Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  “PJ had gotten some, and one stood out.”

  Holly picked up her phone. “What were the words he used?”

  “Something about a personal crusade and damaging the race’s reputation.”

  Holly scrolled. “‘I’m making it my personal crusade to ensure you don’t damage the reputation of the race.’”

  “Sounds like it. Why?”

  She glanced from me to Gramps. “Because I was reading from an e-mail you got. I keep them, in case of any problems.”

  “Smart.” Gramps’ forehead was crinkled with concern.

  What the hell? “Is there a name or an address?”

  “The only name is ‘RaceFan4Life.’” She turned back to her phone. “But reading this, I’m not feeling him as a suspect. This is a good old boy who thinks women shouldn’t be driving, and he’s been spouting off about it for thirty or more years.”

  “I’ve met them before.”

  Holly and I called that category of comments the “send women back to the kitchen” group. They weren’t my favorite, but they were easier to ignore than the “I want to have sex with you” category, which I’d started getting more of as I moved to IndyCar and became more known in the racing world.

  “Speaking of spouting off, any reduction in the ‘Kate is PJ’ theme?” I’d left all social media responses up to Holly, so I wouldn’t be distracted or distressed.

  Holly shook her head, but didn’t elaborate.

  “Even though I qualified for the race—for the second year?”

  “Negativity is more pervasive, you know that.”

  I did. I shook off my frustration and studied Holly’s lists. “What are we doing? We should have a plan, but this feels random—considering anyone we can find who was around in eighty-seven, even if we don’t think they could be the killer. Like Arvie. Even Uncle Stan.”

  “For that matter, sugar,” Holly said with a wink, “Gramps.”

  Gramps was startled, then amused. “By all means, investigate my disreputable character.”

  Holly chuckled, then got serious again. “We’re taking a second look. But you’re right, we should talk to everyone we can find who was here then.”

  “It feels haphazard.” I frowned. “How can we possibly figure out who killed PJ—if anyone did? And what if the killer’s also dead by now? It’s been thirty years.”

  Holly made a T with her hands. “Timeout. Do you think PJ committed suicide?”

  I listened to my gut. “No.”

  She nodded. “If we believe that—which I do, too—then all we’re doing is asking questions. Once we have information, we’ll see where it points us.”

  “If it’s to someone who isn’t alive or here?” I asked.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Gramps replied. Then he took my shoulders and pushed me toward my bedroom. “Enough for tonight. My brain is overloaded with information, and I’m not the one who qualified for the biggest race of the year today. Time for some rest.”

  Tomorrow. It’ll all be better tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Before heading to the track the next day, Monday, I had an early-morning activity arranged by my sponsor, Beauté. Along with one of the cosmetics company’s executives, I visited a local cancer research facility to talk with scientists about their work, which was partially funded by grants from the Breast Cancer Research Foundation, Beauté’s charitable partner. Then we went next door to the associated hospital to visit women—and a man this time, too—undergoing treatment for breast cancer. Visits like those made me proud to wear and carry pink on my livery, to honor everyone fighting their individual battles. I handed out dozens of pink checkered-flag plastic bracelets from Beauté and urged everyone to watch the race and cheer me on. I also took lots of photos and signed plenty of autographs.

  Then I made a quick swing back to the apartment to pick up Gramps and head to the track.

  As we got on the highway, he puffed up his chest. “I’ve got an appointment with the Speedway’s historian this afternoon for information about how the team did after PJ. I also called a buddy and got the scoop on the memorabilia guy.”

  “You’re sure it’s the right one?”

  “Definitely. They all have a specialty, and this guy, Dean Herrera, is known for signed goods, especially hard-to-find people from years ago.”

  “He’s still selling? He’ll be at the track’s memorabilia show next weekend?”

  “Better. He’s based here—has a shop in Indy. I’ll go talk with him tomorrow.”

  I frowned. “Holly and I’ll be in Phoenix for Media Day. Make sure you check in with us before and after you go.”

