Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  Thank goodness, there’s some personality.

  “Was it an interest before you retired?”

  “I had no time for anything quite so frivolous.” He smiled again, staring straight ahead at the path. “‘Frivolous’ is how I’d have seen it then.”

  “How long have you been retired?” Holly asked, leaning forward from the backseat. “I imagine it must be a difficult transition.”

  He nodded. “Five years, and you’re correct, but the daily grind of business had started to pale. The change of pace has been welcome.” He wheeled the cart around a bend and off the path into a small clearing affording a view of the main building. He described the basic features of the resort: how many rooms and suites, how many meeting rooms for other functions, the spa facilities, the restaurants and bar spaces, and all other amenities on offer.

  I was impressed. “When traveling for races, our teams operate with less of a budget. But I’ll make sure to stay with you when I’m making my own choices.”

  “With your visit today, we’re establishing you as a VIP member of the Standish family of properties, which will give you pricing discounts and benefits. You won’t have any barriers to representing us with firsthand experience.”

  That kind of quid pro quo happened all the time, and I welcomed it. The hotel—or sports apparel company or nutritional supplement maker—gave me extreme discounts or freebies, and in return, I talked about them on social media, in interviews, or in person. I didn’t mind, so long as the products were good enough that I’d endorse them anyway. The Standish resorts certainly qualified. “I’ll be delighted to spread the word about the Standish brand.”

  He wagged a finger. “And the Conroy brand. We’ll be sending you home with certificates for spa services, so you can experience those and speak knowledgeably about them, as well.” He glanced back at Holly. “Enough for the two of you, since we want your PR person on board, as well.”

  “Why, thank you for the thought, sugar,” Holly flashed a blinding grin that Nathan couldn’t see. “I’ve drooled over the Conroy Spa in Indianapolis for some time now, but never made it in.”

  “You’re welcome. For our part, we’re glad to have another female driver in the series—we expect you’ll be more willing to talk about our spa services than most of the men.” He waved a hand. “Plenty of wives have been involved, but they don’t have the reach or clout of a driver.”

  “There have been women in IndyCar for a long time. They weren’t interested?” I asked.

  “Some were, and we had good relationships with them. But for a lot of years, the women have been mostly foreign-born and haven’t had much following here in the United States, where we have our properties.” Nathan pulled to a stop next to the golf course, between the green of one hole and the tee of another. He shifted in his seat to face me. “You’re the all-American female driver, Kate. As such, we want you positively disposed to our brand. I don’t say ‘representing,’ as we’re not offering a true sponsorship opportunity. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I’m happy to work with Standish-Conroy in that framework.” I paused, my mind busy. “In fact, I commend you for being open to the idea of working with female drivers. You’ve done that since the beginning of your association with IndyCar, going back thirty years now, correct?”

  “Starting with the unfortunate PJ Rodriguez. I wondered how long it would take for you to ask about her.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I must have shown the surprise I felt, because Nathan Standish responded. “It’s logical you’d be interested in her, given your similarities—though you’ve found more success. And I presume you won’t come to such a precipitous end.”

  “Guaranteed,” I replied. “Can you tell me anything about her?”

  He paused and stared out across the golf course. “She was reserved. Many called her aloof or accused her of thinking she was too good for everyone else. But I always saw her as shy and insecure. Unsure how to reach out.” He turned to me. “She didn’t have your charisma or your ability to engage people.”

  I appreciated the compliment. “Surely it was more difficult for her then?”

  He let out a long, slow breath. “It was such an interesting time, full of contradictions. On one hand you had the old views about women and racing only changing at a snail’s pace. On the other, it was a great era for racing in the United States and for many of us who chose to partner with it.”

  “Was eighty-seven the first year you were involved?”

  “And nearly the last,” he said.

  That surprised me. “Why?”

  He pursed his lips. “It was the idea that all our efforts rested on a single person—our fortunes would rise and fall with that person, subject to the whims of fate that day.”

  “Or the whims of that individual,” Holly noted.

  “I wasn’t a fan of the uncertainty—not for the brand we were trying to build, at least.” He grinned, looking boyish. “I enjoy gambling as much as anyone—love a trip to the horse races. But I wasn’t ready to go into a weekend not knowing if my fledgling company would come out a winner, a mid-pack journeyman, an also-ran—or worse, an instigator of trouble.”

  I pondered what he’d said. “By sponsoring the whole series you back everyone and you always back the winner.”

  “It wasn’t my first thought,” Nathan replied. “I was ready to get out after PJ’s death and all the chaos that resulted from it.”

  “Isn’t all publicity good publicity?” Holly asked.

  “It can be said,” he admitted. “But I want to get ahead through hard work and honest support, not notoriety.”

  “I can’t blame you,” I said. “You stuck with racing by sponsoring the Series.”

  “We’ve been happy with it as one of our main marketing efforts, along with tennis and golf. It’s been an unusual approach, but it’s worked for us.”

  If his story was true, Nathan didn’t seem like a candidate for PJ’s murder. I glanced at Holly, who shrugged, which meant she thought the same. “I’m still curious what the paddock and the racing world were like in PJ’s day—I keep searching for more information—more context that might help me understand her.”

