Libby agreed with enthusiasm. Although PJ would have preferred to talk engines with the men, she knew her role in keeping sponsors happy, and she dutifully followed the two women out of the garage.
Chapter Sixteen
Present Day
She couldn’t have killed herself. She wouldn’t have.
Those words played on repeat in my head—interspersed with worry over qualifying the next day and anger over the documents Gramps had brought me—as I drove Gramps home that evening.
You’d better figure out what happened, before the social media trolls ruin your reputation with hers.
I realized Gramps’ non-stop chatter had stopped. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“A whole lot, but you didn’t hear it.” He patted my shoulder. “What are you worrying about?”
“Qualifying. PJ and her family.”
“You didn’t tell me about meeting them.”
“Only her mother and brother. Her father died some years ago.”
He nodded. “I remember him. Big guy—height, bone, and brawn. But shrewd. They said he was a drug dealer.”
“Really?”
“That was the scuttlebutt—where he came from, all the money. Lots of cocaine and marijuana going back and forth in those days. Literal tons of it. Some floating through the racing world.”
“I’d heard rumors.” I pulled into the apartment complex. “It always seemed far away.”
I could see Gramps smile as he unfastened his belts. “Not far away. All over the paddock—even at the Indy 500.”
I stopped him with a hand on his arm. “People in the paddock were using?”
“I’m reassured you’re still such an idealist,” he said, smiling. “I never saw too many. Mostly crew. But there were never busts for use in the paddock.”
I finally responded as we sat at my dining table eating grilled chicken and steamed vegetables—plus pasta for Gramps, the one of us not in training and on a strict diet. “If people weren’t using drugs much, how were they all over the paddock?”
“Some team owners smuggled drugs to fund their racing.”
“That never works.” I stared at him in shock.
Gramps laughed. “Hindsight is on your side. It worked for some of them for a lot of years. Probably worked for plenty we never found out about. But some went to jail. Like Arvie, PJ’s team owner.”
I inhaled sharply while trying to swallow and gasped for breath. Gramps whacked me on the back until I held up a hand to stop him. “Arvie? You mean Ron, the guy who’s been around the team for the past couple weeks?”
Gramps nodded. “He’s Alexa’s father, and he got out of jail in the last year. Look him up on the Google.” He scooped up another bite of noodles and saw my stunned expression. “How did you not know this stuff, Katie?”
“Because I didn’t think to research drug-running in open-wheel racing. Why would I?” I shook my head. “My team owner Alexa’s father? Smuggled drugs? Alexa has a different last name—so does her mother, Diane. Really, Ron? Why is it a secret?” I knew the answer to my question. “So there’s no scandal around Alexa.”
Gramps nodded. “She’s worked hard to stay squeaky clean. People respect her.”
“I can’t believe the press hasn’t jumped on this.”
“There’s plenty the media knows but doesn’t report, for one reason or another—sometimes juicy stuff,” Gramps said.
I tried to refocus. “Was there proof PJ’s father was a drug dealer?”
“Only coincidence, like PJ being associated with Arvie, who was busted for transporting the junk a couple years later.”
As I got ready for bed I realized Lyla Thomas had known the rumor about PJ’s father—that’s what she’d meant during the press conference when she called him a “powerful businessman.” Lyla and I had spoken again that evening, before I left the track, and I thought back to that conversation, wondering what else I’d missed.
She’d shown up at my garage well after practice was over, and I’d answered her questions about how we’d do in the next day’s qualifying run.
At the end, I turned the tables. “Tell me, Lead-Foot, how’d you get the name?”
She’d laughed, flipping her notebook closed and tucking away her pen. “The first time I ran at Sebring, forty years ago, some punk kid asked me how I did it and if I wasn’t scared—mind you, I was basically a punk kid myself. I told him I’d slipped lead weight into my right shoe, to help keep it down on the throttle. The story stuck.”
She surveyed the garage area, then turned back to me. “I was joking.”
“Of course.” I smiled, thinking of all the small things drivers and mechanics had done throughout the years to give them an advantage—real or perceived. I figured it might have been a joke or it might have been true. I’d never know.
But I’d bet she was a firecracker behind the wheel.
“I wanted to ask you more about PJ,” I continued. “Were you surprised when she died? At how she died?”
“That they called it suicide?” I nodded, and she gave me a keen look. “Shocked. I don’t ever expect a driver to take their own life, but especially not her. I’d have to agree with her parents that her death was murder, not suicide. What about you?”
I realized I was about to do what I’d warned Holly and Gramps against—trust someone I didn’t know. “Can I level with you, off the record?”
“Off the record now, first rights if there’s a story someday?”
“Done.” We shook, and I went on. “It starts with media turning me into PJ, because of the first test day coincidence.”
She rolled her eyes. “The real media isn’t doing a smear job on you.”
“Which I appreciate. But some of your lesser relations are.”
“I’ve seen the stories and social media hashtags. Uncreative idiots, parroting the obvious—repeating press releases or random opinions and not getting their butts out of the media center. You can’t get the stories if you’re not out here talking to people!” She stopped herself with a grimace. “Sorry. Soapbox. Back to you and PJ.”
