Ryan and I leaned forward at the same time, but I beat him to the punch. “Gramps, Ron was killed. Don’t show up the next day asking why someone did it.”
I glanced at Ryan, who nodded, but didn’t speak.
“Do I look like a complete buffoon? On second thought, don’t answer that,” Gramps said. “Ron had become a team mascot, sitting on his stool in the corner of the garage. Some guys even had him touch parts before they bolted them down—you know how superstitious racing folks are.”
Holly and I nodded. Superstition was rampant in the garages, though I didn’t particularly subscribe myself.
Gramps went on. “I’m suggesting I take over Ron’s stool. I’ll make it a tribute to him, and get the guys talking about him, to help the sadness of losing him. I should be able to worm around to who showed up to talk to Ron and what they talked about. Won’t that be safe enough, nervous Nellies?”
Ryan nodded. “Don’t get complacent. Remember a killer could be anyone, big or small, young or old, male or female. The second you feel uncomfortable—get out of there. Don’t second-guess yourself—go to the bathroom or take a call. Go somewhere and contact me. Keep your cell phone on you at all times.”
As the conversation continued, I excused myself for a thirty-minute call with an Albuquerque radio station. When I returned, I found everyone poring over the different memorabilia items purchased from the sketchy dealer, Dean Herrera.
I got myself more coffee. “Ryan, did you ever work on a forgery case?”
“I worked on a couple that got turned over to the forgery investigators.” He pulled one of the ticket stubs closer and examined it with the magnifying glass. “There might be something here.”
Gramps went pink, and I grinned. “Not to burst your bubble, Gramps, but isn’t this small potatoes? Would the FBI care?”
Ryan turned to me, bemused. “We care about them all, Kate.”
“Sorry.”
He laughed. “He’s selling online, which makes it Internet fraud.”
“Forgery doesn’t have a damn thing to do with murder, though.” Gramps stood up and stretched his back.
Ryan sat back in his chair. “I’ve come across it as a basis for murder before—to protect the business. But given you said Herrera bought PJ’s goods after she died, I’m not sure it makes sense.”
The others kept talking, but I was distracted by an e-mail that arrived. “The Ringer sent details.” I pulled the information up on my laptop and set it in front of the others.
Ryan read the first name from the e-mail. “Kevin Hagan, reporter.”
“The Ringer doesn’t have much more on him than he told us,” Holly mused.
“Except for occasional allegations throughout his career of skirting too close to the line of stealing a story or becoming it,” I added.
Gramps cocked his head. “What does that mean, ‘becoming the story’?”
“Journalists are supposed to be objective,” Holly explained. “To report the facts. But if they’re personally involved, they skew the story—or worse, they manufacture the story—and can’t present an unbiased perspective. It’s editorial, not reporting, yet he’s praised as the last, great motorsports beat reporter.”
“Was he there last night?” Ryan asked.
“I don’t think I’d recognize him,” I replied.
Holly nodded. “I think he was, but I can also ask the team who was checked off the guest list.”
“That’d be useful to know in general,” Ryan said.
“Handled.” Holly pointed to the next name. “Chuck Gaffey, Gaffey Insurance.”
I scanned the same details on my phone as I paced nearby. “The same as the Ringer told us in person, a rocky start the first few years, including a rumor of mishandled funds, but well established and considered the pioneer and gold-standard by the nineties. One new product introduced the year before PJ. Business interruption insurance for racing?”
“I’d heard of it, but didn’t realize it’d been around for so long.” Holly tapped her cheek. “That must have been the payout to Arvin Racing we’ve heard about. But it benefitted Ron, not the insurance company…”
She kept talking, but I didn’t hear her. I couldn’t hear anything over the roar of blood in my ears. I stood, frozen, until Holly took my phone and read the next e-mail I’d received from the Ringer. I hoped the message would be different the second time. It wasn’t.
“‘Kate, in the spirit of friendship,’” Holly read, “‘I’m coming to you first before posting this anonymous tip I received. A credible source tells me you’re desperately seeking the help of professional counselors before the race this weekend, because the stress of the spotlight is making you crack up and causing those around you to fear for your mental state. Since I didn’t see anything shaky about your psyche when we met yesterday, I thought it only fair to ask for comment. Any rebuttal?’”
I clenched my fists. “That son of a bitch Tom Barclay.”
“Wow,” Holly said. “Just wow. What the hell?”
Ryan frowned. “Who’s Tom Barclay and how do you know he’s the source?”