  Nathan checked the time. “I’d be happy to share my recollections, but we’re in danger of running over your tight schedule today.”

  Dammit. “Will you be in Indianapolis for the race?”

  “I will be—I never miss it, frankly—though the IndyCar series filled my schedule.” He paused, studying my face, and I felt he was seeing through my cover story to the real reason I was asking questions about PJ.

  “I’d be delighted to buy you coffee or a cocktail whenever we both—all,” he said, including Holly, “have free time. But I can also dig up the case study I wrote that year, which might give you some of the insight you’re looking for.”

  “Case study?” I asked.

  He shrugged, the first break in the ramrod-straight posture I’d seen. “I call it that. I was documenting our different marketing efforts, but I also fancied myself a bit of an amateur historian.” He made a self-deprecating face. “It’s also a survey of other business interests, investment, and expansion in the context of the Indy 500 in the late 1980s. As well as any successes and failures. Would that be of interest to you?”

  “It would, thank you,” I managed.

  Are you kidding me?!

  I thought more about Nathan as Holly drove us from the resort to our next stop. “I wouldn’t count him—or his partner, Libby, for that matter—as a suspect for killing PJ. Not if he almost got out of racing.”

  “I wish we could have asked outright who benefitted.”

  “I thought about it, but I couldn’t come up with a good reason for the question. Maybe his notes will be useful.” I looked out the window at roadside cactus. “Did you hear from Gramps?”

  Sh
e nodded. “He’s home from the memorabilia shop where he had a long conversation with Dean Herrera. Plus Gramps bought two signed items of PJ’s and says we might try to get more and compare signatures. Something about research saying if signatures are identical, they’re likely to be fake.”

  I smiled. “Leave it to Gramps.”

  “Did you think about talking with Scott about helping us?”

  Scott Brooklyn was a sports reporter by day and the anonymous, rumormongering racing blogger Racing’s Ringer by night. Much as he annoyed me, I knew, at heart, he wasn’t totally evil. “It’s a good idea. Since he lives in Indianapolis, let’s make him buy something PJ may or may not have signed from Herrera’s store.”

  “Should we also ask him for background on Gaffey Insurance?”

  “And the reporter and the sports psychologist. If I’m calling in a favor, let’s cover all the bases. I’ll e-mail when we get to the airport tonight.”

  We made it to Phoenix International Raceway right on time for our next appointment and had fun “racing” golf carts around the track with PIR’s president and some of their senior staff. We hammed it up for the cameras that followed us—and preceded us and rolled along side-by-side, reporters hanging out of track vans and trucks to get their shots. After that stop, we went back toward downtown to the local television station for a more interesting interview than normal, due to our pre-taped segments from the go-kart track.

  Finally, Holly and I returned to the airport in time to grab a sandwich and hop a seven o’clock flight home. Thanks to onboard WiFi, I spent the three-plus hours of flight time catching up on details for the next two days of activity, responding to media outlets who’d requested comments or quotes, and e-mailing Scott Brooklyn. With the time change, we landed after one in the morning, exhausted.

  My “day off” the next day, Wednesday, was theoretical. I wasn’t going to the track, but I had a full slate of errands, chores, and visits to the local community lined up for the afternoon. It was also the last day to get a workout in before the race, so despite a lack of sleep, I got myself up early enough to hit the gym. When I returned to the apartment, I found Holly and Gramps at the dining table examining old marketing materials with a magnifying glass.

  I poured a cup of coffee and sat down next to a signed ticket stub, milk bottle, and pair of gloves—then realized the latter were familiar.

  “Gramps, you bought my signed gloves?” I didn’t understand why he’d pay money for something I’d give him any time he wanted. I sipped my coffee, hoping the caffeine would bring more clarity.

  “They weren’t expensive, and I don’t have anything from your Star Mazda days. Plus it helped my cover.”

  I picked up the milk bottle, which was signed by AJ Foyt, one of only three four-time winners of the Indy 500. The ticket was for 1967 and signed by Dan Gurney.

  “You went all out. What do you have from PJ?”

  “A ticket from eighty-six and a program from eighty-seven.” He swiveled them around on the table to show me.

  Holly’s phone rang, and she went into the living room to take the call.

  I raised an eyebrow at Gramps. “Where’d you get the lens, Sherlock?”

  He laughed and held the magnifying glass up to his eye, making it look enormous. “Office store. I’ve been doing online research—amazing what you can find these days—so I thought I’d try my hand at detecting.”

  I got up to refill my coffee. “Did you come up with anything?”

  “I think both of PJ’s items are forged—poorly, if I can catch them.” He leaned over the ticket with the magnifying glass. “You can see pencil lines underneath the ink, one of the main methods forgers use. They trace it in pencil, then go over it with ink.”

  “Do we need other people to buy more PJ signatures to compare?”

  “It’s probably a good idea.”

  “Then the question is, if Herrera’s a minor crook, does that also mean he’s a murderer? Did you get more information from him?”

  “All I managed to ask was how long he’d been in business—thirty-two years at that location. There wasn’t a good opening to ask him more.”

