Dead Man’s Switch

by Tammy Kaehler

  “Yeah, from what I’ve seen around our garage, it seems like ECUs—but only Delray’s brand. I don’t know any details, but the teams that have had problems all use Delray ECUs.”

  Tom spoke up. “I know that Victor Delray’s been in and out of our place a lot—and his other team garages—looking pretty worried.”

  We were silent for a minute. Then Mike slapped a hand on his knee. “We’re going to hope they figure it out so the gremlin doesn’t get us. Now, you’ll want to know where to pump the brakes.” Mike looked embarrassed.

  “What?”

  “I’m telling you what you know or will figure out in ten seconds on track. I don’t mean to treat you like you don’t know how to drive.”

  I patted his hand. “Let’s pretend I have no ego. I’d rather hear it twice than miss something important. Keep talking.”

  “All right. Number one, at the end of the front straight, before Big Bend.”

  I made a note. When nearing the end of a long straight and heading into a heavy braking zone, common practice was to tap the brakes with your left foot, even while your right was firmly planted on the throttle—to make sure the brakes were ready when you needed them.

  Mike put a finger on the map. “Number two, right before West Bend, tap the brakes to balance the car.”

  “Weight’s all at the back?”

  “Yeah. The Back Straight is a slight uphill, then West Bend’s a fast enough turn that you’ll need it all balanced under you.”

  “Gotcha.” The less weight on the front tires, the less turning them would make the car turn. Tapping the brakes at the end of the straight wouldn’t slow the car, but would shift some of its weight forward to help me.

  “Good to know. Any other surprises? Anything unusual—”

  A wailing voice captured our attention and we turned to see a knot of people—Aunt Tee, Sam, Bruce, and some crew—bending over someone in a chair next to the motorhome. Then another cry and a pair of flailing arms erupted from the middle of the group, pushing the cluster of people apart. It was a woman I didn’t recognize, but who I’d noticed arriving a couple minutes before—noticed because her look just screamed money. Obviously Tom and Mike knew her, because they both groaned.

  I looked sideways at them. “Yes?”

  Tom shook his head, watching the scene, but making no move to join it. Mike grunted and turned his back. The woman had her arms wrapped around her middle and was keening—there was no other word for it—as she rocked back and forth in the chair. It all seemed very dramatic.

  Tom sighed. “That’s Susanah.” He pronounced it with an “ah” in the middle.

  “Su-saah-na?” I exaggerated the syllable.

  He didn’t laugh. “Right.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “She’s the wife of one of our sponsors. Mrs. Racegear.com—that is, Mrs. Purley, wife of Charles Purley, who owns Racegear.com.”

  “What’s Su-saah-na’s deal?”

  Mike snorted. Tom hesitated before speaking. “She and Wade were…close.”

  “Understatement,” muttered Mike.

  I nodded. “I take it that Mr. Purley didn’t know—or care?”

  “Ha!” exclaimed Mike. “He’d care. We were waiting for the blowout.”

  I turned to Tom, who shrugged. “Not the best kept secret, except from Mr. P.”

  I was appalled. “You had to be worried about messing up the sponsorship. Wade knew better than to bite the hand that feeds you.”

  Mike leaned close to us. “Let’s not forget, the woman is hot. Besides, Wade wasn’t the only one. There have been others.”

  “And no one asked any questions,” Tom put in. “Honestly, I can’t prove there was anything going on—” He saw the look on Mike’s face. “You’ve got proof?”

  “Saw ‘em.”

  Tom grimaced. “It looked suggestive—a strange relationship. But no one said anything.”

  “Just when you think you’ve seen it all,” I commented. The race circuit could be a soap opera. A small, insular community, engaged in a competitive and high-energy pursuit. Emotions and passions boiled over at the slightest provocation. It was pure melodrama, with plenty of sex and aggression thrown in. There was nothing like racing for entertainment—and I didn’t just mean the on-track action.

