Now all I had to do was stake out three parking areas or ask everyone for the color, make, and license plate of their rentals. No problem.
I spotted Eddie as I entered the paddock lane and pulled up next to him.
“Hiya, Kate.”
“Tell me, Eddie, what kind of rental do you have this weekend?”
“Something red? Dunno. Why?”
“Just curious. I wanted to ask something else—and I swear it’ll never go any further. Did you have an affair with Susanah Purley?”
Eddie frowned. “Don’t publish it, but yes, I did, some years back. You can talk to Torsten, too. He was seeing her before I was.”
“Did Wade know about that? And is Crystal your wife’s name?”
I saw a flash of fear, before Eddie’s eyes and face displayed his anger. His voice rose as he spoke. “Yes, Wade knew—but why are you asking? Are you trying to blame me for something? You’ve got no right. I advise leaving that for the police.” With a disgusted look, he took off.
I hadn’t expected such a vehement response. He’d rented a red car…did he have something to hide?
I spent a few minutes back at the paddock sipping water and mulling over the information I’d received, before Mike and I headed for the mandatory Series drivers’ meeting at the ALMS trailer. Halfway there, James Hightower Reilly, III, appeared in front of me. I saw Stuart waiting nearby, and I waved Mike on.
“Good morning, Katherine.”
“Good morning.” I looked at my father, struck for the first time by how much we looked alike. No wonder Stuart asked if we were related. He was a slightly larger size of me, which meant he was short for a man and slight. Straight, black hair, fair skin, and blue eyes, all like mine. I couldn’t pinpoint the facial characteristics we shared, but his face was familiar. I wasn’t sure I liked the resemblance.
He cleared his throat. “I know you have a meeting. But I wanted to wish you the very best of luck today in the race.”
“Thank you.” I relented, adding, “We expect it to be a decent race for the whole team.”
“And you? Are you feeling comfortable in the car yet?”
“In the car, sure. On the track? We’ll see. I haven’t had much time on it. But I’ll learn fast.” I stopped. I hadn’t meant to have a conversation with him.
“Katherine, did you have a chance to open the package I gave you?”
The conversation was officially over. “Yes. I did. But I’m not interested in talking about that with you. At least, not yet.”
He looked disappointed, but he reached into his inner suit pocket and came out with a business card. I accepted, holding it between my thumb and index finger. He stared at me in silence for a few more seconds, then turned and walked back to Stuart.
I debated chucking his card into the nearest trash can, but decided I was more mature than that. Barely. I sighed and tucked it into my back pocket, noticing Stuart watching me across the road. He flashed me a smile that felt like support, and I ran for the meeting.
Chapter Thirty-seven
The race director gave us the same message a dozen ways in twenty minutes: don’t screw around. “No unnecessary hitting, aggression, or bad behavior—hear me? Don’t go bangin’ into each other—because we’ll penalize you.” The official, Guy, was liked by everyone at the track. He was a big, physically intimidating man, with a sharp mind, a great sense of humor, and an infectious slow, bass chuckle. You couldn’t get much by him. His job during the race was to supervise details, settle disputes, and make final decisions. His job at this meeting was to lay down the law. And he did.
I daydreamed as Guy fielded questions, remembering the other drivers’ meeting I’d attended with this series, at Sebring last year when I’d raced the first time with Sandham Swift. I thought about that room full of drivers and tried to fit names to the initials from the second column of letters in Wade’s notebook: HT, RJ, AT, and TF. Looking around the room I was in, I drew a blank again. No one. Damn.
“One more thing, please, and I’ll let you go.” Guy surveyed the group as we quieted. “There’s going to be a modification of the schedule today, by one minute. The ALMS has arranged that while we’re on the grid, we will have one minute of silence in tribute to Wade Becker.” Quiet murmurs ran through the group, and I wondered if anyone in the room actively missed Wade.
“Right. Keep it clean, and have a great race.”
