“No! I mean, maybe. But only when I parked just now. I thought I bumped the trash barrel. I didn’t know….” I leaned my head against the car window.
Stuart raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you call someone?”
I was blank. Why hadn’t I? “I panicked. I didn’t want to deal with this alone. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“Hmmmm.” He looked like he didn’t know whether to believe me or not, but as that was how he always looked at me, I ignored him. I wrapped my arms around myself and listened to his conversation.
“Yes, I’ll send someone to meet the officers at the entrance to the track. Yes, I’ll stay—we’ll stay here. Thank you.” He pushed the button to end the call and looked at me again. Then he got on the radio that the ALMS employees used and called for help.
“Attention ALMS staff: we have an emergency at the end of the paddock near the footbridge. I have already contacted the proper authorities, and they are en route. Allison, meet officers at the front gate. Hamilton, Tony, and Michelle, get here with me, and get four other support staff to block all access to the paddock road past the road to Pit Out. I repeat: stop all but emergency personnel.”
I didn’t hear responses, but I assumed he received some, from the way he pressed the earpiece of his radio system into his ear. I snorted to myself: like a secret agent—and I bet he enjoys that look. To avoid thinking about Wade, I studied Stuart, wondering why he bothered me so much. It shouldn’t be his looks, since he was, as my friend Holly put it, “one gorgeous hunk of a man.” He was tall, probably six feet, with sandy hair and green eyes—one of those all-American types, except that he’d come to America early in life by way of German birth and Scottish ancestry. I’d never seen him not dressed in his neat-as-a-pin uniform of black trousers, black dress shoes, pressed white ALMS shirt, secret agent radio, ID, and clipboard. And I’d never seen him smile. The only hints of personality came through in his sunglasses—severe, heavy-rimmed, 1950s-engineer tortoiseshell numbers—and in his wavy hair that by the end of the day flopped onto his forehead. His hair was the only part of him that ever looked disheveled. That alone was intimidating.
Overall, Stuart Telarday stopped just short of being slick. That was the problem. I hated slick, couldn’t trust it. But he had to be slick to be the Vice President of Operations and Communications for the American Le Mans Series at only thirty-three. The ALMS wasn’t a huge operation, but he’d risen fast and proven himself a capable organizer and salesperson. Holly claimed she wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers—or any other reason—but he still made my lip curl.
He stopped listening to his radio and studied me. “Everyone’s on the way. What happened, anyway?”
I extended a hand for my cell phone, and after a moment’s hesitation, he returned it. I took a deep breath and the reality of the fact that I’d discovered a dead guy slammed into me again.
“I got to the track, drove down here, and parked.” I gulped and went on. “I guess I was focusing on the track. I squeezed in here and bumped the trash barrel—oh God, I hope it was the trash barrel.”
“Then you looked and found him?”
I rubbed my arms for warmth. “No. I got out of the car and stood on my bumper to look at the track. Then I saw him.”
“So you don’t know what happened? To him?”
“Wha—No! Of course not. Why—what—I mean—no!”
Stuart raised a hand. “OK. You didn’t look at him? Touch him?”
What was he, the police? Oh no, I was going to have to talk with police about this, too. “Yes. I mean, first I thought it was just a pile of clothes—or a drunk sleeping it off. I touched his shoulder to see. Then I ran for help.” I was freezing. I opened my car door again, tossed the cell phone on my seat, and grabbed a sweatshirt.
I was struggling into it when I heard Stuart asking if I’d liked Wade. I shoved my left arm through the sleeve and blinked at him. “I didn’t know him. What the hell kind of question is that? And why are you asking me these kinds of questions? Who elected you God?”
He spoke to me with exaggerated patience. “Kate, we have a hell of a situation on our hands. My job is to keep the Series running smoothly, so I want all the information I can get.” His face started to flush and his voice to rise. “And I’d say you’d better damn well get used to these questions, because you found Wade’s body. Wade, who was a healthy guy.”
I didn’t understand.