  Aunt Tee managed to guide Susanah into the motorhome.

  “That’ll stop her. Mrs. Purley does love a good public show.” Mike sounded both amused and disgusted.

  I shook my head and returned to the track map, wondering how else to save precious tenths on the track. Mike put a hand on my shoulder, and I could see a kind look through his sunglasses.

  “Kate, no one expects us to win—no one expected Wade and me to win. They expect a good effort, which you’ll give. You’ve got the skill, and you’ll get your feet under you fast. I’m glad to have you here. Hell, you’ll be a lot more fun to work with!” He finished with a heavy pat, and I tried not to stagger from the impact. Mike reminded me of a bear: unruly hair, big brown eyes, large in every dimension—and little of it was fat.

  The sudden cacophony of thirty buzzing engines stopped further talk. As the clock struck eleven, practice time was officially on for the open-wheel, Mazda-powered racers, and almost three dozen of them were laying on the throttle to get out of the pits fifty yards from where we stood. As always, the first blast of engine noise from a full complement of racecars was stunning. Regular communication outdoors was over for the day, except for the lunch hour and a few minutes between practice sessions.

  I gave Mike a thumbs up. We both reached for our custom-fitted earplugs and poked them into our ears, while Tom pulled a foam pair out of a plastic bag.

  Mike leaned in two inches from my ear. “I’m going to grab some food and relax. I’ll catch up with you around two. We’ll talk strategy.”

  He left with a wave, and I leaned close to Tom. “I need water and a break.”

  I heard his voice through my earplug. “Sure, water in the coolers. Then the office.” He pointed to the front of the transport trailer. “We’ll swap stories.”

  Tom was the team’s media director, which also meant press guy, computer guy, human relations guy, and Jack’s right hand. I’d give him my background, and he could tell me what I needed to know about the team.

  We headed across the garage area to the coolers next to the motorhome, sidestepping our Michelin tire engineer studying eight tires on a rack. I was taking the first swallow of ice-cold bottled water when a wiry crew member opened the cooler packed with sodas. He grabbed a cola and sat down on the closed lid, the deep, tanned wrinkles of his face creasing into a wide smile. What I found strange in his manner was the cheerfulness of it, the jauntiness of his walk—at odds with the demeanor of everyone else in the team’s compound.

  I gave him the half smile and nod of the unacquainted. Tom capped his water and turned to us. “Oh, Alex.” The guy stood up, and Tom went on, “Kate, Alex Hanley, brake specialist for your car. Alex, Kate Reilly.”

  Alex and I shook hands, and he beamed at me. “Pleased t’meetcha, Miss Kate.”

  He was a little man—about my height and weight, but at least thirty years older—and as friendly and engaging a person as I’d ever met.

  “Oh yah, sure, you betcha, and I’m pleased t’meetcha. Glad to have you around—replacing the likes of you-know-who.” At least I thought that’s what he said. He gave my hand a final shake and winked at me before strolling back to the garage.

  I turned to Tom, surprised, as he spoke. “Not Wade’s biggest fan. Come on, I’ll fill you in.”

  We settled onto the leather banquettes of the small office at the front of the transport trailer. With the door closed, racecar noise was reduced to a dull roar, and we took our earplugs out.

  Tom flipped open his leather port
folio. “I’m sorry. Since I’m new this year, I don’t know your background.”

  “No problem. I’ve got it written down, and I’ll walk you through the highlights.” I produced my racing bio from my shoulder bag and went through the basics: started out in karting at the age of eight, graduated to open-wheel and sportscars at eighteen, and raced in a variety of cars and series, nationally and internationally.

  “So I’m clear, you raced with this team once before?”

  “Last year at Sebring.” In response to the questioning look on his face, I elaborated. “Jack asked me to join you guys for your two endurance races since then: Petit Le Mans last September and Sebring again this year. I had a commitment to another race for Petit and had a family issue this year for Sebring.”

