Aunt Tee caught sight of me first. “Kate!” She hurried to hug me, rising to her toes to throw her arms around my shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re here, sweetheart.”
I responded with pleasure, my first uncomplicated emotion of the day. Aunt Tee—officially the Hospitality Director—was the team mom for Sandham Swift, doing for them what Holly did for Western Racing: keeping the drivers and crew fed, hydrated, organized, and clean. Aunt Tee had been in racing for most of her adult life, working next to her husband Sam, a mechanic, crew chief, and now the chief engineer for Jack’s team. Shorter than me and on the plump side, she was probably in her early sixties, though she had the energy, appearance, and strawberry-blond hair—thanks to Clairol—of a woman ten years younger.
She was no blood relation to anyone at the track, but she was everyone’s aunt. And she was, bar none, the nicest person you’d meet in the Series. I relaxed a notch as she took my helmet and led me forward. “You just set your things down here and let me take care of them.” She was already pulling my driving suit out of my duffle and shaking out its folds.
I looked around. Sandham Swift’s setup was almost identical to that of Holly’s team: motorhome and transport truck with respective awnings covering a sitting area and a temporary garage. Everything in the same color scheme as the cars, which for Sandham Swift was black with white and yellow racing stripes. As befitted the team’s longevity in, and commitment to, the ALMS, their paddock boasted a few extra feet in width and a better location, only one space away from the access road to the pit. I swallowed hard. Given the events of that morning, I’d have preferred a less prime location, farther away from my car and police activity.
“Thanks, Aunt Tee. How is everyone here?”
She put my suit on a hanger and turned to me. “We’re trying to move forward again. It’s been a real shock.” She gestured to the garage where I saw crew members listlessly working on the racecars. A couple guys cleaned bodywork with spray bottles and rags, others sat with a soda or a cigarette.
“Do they—Does everyone know I’m….”
“Yes. When Jack told everyone about Wade, we talked about it—would we be going racing, and who’d be driving. Everyone agreed we’d carry on and he’d look for you.”
“Is everyone really upset? Were they close to Wade?”
Aunt Tee tilted her head. “Upset, yes, about the suddenness and surprise of it. And the passing of a human life. But close to him? Wade wasn’t one to get close to people. He did his job well—that boy could be fast on the track. And he could be a charmer, particularly when he wanted something. He knew enough to keep on my good side, but he didn’t bother with anyone else.” She moved to hang my suit with others on a rolling rack.
“People didn’t like him?”
“He’d been with the team since the beginning, before the rest of us. He belonged here in a way no one but Jack does—and Ed Swift, of course, but Ed’s never here. Wade was a great driver. He pulled off some wins by sheer guts alone.”
“So Wade didn’t have to try. He was good, and he had seniority—so it didn’t matter to him if the crew liked him.”
“No, he never really tried.” She glanced at the crew. “And that really hurt them personally and hurt the team’s overall performance.”
I nodded. I’d learned through mistakes of my own and careful observation that the key to a great car was a relationship with the crew based on mutual respect. Solving problems together would always yield the best results.
She nudged me out of the way and started unpacking my shoes and racing undergarments. “Don’t you go behaving like that, Katie.”
Though her hands were full, I gave her a quick hug. “Never fear. You’d keep me in line, anyway.”
“True. Now you go get used to that car again. I’ve got your things here.”
I studied the cars as I walked toward them. Sandham Swift was a private team that ran two Corvette C6.Rs purchased from General Motors, Numbers 28 and 29. The Corvettes competed in GT1, Grand Touring 1, along with large Ferraris, Vipers, Maseratis, Aston Martins, and Saleens. GT2 featured Porsches, smaller Ferraris, Panoz, BMWs, and Mazdas. The Le Mans Prototype classes, LMP1 for the larger versions and LMP2 for the smaller, were swoopy, unrecognizable cars purpose-built for racing by manufacturers like Audi, Porsche, and Acura. Our GT sportscar classes looked like cars you’d see on the street. More or less.