“Come on, Kate! Natural causes, suicide, or—help. It was one of those, and the police are going to figure it out.”
I stared at him in shock. I’d not only found a dead guy, maybe I’d found a dead guy who had help getting that way. I felt nauseous. I crossed my arms over my chest and curled my hands into my sleeves, searching for warmth. I turned away from Stuart to see two cop cars and an ambulance pull around the bend.
Chapter Four
An hour and a half later, I was still talking to Detective Jolley, who was anything but, being tall, slim, and stern. The first time he asked a set of questions, I’d been intimidated. Imagine, me, Kate Reilly, being questioned by the police. Stuff like that didn’t happen to me. The only time I talked to cops was in line at my hometown burrito joint. I didn’t even get speeding tickets. The second time he asked them, I was tired. I was sitting on the asphalt of the paddock road, watching the police push my car away from the fence and the body. By the third time, I was annoyed. I explained again my arrival at the track and my parking job. Jolley seemed to think I’d come to the race that weekend with the sole purpose of finding Wade.
“Now, why did you park here?”
“Because it’s a parking place. I could see the track from here.” I stood up and started to pace. In spite of the sun and the growing warmth of the day, my butt felt flat and cold from sitting on the ground. I craved movement. I also realized I was not only starving, but dying for caffeine. Ugh. I might have to stop using that expression.
“And you said you drove straight in here?”
“Right—wait. I stopped for a minute down at the far end of pit lane.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to look at the track and the pits.”
“Why would you do that? You’ll be here all day, right? See the track plenty.”
I took in his sober khaki trousers, dark brown sports coat, and blue-striped tie. “Look, I’m a racecar driver. I’m looking for a job, and I want to drive this track. I like looking at it, thinking about driving it. It was quiet when I got here.” I shrugged. “I wanted a peaceful look at it. My friend Holly tells me I’m trying to commune with the track.”
“Who’s that?”
“Holly Wilson. She works for the Western Racing Team. Over there.” I gestured to the far end of the paddock. “Porsches. Bright orange, you can’t miss them.”
“Ms. Wilson is a friend of yours?”
“Yeah.”
“Would she be able to verify where you were last night?”
This was new. “What? Last night?”
“Yes, Ms. Reilly. Where were you last night?”
“You’re kidding.”
He didn’t look like he was kidding. “Just answer, please.”
“Great.” I ran a hand through my hair, wondering how the hell I’d gotten involved in this. I’d been minding my own business. Why’d Wade have to be dead under my car?
Detective not-so-Jolley was waiting for me to respond. “I was out to dinner and then I went back to my hotel room. I watched a movie and went to sleep.”
“Was Ms. Wilson—”
“Yes, I was out to dinner with Holly.”
“And when did you leave her?”
“About 9:30. We each had our own cars.”
“Is she staying at the same hotel as you?”
“No. And before you ask, I was alone all nigh
t after I left her.”
“I see. What movie was it, Ms. Reilly?”
“On TV?” He nodded. “It was Dirty Dancing. I missed the first few minutes, but I’ve seen it fifteen times.”
He made a note. “And when was the last time you saw Mr. Becker?”
“Last night.”
“Last night?”
“After dinner. Holly and I ate at The Boathouse. Afterwards, we stayed in the bar chatting with some people from the track—you know, other team members, drivers, a couple sponsors. Wade was there for a minute. That’s the last time I saw him until—” I waved a hand toward my car.
A few yards away, a coroner’s van had replaced the ambulance, and a gurney was being removed from it. I crossed my arms over my chest. Cold again. I couldn’t stop staring at the activity surrounding Wade’s body with the same sick fascination I felt driving past a traffic accident or flipping past a beauty pageant on TV.
Jolley had probably seen plenty of dead guy removal, because he didn’t turn his attention from me. He cleared his throat. “Did he talk to anyone at the bar?”
“Yeah, Wade chatted with a couple people.”
“When did that happen? When did you see him leave the restaurant?”
“About quarter to nine.”