  “Yes, dear.” When I glared at him, he added, “It’s a memorabilia store.”

  “And the guy could have killed someone.”

  He sighed. “Fair point. I’ll text your sidekick. Why Phoenix?”

  “It’s close to home—closer to Albuquerque than other cities drivers are going to. And it’s a good market for IndyCar, now we’re back there with the spring race.”

  Every year, usually on the Tuesday after qualifying, IndyCar sent the full field of thirty-three drivers to different prime markets around the country for a promotional tour. All of us making news that day meant an Indy 500 media blitz, and the days could be fun, if long. Holly had done extra work to fill my schedule, so she was going with me.

  Gramps’ phone chimed, and he swiveled his glasses to his forehead to peer at it. “Holly’s texting.” He paused as another chime sounded. “She got details on PJ’s sponsors—boy, she’s good at this!” I laughed as he kept reading. “PJ’s personal sponsors were a Mexican trade conglomerate. The name doesn’t matter because they lost money on the deal with PJ, went away, and never had anything to do with racing again.”

  “Sounds like a dead end.”

  “But the other sponsors on her car…that’s interesting. I had no idea that’s where they started.” He went silent.

  “Gramps.”

  “Sorry.” He glanced at me, sheepish and a little cross-eyed without his glasses. “The sponsor on the car was the Standish-Conroy Group—that’s the Standish Hotel chain and Conroy Spas and products. They started out back in PJ’s day, and her car was the first they’d ever backed in racing.”

  “They’ve been a sponsor for ages, haven’t they?” I tried to remember the little IndyCar history I knew. “We’re visiting their resort in Phoenix tomorrow.”

  “PJ’s car was the beginning. They stuck with Arvin Racing that year, and the marketing went so well for them, they stepped up to sponsoring the series—what became the Indy Racing League when the series split. Standish has been ‘The Official Hotel of IndyCar’ for decades, and they’ve made a point to open hotels near all the tracks IndyCar regularly goes to. They’re an integral part of the series.”

  “Did PJ’s death help them?” I slowed to show my credential to the security guard at the entrance to IMS.

  “They got a huge boost in publicity, attention, and sympathy over her death,” Gramps said. “Holly says they reference PJ’s year when asked about the value of association with racing.” He turned back to his phone. “They call it a ‘phoenix rising from the ashes’ situation, where tragedy turned into something positive.”

  “That seems harsh.” I paused. “Nathan Standish and Libby Conroy?”

  Gramps tapped at his phone as I pulled into a parking space. “They’re still listed as running the companies.”

  “Someone mentioned them—sponsors who’d come on in a big way for PJ. And for themselves, clearly.”

  “You can’t be mad at people for making lemonade out of lemons, Katie.”

  I turned off the car. “Only if they created the lemons in the first place.”

  Alexa had called a full team meeting for ten-thirty that morning, well before the scheduled tw
elve-thirty start time for practice. After Monday, we’d have no more on-track activity until Carb Day, Friday, when we’d get only an hour’s practice to make final adjustments. After that, we wouldn’t set tire to pavement again until Sunday’s race.

  Of course, no on-track activity didn’t mean the team wouldn’t be at the Speedway. I’d be in Phoenix on Tuesday and fulfilling sponsor obligations on Wednesday, but some of the team would be here. We’d reconvene Thursday to talk through plans and strategy—or meticulously work through the car doing final checks, depending on the team member’s role.

  After the meeting I had time before I needed to be suited up and ready for an interview with a local television show, so I headed for the tire shop, permanently located in Gasoline Alley along the main corridor leading to the track.

  The single tire supplier for the whole series occupied four or five spaces of the low, squat garage building. I walked past the stacks of tires on display and approached a tall, heavily muscled man in his thirties wearing the tire company shirt and smoking a cigarette in an open garage doorway.

  “Help you?” he asked, on an exhale. The nametag on his shirt said Bubba.

  “I’m looking for Donny. Is he around?”