I waved a hand at Holly to explain, stormed to the couch, and kicked it.
“Not with your throttle foot,” Gramps yelled.
Holly sounded bitter. “Tom Barclay is on our list. He’s a sports psychologist who claims PJ’s death as the start of his career—he says it was the inspiration, the spark for his career. I met with him yesterday to get background on his services. My excuse was Kate might be interested in working with his team again—she worked with them years ago, so we didn’t think it’d be a big deal.”
“Not your fault, Holly. We trusted his professional ethics,” I bit out.
I don’t need this added stress three days before the race.
I took a deep breath.
Then don’t allow it to stress you out.
After another minute of focused breathing, I calmed down.
“First, let me reply to the Ringer.” I paused. “How about this? Tell him I’m laughing off the suggestion. I was happy to work with a trusted sports psychologist a decade ago, but I’ve been fortunate throughout my career to have a strong support system that helps me stay strong enough mentally and physically to meet the challenges of the racing world. As big as the Indy 500 is, and while I’m more excited for it than other races on the schedule this year, when the helmet goes on, it’s any other day at the racetrack. But I appreciate everyone’s concern and support. See you on Sunday.”
Holly typed as I spoke. “Perfect.”
“Still gonna punch that guy if I meet him alone somewhere.” Gramps stomped over to refill his coffee.
With the Tom Barclay drama handled—for now—we turned back to the Ringer’s information.
“Dean Herrera. Cheating memorabilia guy.” I read aloud from the e-mail. “The truth is no one in the paddock likes Herrera. He’s highly intelligent—which he makes sure everyone knows—with horribly awkward social skills he revels in. Thirty years on, he’s become slyer and smugger, say those who’ve known him the whole time.”
“He seems like a creep,” Holly said. “But if he did kill PJ to improve his business, you’d think he’d have planned it better—bought all her merchandise and had her sign it before he killed her.”
“What do you think of him?” I asked Holly and Gramps.
“He was smug—patronizing the old guy.” Gramps looked annoyed. “He thought he was pulling something over on someone too far gone to notice.”
Holly nodded. “But he’s only about my size, physically, so I don’t see him overpowering PJ or Ron.”
Gramps shook his head. “With ears that stuck out like a cartoon.”
“I met that guy. He had me sign a photo supposedly from the first practice this year.” I wondered how many forged Kate Reilly signatures it might spawn.
&
nbsp; “Ears aside, size doesn’t matter if you have a weapon,” Ryan said.
Holly shrugged. “It’s an awkward fit for me, him as the killer.”
“Fair enough.” Ryan scrolled down to the last name on the page. “Who’s Nathan Standish?”
“I didn’t ask the Ringer about Nathan.” I shook my head. “We already knew his business boomed after PJ’s death. But it wasn’t him. He was too sad about PJ dying, said he almost got out of racing after her death.”
“But he didn’t,” Ryan noted.
“What are you getting at?” Holly asked.
“To be careful trusting what suspects say, especially about themselves.” He paused. “Always question what anyone says. It’s easy for Standish to say he was so sorry for PJ’s death he almost quit, but it might be a convenient interpretation of past events. Or what he’s convinced himself to believe. Or his cover story all along.”
We all fell silent, considering his words. I thought through the conversation with Nathan, probing my memory for inconsistencies or different interpretations.
“I still don’t think Standish is the guy.” I glanced at Holly. “He seemed genuinely sorry for her death.”
Ryan nodded. “He could be lying. You’ve met killers before who seemed normal.”
“Why are you doing this?” I demanded.
“Not to stress you out.” He frowned. “To push you to think more analytically. To think about more angles. It’s not that I think Standish is guilty, and I believe you believe he isn’t. But I want you to know why you think so.”
Holly helped me out. “It was the break in his voice when he said he wanted recognition for hard work, not notoriety. His eyes were shiny with moisture. He wanted to do the right thing and succeed accordingly, not take shortcuts.”
At that, Ryan conceded the point. I stayed grumpy with him for pushing us—though I knew he only did it to help—until I got to the track.
Racecars make it all better, even if they’re not running.
Chapter Thirty-three
The action that day, the Thursday before the race, was all about drivers, sponsors, and media. And brewing thunderstorms.
The weather was always a question in Indianapolis, and unlike other kinds of tracks, no one raced in the rain on ovals—even grooved rain tires wouldn’t give us the grip we needed. In past years, rain had put off qualifying sessions and shortened, postponed, and even split the race itself across two days. Delays were tough on everyone—especially the fans who often had time off work and travel plans set in stone. We all did anti-rain dances throughout the month of May.