I smiled. “All the comparisons to PJ got me interested in her mental state. You know, I can relate to her in some ways—a woman here for the second year.”
“Except you actually raced the first year. She didn’t.”
“But she had it rougher—people weren’t as receptive to a woman then, right?”
“It wasn’t so bad in sportscars. It was worse here, especially for an outsider.”
“Because she wasn’t white?”
“Being Hispanic or Latina, or whatever the right word is now, might have had something to do with it. But we had drivers from other countries—being a little bit ethnic and speaking Spanish wasn’t the burden you might think.” She paused. “She was an outsider because she was a woman, but also because she hadn’t driven much in the U.S. The racing establishment here hadn’t heard of her. She didn’t know people.”
I considered. “Did she have any support system? Any close friends?”
“Not that I saw. Her family. Her boyfriend, but he was busy with his team. Guys on the team who tried—Jerry, her crew chief, and Donny, the kid who became her unofficial bodyguard.”
“Do you know where they are now?”
“Donny’s working for our tire supplier, over in their Gasoline Alley shop. Jerry died a few years back.”
I studied her, wondering if I could ask the big questions.
She caught the look. “You can trust me, Kate. I won’t share your secrets—especially if I can scoop everyone else later.”
Oddly enough, that reassured me. “Did you know anyone who really hated her?”
“Anyone who might have wanted her dead?”
“Or who benefitted from her death.”
She tapped a finger against her cheek. “Plen
ty of people hated her, but for most of them, it wasn’t personal, it was because she was a stranger and a woman. I’m not sure if they’d have gotten physical.”
“Words are safer and easier.”
“But sometimes more painful.” She gave me another one of her penetrating looks. “As for who benefitted, I have to be honest and say almost all of us did.”
“Us?”
“Everyone got publicity and recognition out of it. The team got more name-recognition, loads of sympathy, and better sponsors. Existing sponsors on the car got free airtime during the race. The race got more exposure. The TV network sold more ads. The racing insurance guy sold more policies. The memorabilia guys sold more photos, signatures, and model cars. The merchandise people sold more tee-shirts. Reporters wrote more articles. Hell, I won an award for an article I wrote. So did other journalists.”
She spread her hands. “We all came out ahead.”
Chapter Seventeen
May 1987
The crew got restless when PJ was half an hour late on Tuesday morning, the second week of practice. Arvie sent Donny back and forth to the driver parking lot and points in between. Diane Wittmeier searched women’s bathrooms and other possible hiding places. They turned up nothing.
PJ’s family arrived close to an hour after PJ was due, and they were immediately concerned. Her father relaxed when he heard PJ had been late on two other occasions, and he sent PJ’s brother to look around. But PJ’s mother knew something was wrong. She sat on a cooler in the corner of the hospitality area, gray-faced, wringing her hands.
The crew kept working on the car as teams around them towed their vehicles, tires, and other supplies out to pit lane. As the day’s practice started, they heard the distant firing of engines, and they stood idle, smoking cigarettes and occasionally shooting dark looks at the car, Arvie, or PJ’s father, Miguel.
Arvie and Miguel stood in the open garage door, talking in low voices. Everyone wore concerned expressions except for Miguel, who looked angry and defiant. The garage phone, in use all morning with calls back and forth to Series officials in the pagoda, rang again right after noon, and a crew member called Arvie over.
The three minutes he was gone changed him. With slow, unwilling steps, Arvie reached PJ’s father, who stood, legs apart and arms crossed, braced for what the world would throw at him. Arvie rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m so sorry. PJ is dead.” He paused. “They’re saying she killed herself.”
PJ’s mother crumpled in on herself, and Miguel’s body shook as if he’d received a blow. “No.”
Arvie shook his head. “Downtown. Fell from the roof of a fifteen-story building. About an hour and a half ago.”
Jerry, PJ’s engineer, approached. “She jumped? Why? We were working things out. How could she do this?”
In a flash, Miguel reached out and grabbed the front of Jerry’s shirt, and pulled him close. “You failed her,” he growled.
The sound of Elena’s sobs reached them, and Miguel released Jerry to go to her.
Arvie put a hand on Jerry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. He’s her father. I shouldn’t have said…”
Arvie shook his head. “We’re all going to bear the weight of this. Shit. What the hell do we do now?” He stared out at Gasoline Alley, and sighed. “Jerry, tell the boys? I’ll try to figure out what we do next.”
“Sure, but…” Jerry paused. “What do I tell them? Will we go on? Find someone else?” He grimaced. “I feel awful—disloyal—saying it.”
“This is a business.” Arvie straightened his shoulders and hitched up his belt. “We have to move on—tomorrow. Tell the boys to close up now. Today is for PJ.”
PJ’s brother, Tony, pounded into the garage, gasping. “Papá? They are saying PJ—I punched someone. Tell me it’s not true!”
Arvie went to where the boy, looking younger than his sixteen years now, stood trembling in front of his parents, who were curled around each other. “Son, I’m sorry. We just got word. Your sister is gone.”
Tony took gasping breaths and wiped tears away from red cheeks. “They’re saying she killed herself. She wouldn’t.” He stared at sullen, downcast crew members. “She wouldn’t!” he shouted.