  “Got a couple Dons.” He took a drag. “Last name?”

  “I’m not sure. A friend of mine said he’d be able to tell me about what Indy was like twenty or thirty years ago.”

  “That Don. Hang on.” Bubba set his burning cigarette on the edge of a stack of tires and disappeared inside.

  While I waited, a young man approached me, a big grin on his face. I saw the Budweiser baseball hat, work boots, and cigarettes in the pocket of his loosely buttoned plaid flannel shirt and braced myself for a PJ reference.

  He stuck out a hand. “I think it’s awesome you’re out there slugging it out with the guys on the track. I just had a baby girl last month, and I want her to know no one can put limits on what she wants to do in life. Thanks for being that example.”

  As I reminded myself never to judge by appearances, Bubba the tire guy returned with a tall, rangy man, then scooped up his cigarette and wandered down Gasoline Alley.

  Donny’s slowly graying light brown hair was the only indication of his age. He had a baby face—open, innocent, and curiously unlined.

  I introduced myself and told him I wanted to know about PJ.

  He smiled. “I wondered if anyone would get around to me.”

  “Everyone keeps comparing us, so I’m curious about her. What she was really like. How she felt about things.”

  “Why she killed herself.”

  “It’s the biggest question for me,” I admitted. “Did you think she was the type?”

  “Not at all.” He shook his head. “It was so hard to believe—still is. You drivers are half crazy, you know.”

  I grinned. “Have to be.”

  “She was as focused and nuts about driving as anyone.” He paused. “I’ve always wondered if she actually did it. The girl I knew—woman, sorry—wouldn’t have given up. I mean, would you?”

  I shook my head. “But we’re different people.”

  “You’ve still had to deal with crap for being a woman in this world—men calling you names and saying filthy things about you, right? And you don’t give up.”

  I studied him. “You liked her.”

  “I did.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and met my eyes, smiling. “I had a crush on her. She had to deal with so much—threats, hateful talk, groping. I did everything I could to protect her—even from her own crew. Through it all, she kept her head up. Kept trying to drive that damn car. I knew it hurt her, but she kept going. She taught me something about courage.”

  It was the best epitaph I’d heard yet. “If she didn’t kill herself, what happened? You must have thought about it over the years.”

  “I did. Never thought anyone would believe me, or I’d have said something.”

  “Her family agrees with you.”

  “Good to know. And you’re investigating?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  When I flinched, Donny the tire guy laughed.

  “Let’s say I’m asking questions for PJ’s parents,” I said. “Who do you think did it?”

  “I’ve read a lot of true-crime over the years. Thought about PJ a lot.” He shook his head, eyes on mine. “When it happened, I thought it was someone who hated her. A crime of passion. But now?”

  A cold dish of revenge, Gramps said.

  “Do you still think it was a heat-of-the-moment crime, or could it have been coldly planned for revenge or long-term advantage?”

  “I’ve gotten older and learned more. Now I think it was about convenience and personal gain. It was easier or better to have someone else in her place. PJ gone meant something else improved for them.”

  I was impressed with his analysis. “Who?”

  “If it was someone who hated her, I’d talk to a couple crew from Bill James’ team that are still around. They were the worst then.” He eyed me. “Still are.”

  “Let me guess. One of them is Jimmy?”

  Donny’s face hardened. “Asshole. I wouldn’t put it past him to have screwed up the car.”

  “Someone else suggested sabotage.” I wondered why I wasn’t more shocked at the idea. “Would he have actually messed with the team’s livelihood?”

  “If he knew PJ wouldn’t make it to the race anyway?” He shrugged. “I wasn’t a mechanic. I don’t know who did what. I’m throwing ideas around.”

  Something to ask Uncle Stan about. “What if the motive was personal gain?”

  “Two people who made their names from PJ’s death were Kevin Hagan and Dean Herrera.”

  “The reporter and the memorabilia guy?”

