about murder.
I knew I’d endure weeks of sideways glances and sneers for a couple reasons. First, I’d be labeled an opportunist. It wouldn’t be personal, because any driver hired as a replacement would receive the same treatment. Second, my skills—or lack thereof. “She could only get a ride by someone dropping dead.” I’d have the last laugh from the podium at those naysayers.
What I didn’t anticipate were the whispers that maybe I’d engineered my predecessor’s death to get the ride. I wasn’t sure whether to be offended, scared that someone who counted would believe them, or flattered that someone might think of me as ruthless.
I was female. I was twenty-four. I’d been steadily working my way up the auto racing food chain since I was twelve. I knew myself to be tenacious, aggressive, and stubborn. The racing world saw me as reserved and feminine, yet competent—and I worked hard for it. But the bottom line, to the good old boys of the racing world, was that I was too female to be ruthless.
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br /> I hadn’t heard those whispers yet, and I wasn’t thinking beyond the ride being handed to me on a silver platter. I was going to be paid to drive for one race, and maybe for the remainder of the season. Despite what followed, I’d make the same choice again in a heartbeat.
Chapter Two
As usual, I’d gotten to the track early that morning. It was July, and the American Le Mans Series, or ALMS, was running at Lime Rock Park in Lakeville, Connecticut, for the Fourth of July weekend. ALMS cars ran in the finale of four days of racing and celebrations that comprised the New England Grand Prix. Due to a local regulation against engine noise on Sundays, the racing world’s standard race day, the main event would be run on Monday, July 5. Sunday would be a rare day off.
I was following the ALMS that year, traveling from race to race like the rest of the participants, though I didn’t have a ride or team. I’d given myself a year to break into this series, which featured two classes of recognizable sportscars and two classes of prototypes racing together on “road” courses—tracks with hills and turns of varying sharpness to the left and right. No NASCAR ovals. In past years, I’d driven in some of the other races that accompanied the ALMS race, and now I wanted in on the marquee event.
I hoped my presence would remind everyone I was available as a full-time, occasional, or one-time-only driver. I’d take anything. I daydreamed of being offered a permanent ride for an ALMS team, but never asked myself what would have to happen to the other guy first.
I was more likely to get a ride if I was on the spot than sitting at home, so here I was, pulling my twenty-year-old Jeep Cherokee into Lime Rock’s entrance on Saturday at 7:00 a.m., ready for the day of practice and qualifying.
I waved my Series ID at the sleepy attendant and drove through the main gate.
“Get some coffee!” My words prompted a smile and a wave before he closed his eyes again.
At that hour, he didn’t need to be alert. Only a trickle of cars was arriving at the track, most carrying people like me who had passes or tickets and knew where they were going. I drove across the creaky wooden bridge that spanned the racetrack and continued past grass parking lots to my right. I slowed as I veered left and approached another attendant. She saw the parking pass I held up and waved me through.
A golf cart labored up the hill from the paddock as I cruised down, and I recognized the driver who angled toward me.
“Good morning! If it isn’t Kate Reilly!”
I stopped in the middle of the road and leaned out the window, pleased to see one of the two main SPEED Channel announcers. “Hey, Benny. I didn’t see you yesterday. What’s new this weekend?”
“Nothing. Leastways nothing I know about. You gotten into any trouble here yet?” He liked to tease me about my efforts to scrounge up a living from the Series. Benny Stephens was the primary announcer, the journalist by training, of the broadcast team. His partner, Ian McAllister, was the racing expert, having driven and won in every kind of racecar, series, and track that existed. I enjoyed their stories from thirty years of experience in the racing world. In return, they liked my gumption—that was Ian’s word.
“Not yet. But I keep trying, Benny.”
“You heard anything I should know about?”
“Only that too many teams have forgotten how to race through corners for it to be a coincidence. But I’m sure you know more than I do.”
“That one’s a puzzler. I’ve heard rumors, but no answers yet. Let me know what you hear, about that or anything else.”
“Sure thing.” With a wave, I continued down the hill. Benny and Ian’s sources were a hell of a lot better than mine when it came to the Series grapevine, but I’d pass them whatever I heard. They were friends of mine, but I never forgot I was storing their goodwill for the day they’d report on me as a driver here, too.
I reached the bottom of the hill and turned right, heading toward the paddock. On impulse, I pulled over and turned off the engine. I was stopped in a strict no-parking zone, but I hopped out anyway and crossed the road, stopping at the fence that separated it from the pits. I curled my fingers into the chain link and took a deep breath. I loved this time of day at the track. Still some moist-earth smell and coolness from the thunderstorms the night before. Though I could hear noises from paddock garages, the racecars had yet to be fired up, and the birds had yet to be scared away.
A sense of impending action, possibility, and even tension hung in the air. These moments rejuvenated me. In them, I knew one day I’d drive the track as part of a professional team contending for a championship. One day I’d own this race. With a nod, I pushed off from the fence.