Mike promised to meet me at the paddock in fifteen minutes to prep for the warm-up session at 10:45, and he took off. I thought about finding Eddie again to apologize or ask what he was hiding, but only caught a glimpse of him as he slipped out of the meeting through an opening that didn’t look like an exit. I was following the last group of drivers out to the paddock lane, when a voice stopped me.
“So, Kate.” A small Italian driver named Piero, who drove one of the bigger prototypes for a Delray team and had a reputation for aggression and flamboyance, stood with his arms crossed over his chest. “Why do I hear you have the codes and passwords to access ECU data for Delray teams?”
I stopped walking and saw a dozen other drivers watching the two of us with interest. “I don’t—Wade. Wade had them. How do you know?”
“Didn’t you find them? You have them.”
“I found them, yes. But I don’t have them. I turned them over to the Series and the police. I swear I didn’t look at them.”
I felt the atmosphere shift. Two drivers nearby looked less bemused and more annoyed. Some drifted away, but not before shaking their heads or giving me dark looks. I shouted, in anger and to reach the ears of the retreating drivers, “I don’t have them! I don’t want them!”
Piero narrowed his eyes. “It could have been you. You’ve been at all the races, right there at the track, not doing anything else.”
I was silent, bound by my promise to Stuart, unable to clear myself. “I…no. I haven’t done anything.”
Piero wasn’t impressed. “Make sure you don’t.”
I found no sympathy on the faces around me. You can’t change their minds now, Kate, I told myself as I walked back to the garage. That will only happen when everyone knows who committed the sabotage—and murder. What you can do is think hard about that notebook. I’d go back to the basics. Why did Wade keep the notebook in the first place? Because he kept a list of people who’d made him mad.
Stuart pissed Wade off at Petit Le Mans last year and Sebring this year, and Paul Trimble made Wade mad at the beginning of last year. But they’re not drivers.
I reached the Sandham Swift paddock and waved to Tom and Jack, who were standing in the garage area. I headed straight for the motorhome and the remaining photocopies from Wade’s notebook. I flipped the pages.
Last year, Sebring: PT, with no lap time.
Last year, Petit Le Mans: ST, no lap time. Just “AT” in the fourth column and everything else blank.
Sebring, this year: ST again, this time with blanks and “RJ.”
I sank down on the bed, reorganizing my thoughts. I picked up the papers again to fit names to the other non-driver initials, and the door to the motorhome opened with a bang.
“Damn door!” It was Mike’s voice. “Kate? You in there?”
I jumped up. “Yeah, Mike. What’s up?”
“That little warm-up thing—you remember?”
“Of course. Just about to suit up.” I poked my head out and saw Mike in his suit already. “Just give me five.”
He popped a grape in his mouth from the bowl on the table. “Sure. Then let’s talk.” He sat down on the couch to wait for me.
I shut the door and yanked my duffle bag and firesuit out of the closet, taking a deep breath to stop my panic and my fumbling. I collected and straightened the photocopies I’d just crumpled and started to fold them neatly—when the top page caught my eye. Last
year, Sebring. My initials there, Mike’s too, among the drivers. At the bottom, with no lap times: BS, WB, PT, and JS. Benny Stephens, the SPEED Channel announcer; Walter Bryant, the 29 car crew chief; Paul Trimble, Series sponsor; and Jack Sandham, my boss.
I put the papers away. Time to prepare body and mind to drive.
Chapter Thirty-eight
It wasn’t easy to focus on suiting up and driving. Nomex underwear on, check. Whose initials were in there a lot? Firesuit on, arms through sleeves. Sit down on the bed. Fire-retardant socks, check. Driving shoes, check. Still don’t know what those other initials mean—HT, RJ, AT, and TF. Earplugs around my neck. Earrings, necklace, and watch into baggie, check. Pack up street clothes and put them in duffle. My notebook and pen out of my bag, into my pocket. I’ve got to tell Holly what I figured out. And Detective Jolley. Grab sunglasses, and join Mike.
We walked to the pits as Mike coached me on driver behavior—so I’d know what they’d do when I saw them in my rearview screen.
“Heinrich, easy. He acts like he owns the whole goddamn road. He nearly does. He’s looking for the first fraction of an inch to pass. Just make it easy on him and his co-driver. And the purple prototype, you seen it?”