“And you left around 9:30?”
“Yes.”
He gave a brief nod. “OK, that’s it for now, Ms. Reilly. I’ll need your contact information and to ask you not to leave the area.”
“Not to leave the area? For how long?”
He held up a hand. “We’ll be in touch, Ms. Reilly. Just for the next day or two at the moment.”
“OK, my plan isn’t to leave until Tuesday anyway.” I gave him my hotel and cell phone information, wondering what the hell else he might find to talk to me about.
“I can go now?” He nodded. “And my car?”
“We’ll find you and give your keys back when we’re done with it.”
Great. I took one last look at the scene, swallowing hard and turning my back on the sight of a black body bag being loaded into the van. I started down the paddock road, not realizing until I was almost upon it that there was a large crowd assembled at the caution-tape barrier. Any hope I’d pass easily through to some food and coffee faded as I got within ten feet.
“Kate! Kate! What happened? Who is it? What did you do? What did the police want with you?” The words came from a dozen mouths, with dozens more hanging open for my response. I ducked my head and made for an edge, trying to ignore the questions. Just before I had to do physical battle with the crowd, Holly came pushing through it to grab my arm. Petite, flaming-redhead Holly made a tunnel through the throng, yelling at the closest individuals by name and bullying or shaming them into letting us pass. I was never so grateful to see another human being in my life.
“You OK, Kate?” She turned around to hold people off with a snarl and tugged me toward her team’s trailer.
I shook my head. “Not really. Food and coffee will help. I didn’t eat on the way in and then….”
“You leave that alone, sugar. Just come on, and we’ll fix you up.”
I looked around as we walked and tried to focus on the normalcy of a race paddock instead of the drama I’d left behind. Teams worked on cars, fans stopped to watch and take photos, and three people stood talking in a small aisle where the back of one paddock garage met the back of another.
I did a double take and stopped walking, because one of the trio looked like a guy I’d known in high school: Sammy Bostich, a shaggy surfer-dude transplanted from California to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I only understood how dazed I was when I realized I’d been staring, mouth open, at a stranger for more than a minute. He wasn’t Sammy Bostich, who, last I’d heard, ran his father’s gas station at home; this guy worked for the SPEED Channel, judging by the logo on his polo shirt, the cabling gear strapped around his waist, and the laptop under one arm. But one of his friends was Jim Siddons, another driver in the ALMS. The third was an Asian guy I’d never seen before. They were all looking at me in shock.
I was beginning to wonder why they’d picked that out-of-the-way place to talk when Holly appeared in front of me, fists on hips.
“What now, Kate? I was three garages down the road.”
“Sorry. I—a guy who looked like….” When I turned to gesture to them, they were gone. “I thought—never mind.”
She tugged my arm. “Just keep moving.”
Chapter Five
I owed Holly big time, I thought, as I sat on a green plastic deck chair in the Western Racing paddock area. Her team occupied a wide space, bookended by a motorhome on one side and a transport semi-truck on the other. Each vehicle sent out an awning from its side, leaving a four-foot uncovered gap between them. Under the motorhome’s sheltering arm was a sitting area, racks of drivers’ equipment, and a table and cooler both stocked with food and drink. Under the larger awning of the truck was the garage: enough space for two teams of eight mechanics to work on their cars at the same time.
I sat in the shade nibbling on a banana and waiting for it and the yogurt I’d eaten to hit my bloodstream. Holly had gotten me there without allowing anyone else to talk to me. She’d sat me down with food, water, and coffee, let me talk through the morning’s trauma, and then left me alone. As I tried to pull myself together, I was happy to let the activity of the team flow around me.
There was always action in a race team’s paddock—careful cleaning and polishing of a racecar, if not substantial rebuilding and assembly—and I sat watching, though I couldn’t have described what specifically was taking place. The bustle of the mechanics, and of Holly prepping drivers’ suits and helmets, was a blur, and I barely registered the bright, sunny day. With any justice, the skies would have been dark and heavy to match my mood. I kept replaying the sight of Wade’s lifeless body, the empty shell. I’d never come face-to-face with death before.