  I still felt the disappointment of missing those opportunities, but the “family issue” had been my grandfather in the hospital with double pneumonia. He’d been discharged the day of the race, and we’d watched it together, Gramps chastising me for giving up the chance to race with the team. I’d preferred being there with him all healed and healthy.

  “Let’s see. Last year Sebring, the 28 car was fourth, right?” He muttered to himself. “Maybe start with that, great performance with the team, kept its eye on her, skills have grown over the years….” His words became unintelligible as he scribbled away on his notepad.

  I looked around the room, thinking how different this experience was to when I raced with the team before. That had been a twelve-hour event, the season opener, and stressful. I’d felt like the green rookie I was, and no one besides Aunt Tee had done much to make me feel more comfortable. Jack had been busy with sponsors and the inevitable last-minute problems of a brand new racecar. Mike had been reserved, either shadowing Wade or plugged in to his iPod. And Wade had been the worst, totally ignoring me.

  I dropped my head into my hands. For ten whole minutes I’d forgotten why we were here.

  Chapter Nine

  “You OK, Kate?” Tom asked the top of my head.

  “Just still trying to process it all.”

  I heard him sigh, and I sat up straight. “It must be weird for you, too. You really knew him.”

  “I didn’t really know him. But yeah, he was part of things here. I don’t know whether to be sad, angry, or relieved.”

  “Relieved?”

  He bit his lip. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “But that’s what you meant?”

  He got up, made sure the hall outside the office was empty, and sat back down. “OK, relieved. He was a handful. He didn’t want to give me quotes for press releases, didn’t want to deal with sponsors. He thought I was a complete idiot, and he hated me.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “He told me so.”

  I tried to imagine the conversation. “How rotten for you.”

  “No kidding. I don’t know what he was like in the years before this one, but he was a pain in the ass this year. So, yes, relief at not having to deal with that.” He looked contrite. “Not that I wished him dead.”

  “Of course not. Who would? Oh, should I be concerned about Alex, the brake guy?”

  “No, he seems to like you, but he and Wade got along like oil and water—like race fuel and oxygen. Instantly combustible. Wade blamed Alex for any problem on the car, and Alex gave it right back to him.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “No. Something was going to give soon.”

  “Move Alex to the other car?”

  Tom pursed his lips. “That or let him go. He’s a genius with brakes and everything about wheels and suspension. But he’s a hothead, and Wade outranked him. Wade was getting more vocal about Alex.”

  I didn’t like asking, “Did Alex know what was coming?”

  “Well, he’d almost have to have some idea, which probably explains the attitude today.” He paused. “But wait, you don’t mean—”

  I waved both hands in the air. “I’m just asking. Wade seems to have been killed. Since I’m Detective Jolley’s A-number-one suspect, and since I can’t prove I was in my hotel room watching a movie, I’d like to suggest some people who aren’t me. I guess that’s selfish.”

  “I don’t think so. Natural. I guess if it was important to Alex to stay here, that means he has a motive. I hate that I said that.”

  “I know. I don’t like wondering who had a reason for hating Wade.”

  Tom rubbed his hands over his face. “Not just who had a reason, but if they acted on it.”

  We sat in silence for a minute, then Tom cleared his throat. “I never thought I’d say this, but I want you to know I didn’t do it.”

  “But—”

  “I was with people until one in the morning, and I’d loaned my car out, so I didn’t have one. I was stuck at the inn five miles away.”

  “Jolley’s the one you should tell, not me.”

  “I did tell him. But if you’re a suspect—even though you didn’t do it—you’ve got to wonder who’s walking around with a big secret. I just want you to know I’m clean.”

  “Thanks, Tom. I appreciate it.” I paused. “Maybe we can figure out some other secrets.”

  “Huh?”

  “I need to give Jolley names, so he’ll stop focusing on me. Will you help me figure out a list of people who had a grudge against Wade?”

