“I didn’t say he was reasonable. I don’t think he knows who talked. But we’re starting fresh now. Jack assured him no gossip, no comment, no judging. What’s in the past is over and done with. We go on from here.”
“I wonder if that kind of cover-up will work—especially in this industry.”
“Jack says we’ll damn well make it work, because they’re important to us.”
“Lips sealed. Do you have to deliver this message to the whole team?”
“Yeah. Don’t you think this could be how he’s ‘fixing things’ for her?”
“I guess so.” I was reluctant to give up my favorite villain.
Tom tapped my shoulder with the hand resting on my chair. “Don’t you think that clears him?”
“Maybe?” I leaned forward to peer around Tom at Mr. Purley.
“Do you want him to be the one, Kate?”
“It wouldn’t break my heart.”
“Think what it would do to the team!”
I shook my head at Tom. “You’re as bad as me. I don’t like him, so he should be guilty. You think we need him, so he can’t be.”
“We do need him.”
“OK, OK.”
Mike leaned in from my other side. “What are you two whispering about?”
I felt hemmed in. “The old zip-lips treatment we’ll give our favorite sponsors.”
Mike nodded. “Yes, deluxe service at Sandham Swift.”
Two waiters arrived to remove our dinner plates and distribute dessert menus, causing them both to move away. I struck up a conversation with the GM guy across the table.
The rest of the evening passed without incident—at least until I returned to my room.
I drove Mike away from The Boathouse around nine. We’d pled a need for sleep before the race and left everyone else with coffee and cognac. On the way home we saw fireworks and heard muffled pops and bangs from backyard enthusiasts.
I said goodbye to Mike in the parking lot and walked to my room, unlocking it and going in. I flipped the light switch and shut the door, then felt a chill that had nothing to do with temperature. The room felt wrong. The bathroom door was closed, and I was sure I’d left it open. Swallowing hard, I tiptoed over and shoved the door open. Nothing. Blood roaring in my ears, I turned on the light and batted the shower curtain out of the way. Empty.
My heart pounded and my knees felt weak as I returned to the middle of the room and surveyed the scene. Nowhere else for anyone to hide. Nothing seemed to be missing. The only item out of place was the box from my father, sitting crooked on top of the TV cabinet, when I thought I’d left it straight. But given my muddled state of mind over its contents, I couldn’t be sure.
I jumped, hearing a smattering of distant pops outside. More fireworks. I looked around the room again, conjuring an image of how it looked before dinner. I shook my head. I just couldn’t tell. Aside from my mother’s diamond jewelry, which I wore, and my wallet, which I had carried in my purse to dinner, I owned nothing of value.
I double-checked the locks on the front door and the connector to the next room, letting out a breath and rolling my shoulders a few times to release tension. I told myself I was imagining things, but I still felt jittery as I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed. That’s when I thought of the photocopied pages of Wade’s notebook, still tucked in my handbag. Was someone looking for those or the notebook itself? I retrieved them, smoothing out the folds, and opened the desk drawer to put them with the other pages.
I’d discovered what was missing.
Sixty dollars in cash I’d stupidly left in the drawer and the other notebook pages. But my thief had left something as well: a piece of notepaper from the Inn with “STAY OUT OF IT” written in large block letters. I reached out a trembling hand, then changed my mind and closed the drawer. The remaining photocopies went back in my purse.
It took me forty-five minutes, some yoga poses, and a desk chair wedged under the doorknob to feel secure enough to go to sleep.
I woke later with a start. The green numbers on the clock read 11:50, and I wondered why my heart was racing again. Fireworks popped in the distance, and I relaxed, assuming that’s what had woken me. Then I heard a quiet tapping on my door. I’d pulled back the covers and started toward it when the doorknob rattled. I froze, my heart in my throat, arms and legs trembling.
Was it Jim? Trent? Wade’s ghost? I was scared enough to believe anything.