“Kid, easy.” Arvie put an arm around his shoulder and drew him close. Then he realized what the teen had said. “Where did you hear?”
“Near the pagoda. Yellow-shirts talking. Saying it was all over the media center.”
Arvie swallowed a curse. “Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez, Tony, I’m going to make sure you’re taken care of. Let me make a call.”
While Arvie handled the family, Jerry spoke quietly with the team, explaining what happened and reassuring them they’d still have a job the rest of the month. Crew members drew together in small groups to talk quietly and smoke more cigarettes. They cast furtive glances at PJ’s grieving family.
It wasn’t until Arvie took a golf cart and drove the family away—to a parking lot for their car and ultimately for the morgue in downtown Indianapolis—that the atmosphere changed. Jerry rolled down the doors on the two spaces housing PJ’s car and crew, and the pall lifted. The first trickle of relief filtered through the garage.
An hour later, the first laugh rang out, and Jerry cracked down hard on the offender. “If you can’t be respectful, get the fuck out of here,” he snarled.
Jimmy pulled on his cigarette, the bead glowing red. “There’s the problem. She pulled us apart. No way we’d be a team. I ain’t saying I wanted her dead—God rest her soul—but I ain’t gonna pretend I won’t be happier with someone else, neither.”
“You’re a son of a bitch, Jimmy,” Jerry responded. “And you’ve got a lot to learn. You might think that, but you never say it. You play the goddamn game and pretend when you don’t feel it. Now get out of here. I don’t want to look at you today.”
Jerry scanned the garage. “If anyone else can’t be civil about our driver—our late driver, who wanted nothing more than a chance with this track and team—then get out. Be here tomorrow, but get out of my sight now.”
Responses ranged from sneers on the faces of men who left to nods of support and respect on others. Then Jerry saw someone who didn’t belong, and he stormed across the garage to loom over a small woman in her thirties. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“My job, Jerry,” Lyla Thomas said quietly. “I’m looking for basic facts. I don’t want to credit the rumors swirling around out there.”
“You can’t print anything these jackasses are saying.”
She could tell he was angry and panicked, and she shook her head. “Don’t want to. I’m not about salacious response or gossip-mongering. I want the facts.”
Jerry relaxed a little, his big shoulders slumping. “How’d you get in here, anyway?” Reporters had been knocking at the closed garage door incessantly, and they’d set up cordons at the other team doors to keep people out, as well as dividers to separate PJ’s team space from the others.
“Sweet-talked my way past someone. Won’t tell you who, doesn’t matter. I won’t screw you or PJ.”
Jerry nodded. “All right.” He fed her the basics of learning the news, Arvie taking the family downtown, and PJ’s mental state the last few days. Lyla asked what would happen to the team, and he hesitated.
“I won’t make you sound heartless.”
He grimaced. “We’ll go on. Got sponsors who’ve paid money to be in the race and a crew that needs to feed their families. But I have no idea who or when or how. Arvie will figure that out, starting tomorrow. As he said, today is for PJ.”
“Fair enough. Use your name?”
“An official with the team.”
“Copy that.” She closed her notebook. “Off the record? The crew doesn’t seem too broken up.”
“Really off the record?” He sounded skeptical.
&
nbsp; “I don’t want to write about this. I want to know as someone who’s been there, sort of. Though sportscars aren’t as chauvinist as this joint, let me tell you.” Color flamed on her ruddy cheeks as she faced him, annoyed now.
Jerry pulled up a chair and offered it to her, then sat down gratefully when she declined. He leaned forward, elbows to knees. “It wasn’t easy. She wasn’t easy—or maybe the crew wasn’t. Maybe both. But she wasn’t someone to bring us all together. Too brash, abrasive, arrogant for that.”
Lyla’s smile was sad. “Maybe she had to be to get this far.”
“Thing is, I don’t think she was that person underneath. I saw her hurt, scared, unsure sometimes, but only when she was alone—or thought she was. It’s like she had to put on armor to deal with the rest of the world.”
Lyla patted his shoulder. “Most of us do.”
Chapter Eighteen
Present Day
I was a mess as we drove to the track for the first day of qualifying, eight days before the race—tired from another night of poor sleep and emotionally hungover from the dual whammy of PJ’s death and the envelope from my grandfather. I’d spent another restless night eyeing the envelope on my desk and coming up with wild ideas about its contents—I wasn’t really my father’s daughter, I was adopted, I had somehow killed my mother, or someone else had killed her—before I’d taken the envelope and stashed it behind the canned goods in a kitchen cabinet.
You have to be on your game today, Kate! You can’t let the drama affect you!
My breaths were shallow, and my heart rate was high. I swore at myself, then focused on slow, deep breathing. Focused on calm.
This is no worse than getting in a car jetlagged because you’ve flown halfway around the world to race. Suck it up. You’re a professional, so focus. Nothing gets in the car with you.
Practice that Saturday started at eight, so Gramps and I arrived around sunrise, coffee in hand. We walked through Gasoline Alley together, and split up at my garage.
Kiss the Bricks Page 9
