Another female reporter spoke up. “Kate, you’ve gone through some of the same ups and downs. What’s your mental and emotional state been like?”
“A lot the same as Elena describes.” I paused. “The first day was magical—shocking and thrilling. I was so glad to get that result and attention for Beermeier Racing, Frame Savings, and Beauté, who’ve been incredibly supportive of me. The days since have been frustrating. My team has been great, and they’ve been right there with me, working to make the car better. But we’re all used to that. I don’t expect to be at the top of the charts at Indy, so it was a bonus for everyone on the team.”
The reporters smiled, and kept taking notes, some on paper notebooks, some in laptop computers.
“Kate, you said your team’s behind you. Has your relationship with them always been good?” Lyla turned from me to Elena and Tony. “And can either of you comment on PJ’s relationship with her team and if that might have helped or hurt her?”
Elena nodded at me to begin.
“The crew I’m working with has been great from day one. They’re smart and dedicated. I know they’ve got my back, and they know I’m doing everything I can on track. I’ve been especially glad to be with them for the full IndyCar season this year—I think that’s helped.” I glanced at Elena and Tony. “I recognize how fortunate I am, because that may not have been the case for PJ.”
Tony made a frustrated noise. “Let’s take the gloves off. PJ’s crew hated her.” Elena protested, and Tony waved a hand. “Not every crew member. Some of them were supportive. But some of them hated her. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if her ongoing car problems were the crew doing it on purpose.”
I caught my breath, and most of the journalists looked surprised. Except Lyla and the older man.
Lyla furrowed her brow. “Wouldn’t sabotage defeat the team’s purpose?”
“So would murdering your driver, but that happened. I wouldn’t put anything past them.” Tony sat back in his chair, arms crossed, a satisfied smile on his face.
A young reporter, whose tapping fingers had accompanied every word we’d said so far, stopped typing. “You think PJ was murdered?”
Elena sat up straight. “We do. We know she would never have killed herself.”
“But the police closed the investigation as suicide. Thirty years ago,” the kid said. “Did she leave a note?”
“No note,” Tony replied.
“Who do you think killed her?” one of the men asked.
Elena looked from reporter to reporter. “Maybe you can figure that out.”
“All we know is suicide would never have occurred to her.” Tony leaned forward. “It went against her religion, and it wasn’t her personality. We watched our great-grandmother die when we were young, and PJ told me she prayed that she’d go like her: peacefully, in her bed.” He shook his head. “She wouldn’t have given herself seconds of terror falling from a great height—she was afraid of heights.”
“Are you sure her death was connected to racing?” Lyla paused, appearing to choose her words carefully. “A child is killed and one of her parents is a powerful businessman, as I believe your husband was, Elena? It’s logical to ask if it’s related to the parent—and I mean no offense.”
Tony had flushed red as Lyla spoke, but Elena’s hand on his kept him quiet. She nodded. “I would advise you not to believe all rumors you hear, but you are not far off base about my husband. Still, we are sure it was not any of his enemies.”
Tony cut off the questions several journalists started to ask. “No one ever claimed responsibility. If a rival killed my sister for an advantage, it would have been taken—or if an enemy for revenge, he’d have openly reveled in my father’s suffering. But there was no one. My father’s business did not suffer, no one beat him in business for a decade, and no one crowed about revenge. It must be about PJ’s role in the racing world.”
The room was quiet for a couple beats, then the old guy turned to me, grinning. “It’s been a couple years, Kate, but you used to have a reputation as a sleuth. You gonna figure out if someone did PJ in?”
I chuckled, though even to my ears it sounded forced. “I have enough to do getting ready for the biggest race of the year, don’t you think?”
I wasn’t sure anyone bought my act.
Chapter Nine
May 1987
“Arvie?” A crew member stuck his head around the divider and found the team owner. “Got people asking for PJ, but since she’s not here, they asked for you.”
Walking into the main garage area, Arvie spotted the visitors immediately and walked forward with an outstretched hand. “You must be PJ’s family.”
Her father, who Arvie only knew as a voice on the phone, turned away from his examination of a racecar and smiled. “Sí, señor Arvin. I am Miguel Rodriguez.” They shook hands, and Miguel continued. “This is PJ’s mother, Elena. Over there, already bothering your mechanics is my son, Antonio.”
Arvie shook hands with the others, and glanced at the son, who stood close to one of the cars, but wasn’t in the crew’s way.
“Oye, Antonio,” Miguel called.
The teenager trotted over, flipping a long sweep of dark hair out of his eyes. He grinned and pumped Arvie’s hand. “Dude, this is totally awesome! Am I cool over there watching? And hey, call me Tony.”
Arvie bit back a smile. “Just stay out of their way.”
“Awesome.” Tony went back to his observation post.
Miguel rolled his eyes. “My son thinks he lives in that Valley Girl movie.”
“Your fault for sending him to school in California,” Elena put in with a smile. She and her son had no accent at all, while Miguel’s was strong but understandable.