The knob rattled again as I crept to the desk and picked up the receiver. I spoke in a whisper to the sleepy-sounding desk clerk, who woke up fast and promised to walk around the building and check things out, offering also to call the police, if I preferred. Whoever was outside must have heard my voice, because as soon as I started speaking, the noise stopped.
I told the clerk no police if he’d walk around. Then I hung up and remained rooted in place for five minutes—long enough to hear the slap-slap of the desk clerk’s feet outside, walking back and forth in front of my door. I took my shaking limbs back to bed and sat there for an hour, my knees pulled up to my chest and my heart rate in the stratosphere. I alternately wondered what the hell was going on in my life and worried about not sleeping the night before my make-or-break race. A long time later, I stretched out and concentrated on soothing thoughts and deep breathing. Eventually, I slept.
Chapter Thirty-five
I woke up just after six in the morning, well before my alarm was set to ring. Once on my feet, I took stock: I felt good, ready for the day ahead, full of energy and excitement. No ill effects from a poor night’s sleep.
When I’d showered and dressed—in jeans and a black team polo shirt—I peeked out the window, took the chair from under the doorknob, and opened the door. I examined the ground, the door, and its exterior knob. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I didn’t see anything. I picked up my notebook with data I’d recorded about the track and left for the dining room and breakfast. Five steps later, I turned back and retrieved my purse as well.
I saw other racing people at breakfast, including Tom and Jack, who were signing their bill. I sat alone at a small table in a corner of the garden room—where we’d eaten dinner two nights before—and plowed through scrambled eggs, ham, potatoes, fruit, and coffee, loading up on protein and carbs for the day ahead. While I ate, I went through my notes on the track and thought my way around it over and over. I also reviewed the process for changing drivers. With so little practice, I’d be slow getting in and out of the car, but I rehearsed mentally as much as possible.
I tried to use the drive to the track to relax, but instead kept wondering if the person who broke into my room found what he was looking for or if he’d be back. I also wondered if Jim Siddons and Trent Maeda were really saboteurs. If they were also murderers.
If Jim and Trent were responsible for cheating, one or both of them had to be responsible for killing Wade too…didn’t they? How many people that evil did we have in the ALMS? In racing? But it was a big step from cheating to murder.
Besides, plenty of other people had motives. Did we know everyone who’d wanted Wade stopped? I didn’t think so. Stuart would set his trap for Jim and Trent. I would follow up on other clues and suspects—specifically, who drove the three mystery cars out of the track Friday night and what the remaining pages in the notebook meant. Plus why my initials were in there.
“Was there an Andy someone driving last year?” I mumbled, as I cruised along. That was Randy someone—was he the “RJ?” No, that was Randy Williams, an occasional driver in the Star Mazda series last year.
“Rotten Job Trujillo,” I recalled Holly’s jokes. “And Too Fast Reilly—I wish.”
I turned off the highway down the small road leading to the track entrance, marveling again at the fact of a racetrack tucked away behind the tall trees and sporadic houses of northwestern Conn
ecticut. I bypassed the six cars waiting to pay for parking by zipping through the “Credentials Only” line and eyed the guard shack on the right. In an hour, I’d be back to talk to Dennis Weston about cars he’d seen. Later in the morning, cars would clog the track entry, as tens of thousands of fans converged to watch us race. Those thoughts got my heart rate up as I crossed the wooden bridge.
Lime Rock Park was more alive today than previous days—more cars and people, but also more gussied up, as Gramps would say. New flags were out, delineating parking lots and the Corvette Corral, where Corvette owners could see and be seen. More banners had been hung, advertising the ALMS, SPEED Channel, and Series and track sponsors. Booths were set up in the midway, from which merchandise would be hawked all day. The palpable energy in the air originated from more than my revving nerves.