  He looked alarmed. “I don’t want to feel like I’m tattling on people to the police.”

  “I wouldn’t tell them unless it’s a real possibility. But I’ve got to do something.” I was already thinking I’d regret asking for his help.

  He looked at his notebook and fiddled with his pen. “OK. I’ll ask around.”

  A knock on the door startled us. Tom opened it to reveal Stuart Telarday, ALMS VP extraordinaire.

  “Sit down, Stuart.” Tom was full of guilty welcome. “I, uh, Kate and I were just—I was about to get quotes from Kate.”

  “I have good timing then.” Stuart sat, and they waited for me, Tom’s pen poised over paper, Stuart’s mini tape recorder running.

  I dragged my jumbled thoughts into line. “All right. I’m terribly sorry for Wade, for the team, and for the sport, which has lost one of its stars. I’m grateful for the opportunity to drive with Sandham Swift Racing, and I realize I have some big shoes to fill. If I can be half the driver Wade was, I’ll be happy.”

  Stuart looked at me as Tom finished writing.

  “What?”

  “Direct, humble, discreet. Not bad.”

  “Thank you.”

  He and Tom shared a glance.

  “What’s that about?”

  Tom responded as Stuart put away his recorder. “Just that you’re already a lot more than half the driver Wade was.”

  “Really?” I aimed that at Stuart.

  “You’ll probably be better. Thanks for this.” He opened the door to leave and Tom stopped him.

  “Stuart, Kate and I were talking about everything going on here today—”

  Fortunately, I was hidden from Stuart by the open door. I made a slashing motion across my throat at Tom.

  “Yes?” I heard from Stuart.

  “Oh,” Tom fumbled. “Nothing really. We’re glad we don’t have to do the driver autograph session on Monday. Thanks. See you later!”

  Tom shut the door and turned to me. “Why didn’t you want me to say anything?”

  “Why did you?” I berated myself. Why the hell had I trusted Tom so quickly? How did I know he would help and not just blab?

  “Look, Tom, I can’t tell everyone that I’m wondering who might have had it in for Wade and oh, by the way, ask them how they felt about him. Maybe you should forget asking around.”

  “Why? Of course we can’t say that to everyone. But this is Stuart.”
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  I wrinkled my nose.

  “How come you don’t like him?”

  “I don’t know. Oil and water.”

  “He’s a good guy. I’ve gotten to know him pretty well this year. He may seem rigid and stern, but that’s business. He’s not like that underneath. He could help us.”

  I was saved from further discussion by a thumping on the door. This time it was Benny and Ian from SPEED Channel, wanting an on-camera interview—quick in the ten minutes of quiet we had between practice sessions.

  As Tom and I followed them outside, I was surprised to see a petite, blonde woman sitting at the countertop of the transporter with three laptops open in front of her. Tom introduced her as Nadia, the Delray ECU engineer assigned to the team, before he hustled me out the door to Benny and Ian. Just before the camera rolled, he whipped the Sandham Swift baseball cap off of his own brown curls and plopped it on my head, saying he’d gather team gear for me later.

  I answered the same basic question again: how did I feel about Wade’s death and getting to drive for the team as a result? As I was finishing, Zeke Andrews strolled up, cheeky grin and notebook at the ready. He covered races from the pits for SPEED, and I counted him as a friend. I wasn’t pleased with him, however, when he threw me a zinger: “Hey Kate, did you do him in to get the ride?”

  My jaw dropped. The camera was still running, and I flicked a glance to Benny and Ian, who looked amused.

  I scrambled for something broadcast-worthy. “I had nothing to do with Wade’s death—”

  Zeke didn’t allow me to continue. “Except for finding him, yeah?”

  Benny went from chuckling to serious in the blink of an eye. “Well, Kate, that must make you the prime suspect. Would you like to address that for our viewers?”

  I was speechless.

  He stepped closer. “You found him, and you certainly benefit from his death. The police must be looking at you. Are they?”