Arvie studied them, seeing subtle-but-expensive watches, jewelry, and shoes. And a 5,000-dollar handbag on PJ’s mother’s arm. None of that surprised him. He’d already known there was money in PJ’s family—because it took money to attract money. PJ wasn’t paying her own way into the car, but she did have sponsorship from established, blue-chip companies in Mexico and Central and South America. He’d suspected family connections, and nothing he saw in the flesh changed his mind.
“PJ should be back soon—she’s doing a photo op with a local youth group. But I’m glad to meet you all,” Arvie said. “Have you been to the Speedway before?”
“Miguel was here last year,” Elena said, “but only for one day in the stands, not in the garages. This year, I insisted, even though PJ won’t like it.”
Arvie raised his eyebrows. “How can she not want your support?”
“Too independent,” Miguel grunted. He was a tall man, wearing jeans, a well-tailored navy blazer, and loafers with no socks.
Elena grimaced. “My daughter says we make her more nervous if we’re here than if we’re at home. But I can’t miss her racing in the Indianapolis 500.”
Arvie raised a cautionary hand. “It’s not set in stone yet. We still have to qualify, and at least four cars won’t make the field.”
“About that.” Miguel rubbed his hands together. “How do we guarantee it? More funds for better parts? Tell me, and we will make it happen. PJ must make the race.”
Yessir, deep pockets, thought Arvie. “We have all the parts we need, and they’re the best available. What we need is something money can’t buy.”
“Try me.” Miguel raised an eyebrow.
His wife swatted his shoulder. “You can’t solve everything for her.”
“I can try.”
Arvie smiled, liking them both. “What we need most is for the driver and team to have more time and experience together. They’re starting to work together well—to bond. But sometimes it can be a slow process. It takes the time it takes.”
Elena patted her husband’s arm. “She wouldn’t thank you for fixing it for her. She wants to do it hersel
f. Win her own battles.”
Tony had moved near enough to hear some of the conversation, and he laughed. “But el jefe must fix everything.” He patted his father on the shoulder. “Let her succeed or fail on her own, Pops.”
Arvie saw the look of frustration Miguel aimed at his son.
A classic overprotective father? Don’t get involved. If curiosity doesn’t kill the cat, it might take away its race funding.
PJ’s father turned back to Arvie. “Is there nothing that can be done to help PJ? You said more time? I can pay overtime fees, no problem.”
“That’s covered, should it be necessary.” Arvie shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s up to PJ and the team now.”
Miguel frowned. “I do not like to feel helpless.”
“I understand.” Arvie caught sight of PJ walking down the row of garages. “Here she is now.”
Miguel and Elena stepped outside the garage in time to see two men get in PJ’s way. When she stepped to the side, they blocked her. She stepped the other direction, and they blocked her again.
Elena put a hand on Miguel’s arm. “Let her handle it,” she said quietly.
Arvie wasn’t sure that was a good idea, but he stayed put for the moment also.
PJ stood still, no expression on her face. Arvie and PJ’s family couldn’t hear what the men said, until one of them shouted, “We asked a question! If you’re going to be a bitch about it, we’ll treat you like one.”
The other man mimed bending her over and pumped his hips back and forth.
Miguel moved before Elena could stop him. He reached the men in four long strides, spun the speaker around, and punched him in the jaw. The other man dropped his beer and started waving his arms and yelling. While PJ shouted at her father in Spanish and held onto his arm to keep him from doing more damage, a portly yellow-shirted security guard arrived at a fast waddle, blowing his whistle to break up the fight.
“Shit.” Arvie stepped forward to talk to the yellow-shirt. “Get him into the garage,” he instructed PJ and watched as she hustled Miguel out of sight.
“What the hell?” The man who’d been hit struggled up from the ground with help from his friend. “It’s a free country. I can say what I want. That dude hit me!”
The yellow-shirt puffed up his chest. “That man can’t leave,” he said, ignoring the fact Miguel was already gone. “Security will need to talk to him. Get him back here!”
The team owner’s job is never done.
Arvie held up his hands and spoke soothingly. “He’s close by, and he’ll be happy to talk with security. However, he is an angry father defending his daughter from rude, offensive remarks.” He glared at the two clearly inebriated idiots. “From crude language no gentleman should use to a lady.”
Arvie was right, that phrasing appealed to the sixty-something yellow-shirt, who turned a baleful eye on the two young offenders. “I see.” He pursed his lips. “Maybe I’ll call security to take you boys in.”
The troublemakers were gone inside of twenty seconds. Arvie turned to the yellow-shirt with a smile. “Thanks, Earl.”
“How much horseshit were you shoveling there, Arvie?”
“None at all, my friend. Sadly, none at all.”
Arvie reentered the garage to find PJ standing with her brother near her car, talking to one of the new, young mechanics, Stan Wright. Her parents stood together by the office area, on the far side of the car. Miguel cast frustrated glances at his daughter.
Arvie went to his driver first. “You okay, kid?”
PJ lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s the same as yesterday or the day before.”
“Are you dealing with it?”
“Dude,” her brother said, “I’m telling you, she’s tough.”
As PJ smiled up at her brother, Arvie saw a lightness on her face that had been missing for weeks. “I think your family should stick around.”
PJ closed up again. “No, I must do this myself.”
“Your father…” Arvie began, but PJ overrode him.