As I got closer to the paddock, the energy kicked up a notch. Racecars were still tucked in their garages, but crowds of wandering, pointing, picture-taking fans had started to form. Series staff, race officials, and team members were out in force, scurrying around in preparation for the day. Those who stayed in the paddock area or worked hospitality all wore crisply pressed team shirts, embroidered with sponsor logos up one sleeve and down the other. Pit crews wore fire suits and hustled back and forth from paddock to pit with tools, racks of tires, and cans of race fuel—often with a cigarette dangling out of their mouths.
Everyone was getting ready for something. Mechanics, track staff, and ALMS officials to solve problems with a car, the racetrack, or the race. Team and Series hospitality types to entertain hundreds of sponsors and guests. Drivers to drive as fast as possible. We were all putting on a show for the audience at the track and around the country—a show that happened at over a hundred miles per hour. Everything was a rush to curtain time: when the green flag dropped for the start of the two hour, forty-five minute race.
At 8:00, we hadn’t reached panic stage yet, though the blood was already fizzing in my veins. I hopped out of my Cherokee and fought the urge to pump my fists in the air and jump up and down. Race day! I had a ride! I contented myself with a huge smile at the sunny day and the sparkling track as I collected my bag and jacket and headed for the paddock.
Aunt Tee greeted me with a knowing look. “Excited this morning, Kate?”
“You bet.”
“I’m sure you’ll do well, channeling that energy into your driving.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You go on and stow your things inside. Mike and Seth are there, just waiting on Lars and Jack for your meeting. Did you eat some breakfast?” At my assent, she went on. “Well, help yourself to anything. Plenty of water and snacks whenever you want.”
“Got it, thanks.” I opened the motorhome door and climbed inside.
Chapter Thirty-six
We started our meeting just after eight o’clock. Seth and I sat on the couch along one wall; Mike and Lars sat on the other. Jack pulled up a chair from the table, and the two crew chiefs—Bruce Kunze from my car and Walter Bryant from the 29 car—sat in the motorhome’s driver and passenger seats, which turned around to face the interior of the vehicle.
Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees. “OK. Our cars. The 28 should run in the fifty-three to fifty-four second range. The 29 should run solid fifty-fours. We’ve got no major handling problems remaining with either car. Right?”
We all shook our heads.
Jack went on. “Mike, the understeer you were feeling Friday. That’s completely taken care of, right?”
“It was good on Saturday.”
Jack looked at Bruce, who shrugged. “Should be OK, boss.”
“Good.” Jack made a note on his clipboard. “If anyone feels something this morning in the warm-up, get on the radio fast, so we can fix it. I think we can make the podium—or be damn close. The factory Corvettes will have a couple tenths of a second each lap on us. But anything can happen—just look at qualifying. And remember: one of them is starting from the back of the grid. They’ve got to catch us first to beat us. We know they can do it, but we’ll make them work for it.
“Other cars: the Saleen and the Ferraris also look strong this weekend. The Saleen’s been getting stronger each race. They’ll be a big challenge. The two Ferraris weren’t as good in qualifying and practice here as I thought they’d be. But they might find the speed they’re missing and be a threat. Possible. The Maserati’s getting better each race, but they’re still a few tenths behind us. And the Viper’s a few tenths behind them.
“What you all need to do is stay in front of the Saleen and the Ferraris—and the Number 64 factory Corvette coming from the back of the pack. Make them work for it—but don’t hurt the car! Gamesmanship time.”
Jack wasn’t telling us, “Don’t worry, take it easy, we don’t expect to win.” He’d gone into normal race mode: “Go balls-out for everything we can get.” That upped the pressure on all of us, particularly me, but it also meant Jack felt confident in my driving and good about Mike and me as a driving team. That was great. And it gave me butterflies for the forty-seventh time that morning.
“Pit stops.” Jack leaned back in his chair and flipped a page on his clipboard. “Mike and Kate. If there were no yellows in the entire race—”
Mike snorted, and Lars started laughing.