In all classes, two drivers shared a car in each race, and typically three drivers rotated stints in the longer races. Wade had driven different cars—mostly Corvettes—as the Number 28 for the eleven years of the team’s existence. Mike Munroe had been his co-driver for the last three years, and I’d joined them as the third driver for last season’s twelve-hour race at Sebring. I knew the car, team, and co-driver a little bit.
The crews from both cars greeted me as I entered the garage area. I introduced myself to everyone, shaking hands and imprinting a dozen names on my brain. Some were new to me, some I’d met last year, and two I had kept up with from Sebring: Bruce Kunze, the car’s crew chief, and Sam Nichols, the chief engineer and Aunt Tee’s husband. The 29 car’s crew drifted back to their side of the garage, and I exchanged small talk with my new crew about the track surface and the car’s performance. I tucked away the glory of the words “my new crew” and focused on the technical aspects of the car.
“The setup isn’t much different than last year at Sebring, Kate.” Bruce pulled a red shop rag out of his back pocket and wiped a microscopic speck of dirt off the car. Bruce was in his fifties with snow white hair cut into a military flattop. He knew everything there was to know about Corvettes and then some, from the first C1 street and race models in the 1950s to the most recent, the C6 and the C6.R.
Sam chipped in. “Just a few regulation changes is all—ride height, rear wing, that sort of thing. But let’s get you in there so you can get a feel for it again.” He moved toward the car door, and I stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Sam. Bruce. I’m sorry about Wade. I feel awkward, being here so soon.”
Sam gave a sad smile. Bruce nodded and patted my shoulder. “Life goes on. So does racing. Now let’s get you in here.”
Five minutes later, I was happily ensconced in the seat of the 28. The car’s roll cage, made of two-inch-diameter steel tubing, had high sides, and to climb in, I’d slithered feet, hips, shoulders, and head through the narrow opening. It was an easier maneuver that morning because I wasn’t also encumbered with a helmet, a head restraint collar, or a door, as I would be during a race. The steering wheel was removed to get in and out, and as soon as I was inside, I’d taken it off its ceiling hook and pushed it down hard on the steering column to lock it into place.
Because the Corvette’s seat was in a single fixed position as far back as possible, I was only able to reach the pedals through a conjuring trick of Bruce’s. He’d produced the custom-made seat insert I’d used last year at Sebring from the recesses of the transport trailer, so I could reach the steering wheel, throttle, clutch, and brake—and see over the dashboard.
I was refamiliarizing myself with the buttons and switches on the dash and wheel when my stomach lurched. Looking through the Corvette’s windscreen—not one piece of glass, but three pieces of heavy-duty plastic held in place by two metal strips running from roof to hood—I’d seen four men emerge from the transport and look my way: Jack Sandham; Tom Albright, Jack’s media guy; Stuart Telarday; and Detective Jolley. This wasn’t going to be good.
Chapter Seven
Surveying the controls of the machine I was sitting in let me ignore the four men walking toward the car. The interior of the Corvette C6.R was more airplane instrument panel than passenger vehicle. The hard, molded-plastic dashboard was all that remained of the Corvette’s origin as a luxury sports car, though it now featured rows of lights, toggle switches, and a digital display screen. The rear-view
mirror—useless because of the solid firewall behind the driver’s seat—had been replaced with a small video screen fed by a camera mounted in the rear bumper. Everything unessential inside—stereo, climate control, glove box, airbags, passenger seat, and more—had been removed. Everything essential—seat, seatbelts, steering wheel, shifter—was upgraded to tougher, race-ready versions.
Safety was a primary concern, so the driver’s seat had high molded sides and a five-point harness seatbelt. With my seat insert in place, I was stuffed like sausage into casing. Legs, back, shoulders—I had no wiggle room anywhere. No room to move meant I wouldn’t bang into the sides of the driver’s seat lap after lap as I negotiated turns at forces up to three Gs—or go far in a wreck.