“Reilly!” A voice boomed from my left, and I jumped in my seat. I turned to see Jack Sandham stepping around the rope barrier meant to keep fans out.
I choked down my last mouthful of banana and stood up. “Jack.”
He loomed over me, yanking off his aviator sunglasses to reveal angry green eyes. I tried to hide my nerves. Jack Sandham, of Sandham Swift Racing, ran a Corvette team. Wade Becker had driven for Jack for more than ten years—right up until that morning.
“Jack. I’m so sorry about Wade—”
He growled at me. “I’m down a driver.”
I winced. “I know. I found—I saw—I’m sorry about your team’s loss.”
“You.”
“Me?” What the hell did he mean? I told myself not to feel guilty. I hadn’t done anything to Wade, just found him and run. Well, OK, maybe I’d bumped him a little.
“You.”
I was frozen.
He rolled his eyes and mimed turning a steering wheel. “You. Driving? For me.” He nodded as he saw comprehension dawn. He still looked angry.
“Oh!” I gasped. “Yes. Thank you, yes!” I tried not to gush.
“For this race, and then we’ll see about the rest of the season. Same terms as Sebring.” He gave a curt nod and turned to leave.
Jumbled thoughts flashed through my mind: A ride! A Corvette! Wade. Oh God, this wasn’t how this was supposed to happen—but I had a car to drive in the race! I spoke and stopped him a few steps away. “I’ll work hard for this, Jack—to do you and Wade proud.”
His face tightened at the mention of Wade’s name. “Just don’t turn into him.”
Before I could respond, he spoke again, hands fisted on his hips. “What are you doing? Your time’s mine now, Reilly. Get your gear and get to our setup. We’ve got practice in an hour.” He paused. “Shit. More like an hour from whenever they get this circus going again�
�but you’ve got to get up to speed.” He ducked his head to clear the awning and stalked away.
While his sense of urgency had reached my brain, my limbs refused to respond. I sank back into the chair and looked at Holly, who stood in the open doorway of the motorhome.
“My, my.” She exaggerated her Tennessee drawl.
“How about that?”
“That’s great, sugar. We knew your time would come. But you watch your back.”
My mind was full of the glories of my windfall. “What do you mean?”
“You’re going to sit in a dead man’s seat.” I gaped at her. “I’m sorry, Kate, but you may as well get used to that now. Everyone will be watching. Some folks’ll be jealous, and some’ll be waiting for you to fail.” She shrugged. “On the other hand, maybe they won’t. Wade was Mr. Reckless, not Mr. Congeniality.”
“Huh.” I knew Holly’d been around the Series for about eight years, though she was only two years older than I. She’d told me many stories, but never any about Wade.
“You’d seen his unpredictability on the track. And off…well, he’d turned angry and grasping—acting entitled. Like he was going to take what, or who, he wanted and not care who was in his way. He wasn’t sporting about it either. Heck, did his own boss seem broken up?”
I considered Jack’s demeanor, and Holly went on. “But let’s not speak ill of the departed. Hadn’t you better get a move on?”
I jumped up. “Yeah. We’ll talk over dinner?” She nodded and I gave her a hug. “Thanks for saving me. I’d better go kick some racing butt now.”
She shut the door behind her and slipped her sunglasses on. “Your suit and things are in the car, right? I’ll go battle that detective-man with you. Then you make sure you show ‘em what you can do.”
Chapter Six
I slowed my steps as I approached the Sandham Swift team paddock, taking deep breaths. I’d tried to use the trip to my Jeep to calm and focus my mind. It hadn’t worked. My thoughts careened from giddy pleasure at a paying job to terror at the tasks ahead: driving the Corvette and dealing with the fallout of Wade’s death. Because Holly was right. I was being handed a plum opportunity with a great team, but I was also stepping into the middle of a lot of emotion. I took another deep breath and started forward.
Dead Man’s Switch Page 2