Jack held up a hand. “I know, unlikely. This race, Mike’s going to start and finish. Kate in the middle. Changing drivers twice instead of just once could cost us time, but I think it’ll happen under yellows. If there’s a yellow before minute thirty, we don’t stop. Any yellow between thirty and one-fifteen: we stop to change drivers. If we haven’t seen any cautions up to one-fifteen, we come in anyway. Once Kate’s in the car, we don’t stop until she’s been there forty-five minutes or more, to meet the regulations and score points. Unless, God forbid, there’s a mechanical or tire problem.”
He lowered his notes and stared first at Mike, then at me. “Because there will not be a problem of a car damaged by driver error.”
I shook my head. Mike just laughed. Jack’s mantra was “Don’t hit shit,” because damage to the car cost him money. All team owners wanted their drivers to be as aggressive and fast as possible without ever touching another car, curb, gravel trap, grass shoulder, guardrail, or anything that might scuff a sideskirt and cost money to fix. They didn’t care that those were incompatible goals. When you spent hour after hour pushing a car and balancing it on the knife-edge of speed and control, sometimes you hit shit.
Jack nodded. “Right, you’ll bring the cars back in perfect shape.”
Mike snorted again, but Jack ignored him. “Now, the weather. The forecast is for clouds and possible showers. That could mean we’ll get them or not. Hard to tell with summer in Connecticut. But I’ve got a secret weapon this year.” He looked around expectantly.
Lars gave him what he wanted. “What is it, Jack?”
“I found a local. The volunteer doing security at the pit entry near us has lived a half-mile away for fifty years. We’ll ask him what the weather will do. He’ll know.” Jack looked pleased with himself.
Seth spoke for the first time. “Just don’t leave us hanging out there on slicks when it starts coming down. That track’s slippery enough in the dry.”
Jack made a tick on his notes. “Don’t worry. We’ll go to the grooved rain tires sooner here than other tracks. I know those concrete patches are slippery. Just not until I check in with our local weatherman.”
I saw the dismay I felt reflected on the other drivers’ faces.
“Cheer up, maybe it won’t rain at all. Anyway, those are the plans. Not a single thing ever works to plan, but we’ll try our best once again.”
We laughed at that. He was right. Nothing ever happened as expected, but we had to start with something.
“One last thought. Remember: keep it clean and—”
I laughed at them but choked to a stop when Jack scowled at me. “That means you too, rookie.”
“Sure thing, Jack.”
He checked the time. “Series drivers’ meeting in forty-five. I’ll see you all there.” With final nods to us, he left the motorhome.
Mike rolled his eyes with a smile. “Our Jack sings the same tune every race. Come on, Kate, I’ll buy you a bottle of water.” He slung an arm around my shoulder, and we went outside.
I left Mike fishing water bottles out of the cooler to cross to Jack in the garage. I spoke quietly. “Jack, I need you to do something, but I can’t tell you why. I swore to Stuart I wouldn’t tell anyone. Just trust me, OK?”
His eyes searched mine. “OK. What is it?”
“Make whoever’s responsible change the password—maybe the username too—to the team’s wireless network. Right now.”
He stopped himself from speaking twice, then nodded and walked directly to the transporter.
I steadied my breathing and realized it was time to hunt down the guard at the front gate. Mike wanted a lift to the media compound near the paddock entrance, so we commandeered the team golf cart and rolled out. I dropped him off and continued toward the entry, dodging a steady stream of oncoming cars.
Fifteen minutes later I drove back through the infield, riding half on the right shoulder to allow cars to pass. My exchange with Dennis Weston, the guard, had been brief. He’d written down the four-car information for me—though he’d explained he was relying on memory, since the guards kept no log. Between roughly 9:00 and 10:00 Friday night, four cars left the track in this order: a silver Ford Taurus with a Georgia plate, a brick-red or maroon Chevy Malibu with the letters “BOY” on the plate, another silver Taurus with an unmemorable plate, and a red Ferrari convertible. He thought all but the Ferrari contained the driver only, all male, though he wasn’t positive. My tentative questions yielded no more data, so I’d left him to his work.
Dead Man’s Switch Page 19