Space was at a premium in the rest of the car as well. A large eye bolt stuck out of a louvered vent in the top center of the dash, holding taut a safety net from ceiling to shoulder height through the middle of the cockpit—a net that would keep loose items from hitting me in an impact. Cooling hoses, an on-board computer, and lots of wires filled the remainder of the small interior.
I was touching each button and switch in turn, remembering and rehearsing their positions, when I heard a voice next to my ear.
“Now you’re here, Ms. Reilly.”
I turned to find Jolley’s face close to mine, peering into the car. He straightened, and I leaned left, poking my head out. I nodded at the group without saying anything.
Jack Sandham clapped his hands together and rubbed them back and forth. “Kate’s going to fill in for us. Just getting used to the car again. Kate, have you met Tom Albright? Our marketing director and go-to guy for all things nonmechanical. Tommy, Kate Reilly. You’ll need to get some background from her so you can do a press release…well, to promote her.”
Stuart chimed in. “I’ll need some of that information as well.”
I scowled at him. “Why?”
“For our own releases. Damage control.”
Jolley kept watching me. “Still, it’s strange you’re here now and you found Mr. Becker this morning.”
“Lucky me. I’ll be another minute.” I pulled my head back in.
I took more time to think and mime my way through accelerating, upshifting, braking, downshifting, pressing communications buttons, making lights blink—a message to slower cars to pull over—and checking all displays. When I’d thought my way around every turn on the racetrack, I sat there for one last minute with my hand on the shifter, wishing I could remain in the car the rest of the weekend, rather than deal with people. But that wasn’t going to happen. I hauled myself out.
Jack and Tom Albright were over in the sitting area talking with Aunt Tee, Jack towering over her like a cartoon at nearly twice her height. Stuart and Detective Jolley stood at the front of the 28 car speaking quietly. I approached them, determined to be pleasant.
“Look, Detective Jolley. I apologize if I was flip. If they haven’t told you, I’m here because Jack asked me to drive for them. Remember, I said I drove with them once last year? So I know the car and the team. I’m a logical choice.”
“It’s just an interesting coincidence.”
“An unfortunate one.”
Stuart sniffed—the man actually sniffed. “A coincidence I’m going to gloss over, myself.”
“How much are you really going to have to talk about this?”
“You think this isn’t news, Kate? My office has received a dozen calls already—not counting questions from the media on-site.”
“Why?”
Stuart lifted a palm. “The detective here is from the Major Crimes unit.”
“That means—you’re sure? Not natural causes? Suicide?” I addressed them both.
Jolley shook his head.
“Muh—” I didn’t want to believe it, though I’d been chewing on the idea all morning. I blinked, emerging from the shock and numbness I’d wrapped myself in. Voices were louder, colors brighter, and my situation more precarious. I got it. I was a murder suspect, due to coincidence and bad timing.
“Detective, let me be clear. Just because I found him and I’m here—I didn’t kill him!”
He stopped me with a wave of his hand. “Don’t leave town, Ms. Reilly. Mr. Telarday, I’ll be in touch.” He nodded at Stuart and left the paddock.
Stuart regarded me without expression, and the normality of that helped me regain my focus. “I’m going to talk with Jack—do you know when we’re back to the schedule?”
He pulled a slim notebook out of his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “For ALMS cars: the hour of morning practice was canceled, lunch will run from 1:05 to 2:00, and there are thirty minutes of practice time at 3:00, before your class qualifying starts at 3:30.” He closed the notebook. “Plus, I think, we’ll have this team skip Monday’s autograph session. We’ll put up a sign, you’re not participating due to Wade’s untimely passing…add a note that donations can be made to a charity in his name.” He was talking more to himself than to me as he started toward the team’s sitting area.
I fell into step with him, worrying over the most important information he’d given me: the team was only going to get thirty minutes of practice time that day. Added to thirty minutes of warm-up before the race itself, that gave us one hour. Even if my new co-driver, Mike, gave me most of that time, I’d still only have forty or forty-five minutes to get used to the car before I had to hang my guts out in a race. No prep time and lots of pressure. I had this shot to race hard and well, to earn my place. And there might be that other matter of proving I didn’t kill Wade for the chance.
