“I thought Wade had been his mentor.”
“Sure, and before that, Eddie. Before that, Dane. Before that, someone else. You get the picture. Just don’t get too involved.” He elbowed me and leered. “Have a one-night stand, but not a full relationship, get me?”
Did I ever.
I started to leave, then turned back. “Andy, have you seen anyone around the paddock driving a Ferrari street car this weekend?”
“Sure, Marco. He’s always borrowing one from a local dealer—ever since his F1 days.”
I’d forgotten Marco did a stint in Formula 1 with the Ferrari team. “But, his wife’s not with him this weekend, is she? I heard it was a man and a woman in the car.”
Andy spoke as if to a first-grader. “No, his wife’s not with him this weekend.”
“Of course. Marco. A girl in every port?”
“Something like that. See you, Kate.”
I found Marcus waiting for me a few steps away. The rain had stopped partway through the track walk, and the sun was coming out, shining on the front straight, warming us, and making a halo around Marcus’ light brown locks. Breathe, Kate. He didn’t look unstable to me. I took off my jacket and slung it over my arm as I reached him, feeling to make sure the notebook was still safe in my pocket. I really wanted a chance to look at it.
“Kate, do you mind if I ask you a few more questions? I’m very interested in your opinions.”
“My opinions?” You sound like an idiot, Kate.
“Yes, on racing, this track, this Series and others.”
“I don’t have much experience with this track or series yet.”
“I’d still like your take on things.” He launched into a conversation that was equal parts interrogation and bragging. He asked about my personal progression, what series I’d run in, and how I liked each kind of vehicle I’d driven. Then told me all about his own opinions. By the fifteen-minute mark of the same questions I’d already answered interwoven with his success stories, I was impatient. I wouldn’t have minded staring at Marcus for hours on end, but I had things to do that day. I checked my watch, and he took the hint, breaking off a recital of how his racing accomplishments corresponded to mine. “I’m so sorry. I’m taking up too much of your time.”
“I’m afraid I have some things to take care of. But I enjoyed—”
He took my hand in both of his. “I can’t thank you enough for talking with me. I hope we can continue this—maybe next time over coffee?”
This guy knew charm would get him anywhere. “Sure.”
Even while I watched Marcus as if spellbound, a voice in my head was telling me I’d met his breed of fan before: someone with a little experience or knowledge who wants his idols to see him as a peer. I came across the type most often in middle-aged fathers of young boys who needed to demonstrate greater skill and knowledge than “the girl driver.” Regardless of Marcus’ glamorous exterior, I recognized the pattern. But the packaging…I looked into his green eyes again and ignored the warnings. We were just talking about coffee.
I gave his hands a final shake. “Sometime soon. Nice to meet you.”
“And you too, Kate. Best of luck tomorrow.”
I turned to leave and found Detective Jolley, Stuart, and an unhappy-looking man a few feet away. Jolley. The flash of guilt I felt about not handing over the notebook that minute was followed by the rationalization that I shouldn’t do so in front of other people anyway.
Stuart gestured to the man I didn’t know. “Kate, may I introduce you? Paul, I don’t believe you’ve met our newest ALMS driver, Kate Reilly. Kate, Paul Trimble, one of our best sponsors.”
That explained a lot. I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Paul. I’ve just been chatting with your son.” I gestured to Marcus, who was now talking with Jolley and looking downcast.
Stuart turned to Paul again. “Kate is replacing Wade in the Corvette.”
“Oh, I see.” Paul was distracted by the conversation between Jolley and Marcus.
I saw my opening in the ensuing pause. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to be off. It was nice to meet you, Paul.”
“Yes, you too.”