  “We’ll see if we can figure it out another way.”

  My phone buzzed in my hand and distracted me from Gramps’ study of signatures. Lyla Thomas had e-mailed me a scan of an old article.

  “Thought you might be interested in this,” she wrote. “It was an interview I did with PJ in May of ’87 that isn’t online. It may give you a different perspective on her.”

  I opened the attachment to find a photo I hadn’t seen before. PJ stood on her racecar—one from a lower-level open-wheel series—in victory lane, her arms in the air, fists pumping, and face suffused with triumph. I was transfixed by the vision of her in her element, decidedly not looking weak and pathetic.

  Lyla’s interview with PJ was brief, one of the typical “Getting to Know Driver X” variety, though Lyla had infused it with more style and less “what’s it like being a woman.” She covered basics like PJ’s racing background, but she also dug deeper.

  Lyla Thomas: Do you have any pre-race rituals? Any superstitions?

  PJ Rodriguez: I take a moment just before I put my helmet on to look down the track and breathe it in. I also pull out my St. Christopher medal—that’s the patron saint of travelers, athletes, and drivers—and kiss it for luck.

  LT: What does it mean to you to be here at the Indy 500?

  PJ: Everything. It’s been my dream since I strapped into a go-kart. I used to watch men compete and read about the history of the race. I didn’t care women hadn’t been here until eight years ago—I wanted to be part of it. Now I am.

  LT: Why do you race?

  PJ: I have to. It’s where I feel the most like myself. Where I feel in control. Where I feel free. It’s not only about the winning—though I like that very much! But there’s something magical that happens when I’m on the track and in tune with my car. I’m alive out there.

  I knew how PJ felt. I studied her photo again and again experienced the joy of her moment. I knew that feeling. I’d felt it.

  That’s how she should be remembered. That’s why we’re trying to find out what happened to her.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  When he responded to my e-mail, Racing’s Ringer, aka Scott Brooklyn, suggested we meet for coffee that morning. Holly spent the hour before we left scowling at the mirror in our foyer.

  “I’m working on my badass expressions,” she told me, and I hid my grin.

  As I drove us to the coffee shop, we prepared our talking points and requests as if readying for war, which wasn’t far off the truth, given prior interactions. Scott was a smart guy and a talented writer—and even more skilled at digging up facts and rumors in the racing world, in part because he promised sources anonymity. I couldn’t let anything drop that I wasn’t ready to talk about.

  “Will you keep it from him that you’re looking into PJ’s death?” Holly asked, as we got out of the car.

  “No chance. But I want his guarantee he won’t post anything until we’re ready.”

  “I’ve got your back.” She nodded toward the door, where Scott stood waiting. “Game faces on.”

  In recent years, Scott Brooklyn had stopped chasing full-time funding and full-season seats in racecars—choosing instead to compete once or twice a year in the longer endurance races like the 24 Hours of Daytona or Le Mans. As he’d given up his driving dreams, his broadcasting career had picked up, and he now worked the pits for major networks at IndyCar races and the occasional NASCAR race. For a guy in his mid- to late-thirties, that was a good career trajectory. Of course, what the official biographers didn’t report—or know—was his sideline as the hottest racing blogger of the past decade. I had to give him grudging credit for remaining anonymous, even if I didn’t always approve of what he posted.

 
I studied him as we approached and decided he was more settled and comfortable with himself than in years past. He’d always been handsome, with a killer smile and a way of looking at you with total absorption that drew you in. He had the beginnings of laugh lines and gray hair mingling with dark blond at his temples, which actually improved his looks. Compared to when I’d first met him, three and a half years ago—after a mutual friend was hauled away for killing two people—he looked great.

  “Ladies.” He took our hands and pulled each of us close for a kiss on the cheek. “It’s good to see you both.”

  Really? “Good to see you, too.”

  Scott laughed and held the door open. “I promise not to bite, Kate. Unless you want me to.”

  Flirting? I snapped my head around to Scott, and he winked at me.

  “Sugar,” Holly drawled, “you can’t blame us for being gun-shy.”

  “I bear you no ill will today.” He sobered. “Never have done, honestly.”

  I remembered, vividly, the attacks on me and my abilities his site had gleefully posted all those years ago. “Even at the beginning?”

  He shrugged. “It was never personal. It was what was being said. I lose credibility if I don’t report what people are saying.”

  “Convenient,” Holly muttered and walked to the end of the line to order drinks.

  Once we’d picked up our caffeine of choice—lattes for me and Scott and a mocha for Holly—we found a table and sat down.

  Scott raised his cardboard cup. “A toast? I pledge I mean you no harm and I’ll support you as far as I am able to, given the constraints of my site.”

  I put my hand on my cup, but didn’t pick it up yet. “Your blog won’t attack me?”

  “I can’t promise that—I’m being honest,” he added, as he saw my expression. “It wouldn’t look right if I praised you and never covered anything negative. But if you stay out of trouble—or murder cases—the negative stuff won’t come up. Kudos for keeping your nose clean the last couple years, by the way.” He glanced from me to Holly. “Do we have an agreement? A truce? Friends?”