“My father tries to control everything. It is not how I want to live my life.” She glanced at her brother. “Tony understands.”
Tony tore his gaze away from the engine in front of him. “I totally do, Sis. But you know the old man won’t stay away. We’re going up to Chicago for a couple days, but we’ll be back next week.”
PJ clenched her fists. “I must qualify on my own. It must happen because I am good enough, not because my father fixes it.” She paused. “I know they will be here for the race. But qualifying is the battle I will fight. I will get there on my own.”
Arvie nodded. “It’s make or break for all of us to qualify this weekend or next. Do or die.”
Chapter Ten
Present Day
My empathy for PJ grew with every story I heard about her. I knew what it was like to be leered at, groped, and propositioned. To be put down by teams, sponsors, and fans. PJ and I both had families that tried to define us—control us in different ways.
PJ struggled for her own identity with a controlling father, and I had to make my way in the absence of both father and mother. Yet I’ve still got it better than she did…
I was able to shut out the turmoil I felt about PJ when I got in the car, but regardless, our practice session on Wednesday was awful—and my actions only added fuel to the comparisons between me and PJ.
I was slowly getting more comfortable running in dirty air—disrupted airflow from other cars nearby—which was mostly what we’d do in race conditions. We worked on making the car faster, and I worked on how I could follow—if I could hang on through the turbulence with a little front wing underneath or outside the car next to me.
Primarily, dealing with dirty air meant figuring out how to combat push, or understeer, in racing language—the tendency of the car not to respond when you turned the wheel. Many drivers went low on the track, being as aggressive as possible, trying to work with the push and skate through a turn. Other drivers told me if you tried that maneuver in past years and got loose—if the back end lost grip, also known as oversteer—you could more easily catch the car, by lifting off the throttle and chasing it up the track. But with the new configuration of the chassis, not to mention a full fuel load and tires that weren’t totally up to pressure, there wasn’t much hope. Or so I learned the hard way.
Worse, I took someone else with me.
I went low in Turn 2, and the back end snapped. Catch it, catch it! Shit!
The car careened up the track. Catch it!
I couldn’t. Then I bumped someone else. No, no. Shit!
The back end of my car headed for the wall. Fighting, standing on the brake pedal even though I was sliding. Hoping to grab traction. Turning the wheel. Hands off the wheel!
Crunch. Back on the brakes.
Rolling to a stop. Trying to find the breath I’d lost on impact. Seeing the other car nosing into the inner wall down the track, then driving away slowly.
Shit. Don’t let them be wrecked, too.
My heart was in my throat as the safety crew helped me climb out of the car at the exit of Turn 2. I’d screwed up. I owed my team, the other driver, and the other driver’s team big apologies. It looked like only rear wing damage on my car, but I was terrified I was wrong, that the damage would be more severe than I thought. That I might have jeopardized our qualifying efforts. Rationally, I knew we had another full day of practice before the first day of qualifying. But at a minimum, this would be a setback, and the other driver would be furious at me.
Back at the garage, I apologized to my guys and swore it wouldn’t happen again. They were surprisingly calm. As Banjo, the tire guy, put it, “Hell of a lot better now than in the race or even in qualifying.” Thankfully, the other driver was also understanding, once we’d gotten through the initial stiffness of my approach and apology.
I stuck around in the garage that night until my crew kicked me out, promising they wouldn’t need an all-nighter to have the car ready the next day. It took comfort food and a long, hot shower to start dealing with the guilt I felt.
By the next morning, Thursday, I’d pulled myself together. I was ready for a better day ahead. I had a momentary setback when I saw all my social media notifications and started reading posts—apparently the media trolls had picked up on PJ’s family’s murder accusation and were running with it. Reactions ranged from suggestions that I solve the mystery, to saying I already had, to wondering if I’d be the killer’s next victim. I texted Holly, asking her to deal with it, and I turned off notifications.
Then I meditated for a few minutes and started the day over. Fortunately, my first stop involved cake.
My biggest sponsor, Frame Savings and Loan, a national bank, was dishing up anniversary cake as part of a celebration for their Indianapolis headquarters, and they’d started mid-morning to accommodate my practice schedule. There were more activities and speeches happening throughout the day for their celebration, but I’d only be there for an hour, long enough to say a few words about the race, thank them for their support, and pose for about a hundred photos.
Over the past two years of their sponsorship, I’d discovered a real affection for the people who worked for Frame Savings. The unwavering and enthusiastic support by its legions of employees was one of the most unexpected benefits of being Frame Savings’ driver, and the Indianapolis celebration delivered more of the same. I continually marveled that such a solid, caring community had been created by a family I mostly hated—except for my father, his wife, and kids.
Fortunately, in the last two years, I hadn’t had to interact with the Reillys I didn’t like, not since a series of events had rocked the family and the bank’s management structure. One of my cousins had been killed and an uncle was outed as leading a double life, as well as facilitating money-laundering and other shady activities. My father, James Hightower Reilly III, while slow to understand what was happening under his own nose, had figured it out and cleaned house—which meant I didn’t have to dread sponsor appearances like this one.
Kiss the Bricks Page 5