Back in my Jeep, I headed for a parking space at the far end of the infield. At Lime Rock, the paddock was located behind the pits along the front straight and in the interior of the one-and-a-half-mile track’s first turn, the big, sweeping horseshoe called Big Bend. Each team had a temporary garage setup along the paddock’s one-way loop road, where they could do everything from a tire change to an engine rebuild. At this race, the paddock loop wasn’t full of team setups, and the end of it was given over to general parking for passenger cars. I drove around until I found an open space on the grass, finally squeezing between an obvious white rental on my left and a black-and-white-checked oil drum turned into a trash barrel on my right. I was pointing at the end of the track’s Main Straight, separated from it by only a few yards of grass and another chain link fence.
My attention was half on the track and half on my parking job, and I jerked to a halt as I saw the trash barrel wiggle and felt a bump. I turned off the engine and sat looking at Big Bend. For the two hundred and thirty-seventh time I calculated where I’d brake from 160 miles an hour and start the turn. I’d ridden around the track with a friend in a rental car last season. I’d also walked every inch of it, but I’d yet to drive that straightaway at speed.
I pulled the keys from the ignition, slung the lanyard with my ID around my neck, and got out of the car. As I twisted the key in the lock, I looked at my reflection in the window, reaching up to smooth stray shoulder-length hairs. My hair was stick-straight and black, two characteristics that took too much time and too many salon products to bother changing. Hair, fine. Face, fine. Same fair skin and blue eyes as always, touched up with a bit of powder and mascara. I looked down at myself. Comfortable dark sneakers, clean jeans, short-sleeve, tan button-down shirt—this one logoed by VP Racing Fuels, a sponsor of the Star Mazda series. My sunglasses were on my head—though the sun had yet to break through the overcast. My black baseball hat from Jean Richard, the official timekeeper of the ALMS, was in the car, as was the weekend’s program and my all-important notebook, where I kept notes on drivers, cars, teams, and tracks. At least I look the part of the racing veteran, I thought.
I climbed onto my front bumper to look over the fence at the track, standing sideways, one foot in front of the other, and balancing with my fingers on the car’s hood. I twisted to look back at the empty pit row, and followed the Straight down to the turn, seeing more details of the track surface from my perch. I was starting to jump down when I noticed a pile of dark fabric on the ground next to the trash barrel. Under the front of my car. I stared at it longer than it deserved, not understanding why.
Were there feet and shoes attached to the pile of cloth? My insides clutched. Part of a man’s body was under my bumper. I lost my balance and scrambled to the ground, knees wobbling. I darted a glance under the car and saw my tire against the guy’s leg, but not on it. I hoped.
I swallowed, looked again. I wasn’t sure. I reached out a hand to shake his shoulder. No response. I tugged slightly, rolling him onto his back—then recoiled, cringing. Two facts were immediately clear. This was Corvette driver Wade Becker lying there. And Wade was very dead.
I froze. Then I heard my own ragged inhale as I turned and ran for help.
Chapter Three
I stopped on the crossroad that led to pit row on my right, scanning for someone familiar. Ahead: crew working on the M&Ms-logoed prototype car. I didn’t know anyone there. To the left: a lone mechanic wrenching under the hood of the Saleen. I didn’t know anyone there either. My best friend Holly was probably in her team’s paddock, but she was at the farthest point away, over near the ALMS trailer. The Series people, that’s who I needed. I took two steps and saw a man in an ALMS shirt writing on a clipboard. I was running toward him before I realized it was Stuart Telarday, the most annoying member of the ALMS staff and the third most annoying person on the planet.
I knew the feeling was mutual from the cranky look he gave me when I reached him.
“Stuart. Someone. The end of the paddock,” I gasped, pointing back toward my car. “You’d better come. Look. Help.” I was disproportionately out of breath for the brief run I’d had to reach him, and I knew he could see my distress.
“Kate? What’s wrong? There shouldn’t be any problem.” He set off at a fast pace.
“Wade. Becker. By the trash can,” I panted, trying to calm down, breathe, and keep up with him. “I hit him. Maybe.” My words got jerky, as I spoke my thoughts aloud. “I think. Oh, God. Dead.”
I led him to my car and gestured to the front, closing my eyes against what I knew he was seeing: Wade lying on his side, jaw slack, eyes open, skin almost blue. Stuart straightened with a grim expression, pulled out his cell phone, and flipped it open.
“Damn!” He closed it and looked at the Michelin Tower looming above the finish line a few hundred yards away. “No cell phone reception.” He clenched his jaw and looked back at Wade.
I tried to think of anything other than the memory of Wade’s open, lifeless eyes. “I think my cell works. Hang on.” I retrieved my phone from my car. “Stuart? Should I move my car out of the way?”
Stuart took the phone from me. “Absolutely not. Everything needs to stay as-is. You said you hit him?”