“Sure, Kate. I’ll see you later.” Stuart was becoming downright pleasant. Something must be wrong.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Walking from the track to the paddock, I had a moment to unzip my jacket pocket and flip through the notebook—keeping it shielded in the folds of cloth. I didn’t see anything I recognized, just columns of numbers and letters, and only about a dozen pages of writing at the front of book. Then I saw Zeke in the lane ahead, chatting with a woman wearing team gear for one of the larger prototype cars. I zipped the notebook away as I heard him deliver a familiar line: “Just remember, Zeke Andrews, Z-A—like A to Z, but in reverse. I’m just a little bit backwards.” He waved goodbye to her and turned to me.
“Flirting, Zeke? I’ll tell your wife.”
“You know me, trying to soften up a new source.”
I did know him, and I knew his wife had nothing to worry about. “All right, your secret’s safe.”
“Katie, I’ve, well…I’ve been hearing some bad things.” He was uncharacteristically tentative. “I mean, don’t listen to what anyone’s saying. In case you have been.”
“Zeke, spill it.”
“OK. Some small-minded and nasty people are saying rotten things about you. And about Wade’s death.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Has someone said something to you?!” He clenched his fists.
“Easy, big guy. I overheard someone in the public bathroom.”
“What did you hear?”
“You want specifics?” When he nodded, I went on. “I’m not really qualified, everyone thinks I killed Wade to take his place. And I’ve slept my way to my success. Such as it is. Have you heard something different?”
“That about covers it, except you were stalking Wade, setting him up to fail—or to be killed.”
“Who’ve you heard saying it?”
“I’m sorry to say from a bit of everyone. Teams, fans, a driver here and there.”
“I’m pretty talented, aren’t I? I get around.”
He sighed. “Listen, Katie, no one worth knowing believes this crap. You know you’ve always had to fight an uphill battle.”
“Always had to prove myself when boys and men didn’t have to, yes. But this is bigger and scarier.”
He put his hands on my shoulders. “I know you, and you’ll get through it with your head high.”
“Anyone I should watch out for?”
He gave me a quick hug. “Don’t go out of your way for Nations Team, that new group running yellow Porsches. They’re new and ignorant—jumping on the gossip bandwagon.”
“Jim Siddons.”
“What did you do to him anyway?”
“Nothing besides existing.”
“He used to be a third for your new team sometimes, didn’t he? Probably thinks you took his spot. The muck he’s raking is extreme, but you ignore those idiots and concentrate on yourself. Remember, like I taught you?”
I’d been twelve, about to run a go-kart in my first big race with a real sponsor—and I was terrified. Zeke, the pro sportscar driver, had taken the time to hold my hand and talk me through the process of shutting out the outside world and concentrating on the job I had to do inside the vehicle. He’d introduced me to the bubble that a good driver—or athlete in any sport—had to operate in. “Yeah, Zeke, I remember. Spread the word I didn’t kill Wade, would you?”
He gave me a double thumbs-up. “Already on it. Will you give me a quote on camera for the show?”
“I can’t give you much more on Wade.”
“Different topic. Why drivers do or don’t like this track—just a quick
answer.”
“Yes, if you promise to be nice to me this time. Just come by the paddock. Oh, and Zeke? What kind of car did you rent this weekend?”
“White Taurus, maybe silver, why?”
“Never mind.”
We separated, and I surreptitiously opened Wade’s notebook again. The pages contained six columns of figures, broken up by dates, which I now recognized as ALMS races over the past four or five years. Under each were lists of varying lengths—shorter ones farther back, longer ones for more recent races. One column looked like lap times, one column contained check marks on selected lines, and two looked like initials.
“Kate! There you are!” I was standing in front of the Sandham Swift paddock, and Tom was relieved to see me.
I folded up the notebook again. “What’s up?”
“Some details for the rest of the weekend to give you and a couple interview requests.” Tom made notes on a clipboard as he spoke.
“But you didn’t—” I took a breath and started again. “Of course, Tom, I’m delighted to talk to anyone you want. Sorry, it’s been a busy morning already.”
“How’d it go with Detective Jolley before I got there?”