  Donny nodded. “Hagan was a ghoul, creeping around here after PJ’s death, asking questions. He got national exposure for the series of articles he wrote, but they were muckraking—digging up everything bad people said or thought about PJ and portraying her as a weak, cowardly female who couldn’t handle the pressure.”

  “That’s how suicide would seem to people. Not that I agree with him.”

  “It was awfully convenient for him to ride her death to big success.”

  “And Herrera?” I prompted.

  “Also nothing I could prove. He was a young guy then, starting out in the business, hanging around the track a lot, buying goods and getting drivers to sign them. But he bought up as much PJ merchandise as he could the minute we got word of her death. Sold some immediately, then held onto the rest of it—hoarded it. When the talk started about her this year, because of you, he’s the one with all the stock.” He paused, frowned. “There’s no way it could all be signed by her either.”

  “I heard he specializes in signed goods. Couldn’t he have gotten her signature?”

  “I was around PJ a lot. I never saw anyone approach her with the volume of stuff he’s got for sale. Hell, the cumulative amount of tee-shirts and ticket stubs and programs she signed for everyone during those weeks wasn’t near the amount of ‘signed’ goods he’s got now.”

  “They’re forgeries? What would be the point?”

  “A few bucks on every item. Multiply that by dozens of items and hundreds of drivers and it could be a good business. I’m sure it all started with PJ.”

  I was still thinking about Donny’s accusations an hour later as I strapped into the car. Then I hit myself on the helmet.

  You’re about to go more than 220 mph, idiot. Focus on the car.

  The day’s four-hour practice session was a chance for us to get used to a number of changes. For one, our cars were all returned to pre-qualifying horsepower levels, so we’d tune the exact setup we’d use for the next weekend’s race. Specifically, we’d focus on “tow speeds,” or how fast we could go in the aero draft of another car, since that’s
how most of our race-running would be done.

  Another change was our final pit boxes. We’d started the previous week in temporary spaces by team, then for the qualifying weekend, we’d moved to abbreviated spaces that made room for qualifying activities near pit exit. Once we’d qualified, teams chose their pit spaces based on qualifying order, and we moved to them the next day. For all of us, a big part of practice today was about finding our new pit locations.

  We’d also practice hot pit stops for the first time—doing them at speed during the practice session—and we’d all enter the pits directly out of Turn 4 to maximize time at speed on the track, instead of taking the warm-up lane from the back stretch, as we’d done the other days. I knew I had at least one instance of heavy tire lockup in my future, before I got the timing right.

  When we started the practice session, the car felt marginal—twitchy and unstable. So we worked on it. And worked on it. Kept working, fuel load by fuel load. A couple hours in, I felt we were on the right path, though I wanted more time than I knew we’d have. I focused on getting more comfortable with turbulent air due to other cars around me and with managing the car throughout the fuel run—from different weight balance due to diminishing fuel, to changes in tire wear affecting handling. At least I was significantly improved from the year before.

  That had been my first time at the Indy 500, and only my second race on a high-speed oval. From my other racing experience, I understood and could handle dirty air from a car in front of me—it was the air coming from the side that threw me. It took conscious effort to be aware of cars moving up to the right or left, to think through how my car might react to the change in airflow, and to be ready to react. I spent the entire race that year hyper-aware of my position and focused on airflow, unable to really relax into the feel of the car and move with it organically. I’d done fine in the race, especially for my first effort, finishing seventeenth mostly due to luck in avoiding trouble.

  But since I’d run a couple more ovals that year and the full IndyCar season this year, I was finally thinking less and reacting instinctively more. I was still hyper-aware, but I felt more a part of the machine I sat in—not that I was always in tune with the car. But I was getting there—and the speed charts at the end of the day proved it. I’d managed eighteenth, my qualifying position, on the no-tow list, but I was up to eleventh on the tow list. That was enough to give my crew a boost as we headed into three days of no running, especially when it turned out I’d been the fastest of Beermeier’s three cars. I heard my guys ribbing the other crews as I walked back to our driver area.