I reminded myself I was a good driver and I was prepared for this opportunity to perform. I hadn’t killed Wade and had nothing to hide. Then I reminded myself not to hyperventilate.
Stuart was explaining the adjusted schedule for the day to Jack and Tom, as well as his plan for the autograph session. I agreed we didn’t need a mob scene, and we didn’t need to explain the situation to the public. I smirked. That was a job for Stuart’s secret agent team.
But there was other business to take care of: I needed to talk to the crew chief, the chief engineer, my co-driver, and anyone else who could tell me how to manage the car on this track. I also needed to convince Detective Jolley I hadn’t committed murder, but right now, racing came first.
“Jack? Stuart? I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to get moving, talking to Bruce, Sam, Mike—anyone seen Mike?”
Tom nodded toward the transport. “I think he’s still over there.”
“I’m sorry, Tom. We need to talk, too. There’s a lot to take care of right now.”
“No problem, Kate.” His smile lit up his face, and goodness radiated from him. I decided Tom was someone to trust. Plus, he was cute.
“I’ll check in with you or Tom later for your background info,” put in Stuart.
Jack put a hand on my shoulder. “Tom, shadow Kate for a couple hours. Get her whatever she needs, ask your questions, find Mike, that sort of thing. Then connect with Stuart later. OK, Kate?”
“Sure. Come on, Tom, let’s hit it.”
Chapter Eight
My life was drama-free for the next thirty minutes. Tom and I found Mike and collected pens and track maps from Aunt Tee. We commandeered a corner of the garage area, taped a map to a small white board, and propped it against the trailer on a storage cabinet. Mike was talking me through his data from yesterday’s practice.
“Some oversteer. It got a little loose around Big Bend and the chicane. You’ll have to ask Bruce what he did about it—lowered tire pressure, adjusted the wing, I’m not sure. We’ll see how it is today. Otherwise the car was solid.” He held a heavily marked-up track map in his hands, one of several he’d produce for the crew over the weekend. That was part of the driver’s job: give the crew detailed feedback, usually in the form of scrawled notes on a map and
plenty of discussion. Since I hadn’t yet been in the car, I made notes for myself on tricky corners, the best passing areas, and where to watch for the car getting loose.
“Any tricks with the chicane?” Lime Rock’s touchy S-shaped section was called the “chicane,” though the word was also used to describe any section of a track with right and left turns in quick succession. I didn’t like asking this kind of question of another driver, preferring to answer it for myself. But I wouldn’t get much seat time, and an error-free drive was more important than my pride.
Mike shook his head. “It’s pretty straightforward. Now, the thing you want to be ready for is that bump in the apex of the Diving Turn.” He referred to the downhill right-hander that led onto the Main Straight.
“Bump?”
“Yeah, you see that great turn, take a normal line through it—and there’s a bump in the middle of it. We’ve got our dampers set so it doesn’t affect us, but it’ll move you some. So be ready. Also, the Porsches will turn in late to avoid it, so be prepared for that. And don’t get too far offline in that corner or you’ll head into the tires.”
“Bump, check.” I made a note on the map on the board. “Has this team run into any of the problems that other cars have been having?”
“You mean losing traction in the corners or something?” At my nod, he went on. “No, hasn’t happened to us. Last I heard, they don’t even know for sure what’s causing it. What’ve you heard?”
“A lot, but not much worth believing. Just that it’s more likely to be the ECU than tires or fuel.” The ECU, or engine control unit, was the brain of the racecar and modern street cars. A mini-computer, it controlled the components that made the racecar go, from engine timing to fuel behavior, and monitored most everything else, from engine and oil temperatures to engine, wheel, and vehicle speed. In addition to being preprogrammed to manage the engine, the ECU logged data, sending it to the pits in real time.
Dead Man’s Switch Page 3