At my nod, he went on. “One of its drivers is as aggressive as Heinrich, but his co-driver isn’t. You won’t recognize who’s who by their helmets yet, so give the purple car some room, too. The rest of the prototypes are more patient. And we’re faster than most in the sportscar classes, so no worries!” My nerves kept me from returning his grin.
Unlike the closed-cockpit sportscars, the prototypes were open-top, and you could see the driver’s helmet as he went around the track. Knowing who was coming up behind you made it easier to anticipate their movements and avoid tangling with them. I’d just have to be careful with all other cars until I learned who was who.
I was putting my notebook and chapstick in my pit locker and pulling out my gear, when I saw Dave Hacker entering the pits a few stalls away, headed the other direction. “Be right back,” I called to Mike, then ran after Dave.
He and I reached his pit at the same time.
“Dave.”
“Hey, Kate, what’s going on?”
“Quick question.” I spoke in a low voice.
“Shoot.”
“When did Wade think you did something to him? And when did he threaten you about it?”
“This isn’t a great time.”
“I know, but please tell me?”
He scowled and pulled me two steps away from his pit area. “The first time he got mad at me—for no reason at all—was last year at Sebring. He said I hit him, but that’s complete crap, because he hit me!”
“What?”
“Even that was nothing! It was during a yellow. I was fourth or fifth behind the pace car, and Wade was behind me. Something happened to the line of cars in a corner, and I had to stop short. He wasn’t fast enough and bumped me from behind. Just a tap. There wasn’t any damage on the car, but he yelled at me, saying I was a crappy driver and it was my fault we hit because I didn’t have the sense to drive right.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Dave grimaced. “I know. Then nothing, for months. We’re at Sonoma in mid-July, and I’m walking down the empty pit row after practice—had to get something from my locker—when he comes up behind me, puts his hands around my neck, and scares the life out of me. Telling me I’d better not get in his way again or he’ll fix me, fix my car, fix my team. I’d better not mess with him—not so much as look at him wrong, or he’d make sure I went out to race someday and never made it back in.”
“That’s horrible.”
“No kidding. And then two races later, Road America last year, someone misses a turn, spins, whams into me, spins me around, and I punch the left rear panel of Wade’s car. Couldn’t have been when Mike was in the car, could it? No, it had to be Wade. Nothing I could have done about it.”
“And?”
“He didn’t say a word to me there. But once we got to Petit in September? If looks could kill, I’d have been dead forty times over. He shoved my car around once or twice during the race, and he sent me a message.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing, but in my pit locker, I found a toy car painted to look like ours. About this big.” He held his thumb and index finger two inches apart. “Run over by a car. Crushed.”
“He did that?”
“I can’t prove it. There was no note, and it was just left in my locker. Had to be him, though. But the weirdest thing? Since then, nothing. I approached him at the first race this year, tried to straighten things out. He told me to get lost, that he had bigger fish to fry. He just dropped it.”
“Thanks, Dave. Say, what kind of car did you rent this weekend?”
He looked confused at the change of topic, then wounded. “Be honest, Kate. You’re asking if I was here Friday night. The police asked about my car and whereabouts already.”
I fumbled, then looked him in the eye. “Yes, I’m asking you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s a silver Mazda. Our team had a big banquet up in the Berkshires, in Massachusetts. The police know.” He returned to his pit.
I fought guilt as I ran back to my team space, where I found Mike and Jack looking for me.
Jack looked at his watch. “Ten minutes to warm-up start. Now that you’ve got the bathroom out of the way, let’s get you ready and in the car.”
I didn’t correct him. Instead, I went to retrieve my gear and stood for a moment with my head resting against the pit cart. Eyes closed. Three deep breaths. Concentrate on the car, Kate. I shoved everything about Wade out of the way, breathed deeply again, and imagined being in the C6.R. Driving around the track. Getting out of the car fast. To my relief, I felt calm and confident. I straightened up and opened my eyes. Ready.