“You were there for the most interesting stuff. But there’s something—Jack?” I waved him over as he exited the motorhome.
I took a deep breath and addressed them both. “It’s come to my attention there are some awful rumors about me. I thought you should know.”
Jack waved a hand in the air. “No need, Kate. We’ve heard.”
“Oh. Is there anything I can do, anyone I can talk to?”
Jack shook his head. “Since it’s all untrue—I’m assuming you didn’t sleep with past team owners to get a spot. You didn’t sleep with me or kill Wade to get this one—so we’re going to ignore it and carry on. We’ll respond on the track. And that means I need 110 percent of your concentration and effort tomorrow. That’ll be your proof you got here on talent alone.” He looked me in the eye, and his voice went from stern to kind. “As we know you did.”
He made a good point: don’t focus on—or even think about—anything but the job I had to do tomorrow. But it added to the pressure.
He patted my shoulder. “Ease up, Kate. That’s what we call a pep talk. I don’t expect you to be faster than everyone else tomorrow—just faster than a few others in our class. Don’t worry. See you at dinner.” He was chuckling as he crossed to the garage.
“You OK, Kate?” Tom inquired.
I rolled my shoulders twice. “Adjusting to that added weight. All right, what have you got for me?”
Tom consulted his clipboard. “Tonight: dinner at 7:00 again, at The Boathouse this time, with sponsors again—different ones. Tomorrow: team meeting here at 8:00 a.m. Mandatory Series drivers’ meeting at 9:30. Warm-up at 10:45. Skipping the autograph session. Race at 3:00.”
“7:00 at The Boathouse tonight. 8:00 here tomorrow. Check. Interviews?”
“Yes, two magazines. One—and this is great—is Road & Track, which, as you know, is one of the top two consumer car magazines.” Tom almost jumped up and down.
“That’s great. I hope they don’t ask me about Wade.”
“No. Stuart cleared these, and they’re not asking about him. Road & Track’s topic is ‘breaking into the big leagues’—coming up through the ranks as a professional. The other is about being a female driver. And that’s for Seventeen magazine.” He looked uncomfortable.
I laughed. “Tom, it’s OK. It’s a magazine for girls—probably the top one in the country. I’m a girl. Maybe we’ll generate more teenaged girls who are fans or drivers. I wouldn’t mind that.”
“OK, and I’ll sit in on them with you. Can we go now?”
Zeke appeared with his cameraman as we were leaving the team’s area, and I recorded a quick response to Zeke’s question: “I haven’t had much time on the track, but so far I like it because it’s so challenging—you’re dealing with different surfaces, off-camber turns, and blind hills, all while you’re constantly tossed around by the bumps. But ask me again after the race!”
Zeke winked and took off, and Tom and I made our way to the media center at the end of pit row next to the track. Right next to where I’d found Wade. I tried not to look.
I sat at a picnic table outside—the gray, rainy skies had given way to puffy white clouds—while Tom retrieved the Road & Track reporter. Fifteen minutes of questions later, he was done with me, and Tom brought the other journalist out. She’d have fit in on the streets of Manhattan, with her tailored blazer, designer jeans, and high-heeled, pointy-toed shoes, but she had to tiptoe across the dirt and grass to the table. I ignored my grandmother’s voice in my head telling me I should be more ladylike and style-conscious, like her. I drive racecars for a living. Tomboyish goes with the territory.
I stood to shake her hand. “Hi. I’m Kate Reilly.”
“Brandy Hutchins, freelancer, Seventeen magazine.” Her voice was low and gravelly.
“Brandi? With an ‘i’?” I studied the masterful blond highlights in her shoulder-length, wavy hair.
She curled her lip and took a pack of cigarettes out of her miniscule handbag. “No. Specifically not with an ‘i’; with a ‘y.’ I can’t stand that shit.” She retrieved a lighter.
“Oops. Sorry.” I sensed Tom stifling a giggle next to me.