Chapter Thirty-nine
I was buckled into the Corvette by 10:40, waiting for the 10:45 start to the thirty-minute warm-up session. I’d take twenty of the minutes, leaving Mike time for about eight laps. I sat in the quiet car, waiting for the signal, and concentrated on keeping my heart rate and breathing steady.
I was first out of the pits, and for three turns, I had a rarity ahead of me: completely open track. But it lasted only that long, as one of the fastest prototypes whizzed by me when I entered No Name Straight. I swept up the hill to the chicane, remembering just in time to check my speed, and hit the perfect line through the quick turns. No punting cones today—or ever again, I vowed. However, the corner worker had been waving a blue flag, and I looked in my mirrors to see a prototype coming fast. I moved left, giving up the racing line to the faster car, and as it blew past me on the Back Straight, I recognized Heinrich. Then the track was clear, and I made the turn into West Bend.
I was just starting to feel good when I almost blew the Diving Turn. It was that damned bump! It shouldn’t be affecting me, but I always hit it just as I was allowing myself a second of relaxation. Kate, you don’t get to relax! Lap two. Go!
I found my rhythm again on the second lap. Lap four, a voice on the radio: Bruce. “Kate, you doing OK?”
Push radio button. “Fine. Car’s great.” Keep concentrating. Brake for the chicane.
“Good. Times look good. Used six minutes.”
“Tell me at fifteen. Thanks,” I transmitted, as I barreled down the Back Straight. I started to feel good, more comfortable. Faster. Relieved. Confident in the speed and my ability to coax it out of the car. I took a sip of water.
I’d done eighteen laps in twenty minutes and change when I hit the entrance to the pits, headed for a full-speed, racing driver change to give me the practice. On the last lap, I’d unplugged my air hose and drink tube to save time. I pressed the speed limiter button right before crossing the pit entry line, then loosened my belts and un
plugged the radio cable while steering the car into our box. Crew members crouched on the low wall, ready to hop out and do anything that needed to be done. I brought the car to a stop, killed the engine, twisted my seatbelt release, and removed the steering wheel and hung it on its hook.
A fully-suited crew member, whose name I learned later was Bubs, had already opened the door and let down the safety net. I twisted, pulled, heaved, and got myself out, remembering to reach back in for my seat insert. I hopped over the wall and turned back to watch Mike get in. The crew had topped off the fuel, inspected the tires, and moved out of the way. Bubs got Mike settled quickly, and he roared off. Aunt Tee and Jack stood nearby, Jack examining his stopwatch.
I pulled my helmet and balaclava off my sweaty head and unstuck the tape holding the earplugs in my ears.
“Thanks.” I draped the chilled, wet towel Aunt Tee handed me over my face and hair.
“That was good, Kate.” I heard Jack’s voice, and I uncovered my face to look at him. “Driver change was quick, and your lap times were a few tenths faster than yesterday. We’ll be in good shape today.”
“Great.”
“Car felt fine?”
“Yeah. Track’s bumpy, but the car is great.”
“Good.” Jack thumped me on the shoulder and climbed back up onto the control panel to monitor his track feeds and car data.
I walked around the back of the cart and stood watching the duplicate monitors as I sucked down a bottle of water. Two screens showed tables of official timing and scoring data. Seven others picked up live feeds from different cameras around the track, and the eighth showed what would be live SPEED Channel coverage. The monitors were arranged roughly in order of the turns on the track, so I could follow car 28 around the track by looking from one screen to another.
Mike was the third-to-last car back in the pits, and we returned to the paddock for a debrief. By the time I’d changed out of my suit, tried to fluff my hopelessly flat hair, and emerged from the motorhome, Jack, Bruce, and Mike were sitting in chairs outside. Aunt Tee took the damp firesuit from my hand and hung it to dry next to Mike’s at the far end of the awning. For all the sweaty suits that dried in the wind, I could never smell sweat or body odor emanating from them. Aunt Tee also pointed to my helmet, which was shaking gently next to Mike’s on a special drying rack that blasted air at the helmet’s lining.
Dead Man’s Switch Page 20