“No problem, girlfriend.” She pulled a microcassette recorder from her bag. “How about we start?”
She began with more basic questions than most—where was I from, how did I get into this in the first place, what made me think I could make it as a racecar driver. She disclaimed the last one. “Not that I think you can’t or shouldn’t, but let’s face it, it’s one of the last bastions of machismo. Am I right?”
I laughed and told her the story of racing go-karts at the age of ten. “In a regional championship race for my age group, it was all boys and me—and one was my ‘boyfriend.’ But when it was over, I’d won, and he’d thrown a screaming tantrum because a ‘stupid girl’ had beaten him. That’s when I learned boys don’t have special equipment that means they can drive cars better. Cars don’t care if you’re male or female. The strength you need most isn’t physical—it’s mental. Competing, thinking ahead down the racetrack, and concentrating on just one thing for a couple hours at a time.”
She tapped a manicured fingernail on the table and chuckled. “That’s perfect. I can just picture the little whiner.” She pulled out another cigarette. “How’s everyone treating you now that you’re climbing up the ladder? This is climbing the ladder, right?”
“Yes, it is.” I chose my words carefully. “I haven’t been treated any differently because I’m a woman.”
She heard what I wasn’t saying. She lit her cigarette, looked at Tom, and turned off her tape recorder. “How about this? Off the record. How’s everyone treating you this weekend?”
Tom bristled. “Hey, we were very clear we weren’t going to talk about—”
I stopped him. “Off the record? Why do you want to know if you can’t use it?”
“I’m all for a woman getting ahead in a man’s world. I freelance for lots of magazines, so I’m thinking of future stories. You know, female driver made the scapegoat, woman falsely accused, driver rising from the ashes of scandal.” She took a drag. “Besides, word around the media room is the guy was a dick.”
Tom was shaking his head, but I loved it. “Off the record, that’s what I hear too. I knew him, but not enough to say. As for a story, we can talk when this is all over and see what you’re interested in—but I don’t think I’m much of a suspect anymore.”
“What kind of treatment are you getting here?”
I crossed my arms. “I’ve had better. I’ve gotten great support from the ALMS, my team, and my friends. But there’s some of what you might
expect from other people.”
“You slept or killed your way to the top?” She sounded bored.
“Yeah.”
“Fucking typical jealous bullshit.”
I smiled. Tom’s mouth popped open.
“I’ve heard that crap everywhere there’s a successful woman. Don’t let it get to you. That just means you’re getting somewhere.”
She stubbed out her cigarette, stuffed her recorder back in her bag, and stood to leave. “By the way, there was a video tech in there,” she pointed to the media center. “He was mumbling about looking through some tape from the night before last, because he thought he had shots of the dead dude. You should check it out.”
“Me?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Sure, bring one home for women everywhere: win the race and solve the damn crime. Ta-ta.” She pressed a business card into my hand and strolled off.
“What was that?” asked a bewildered Tom.
I started laughing.
Chapter Thirty
I sent Tom back to the paddock and entered the Media Center. No one paid attention to me when I walked in, so I headed for the photocopy machine. What I was doing was doubly unauthorized and potentially dangerous: I shouldn’t be using the copier and shouldn’t have the notebook in my hands; more, if Stuart or Jolley were to be believed, having it could get me killed. My heart was in my throat, and I jumped a foot when someone spoke behind me.
“It’s Kate, the senseless murderer. Any quotes for us?”
I whirled around, breathless. The five reporters sitting at their computers had turned around to face me, one of them wearing a cheeky expression. I recognized him as Mitch Fletcher, the guy from Racer who’d asked me a question in the press conference the day before.
My voice cracked the first time I tried to speak. I cleared my throat. “‘No comment’ is probably safest.” I smiled and stepped forward to shake Mitch’s hand and introduce myself to the other four men.
Mitch spoke again. “How’s it all going?”
“Is this for publication?”
Dead Man’s Switch Page 15