Please don’t rain on Sunday. Please don’t rain on Sunday.
Gramps, Holly, and I headed for the garage, as usual—Ryan had remained at the apartment to work—and I approached the Beermeier setup warily, after the trauma of the night before. I wasn’t sure if I’d see Alexa there, and half-wondered if I’d see anyone there, but the team was business as usual, if more subdued. Alexa sat at her computer in the office area, her back to the room, and I paused next to her.
“How are you? Anything I can do?”
She turned, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “You did plenty last night, and I didn’t thank you for it. I’ll be all right.” She poked the man next to her. “Let’s talk about the car. Nolan?”
I pulled up a chair, and the three of us spent the next hour going over details—schedules, settings, and strategies. After that, I headed for the plaza below the pagoda for an hour of media availability and an hour spent signing official race merchandise—official programs, mini-helmets, and more. My hand hurt before I was halfway done. Two more hours of interviews and team duties, and I was finally dodging the raindrops with Gramps and Holly, headed back to my car.
“Did you learn anything in the garage today?” I asked Gramps.
He buckled his seatbelt. “They all liked Ron and liked having him there to question about car stuff—or sometimes opinions on strategy or history. They like Chuck, too, but he’s good more for stories of people in racing, not so much the engine or mechanical knowledge. Ron was there every day, and Chuck most days, and Ron also got a steady stream of visitors—of the older generation. People he’d have known when he was running a team, is my guess.”
I glanced at him. “Did they know any names?”
“That was tough, because there were so many. The best they could do was say ‘everyone.’ It sounds like most other team owners stopped by, plenty of other engineers, some drivers—Paul Lauth, PJ’s old boyfriend was one. And loads of other people. Some reporters, but Ron wouldn’t talk about his time in prison. He was done with it.”
“Any idea if Hagan was around?” Holly asked.
“I didn’t know how to ask. Maybe tomorrow.” Gramps glanced at me. “That Tom Barclay was around a couple times, though, and the crew knew who he was.”
“Asshole,” I muttered.
Gramps grinned and laced his fingers over his small belly. “Indeed. I couldn’t find out about Dean Herrera either, but I’ll try tomorrow. For now, I’ve been accepted as the gossipy old-man replacement.”
“Aww, sugar,” Holly said, “you’re number one in my book.”
Back at our apartment, I got on the phone with a local radio station for an on-air interview. By the time I made it out to the kitchen to set the table, Gramps had already told the others what he’d learned from sitting on Ron Arvin’s stool that day. Ryan stepped in before I could, warning him to be careful. He also talked Gramps through useful questions to keep the conversation moving in the direction he wanted—focused on Ron and who he interacted with—without appearing to be questioning them.
“You can ask Uncle Stan what he’s seen, Gramps,” I said. “He won’t wonder why you’re asking.”
“Does he know you think PJ was murdered?” Ryan asked.
“Not explicitly. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s figured it out. He’s a smart guy, and he’s seen a lot. He was the first to tell me about PJ.”
Ryan’s attention sharpened. “He was there at the time?”
“A junior member of her crew,” Holly responded.
“You don’t have him on your list as a suspect?” Ryan focused on me.
I couldn’t entertain the idea for even a moment. “Uncle Stan’s no killer.”
“How often have you said that before?” Ryan asked. “Did you consider him?”
Holly and I exchanged glances, then looked at Gramps, who shrugged. “I don’t see it either,” Gramps said.
I turned to Ryan. “We didn’t talk about him as a possible suspect, no. But he didn’t do it—either killing. I’d stake my life on it.”
“You may have done so.” He sighed. “I’m only worried about who you’ve let into the secret of your investigation. The more people who know, the more potential danger to you of the wrong person finding out. Plus you want to be one hundred and ten percent sure that whoever you let in isn’t a suspect.”
Holly nodded. “I’ll add another ‘no’ vote for Uncle Stan. He was there, but he didn’t gain anything from her death, and he was pretty cut up about it.”
“Honestly, I think he had a crush on her, like the other guy, Donny,” I said. “And Uncle Stan…I’ve seen him catch spiders and take them outside instead of killing them. He rescues beagles, and he’s the one person who’s always got a kind word about everyone—even the assholes. He’s not that guy.”
Ryan raised both hands. “Point taken. Hopefully you see mine also.”
“Don’t ignore what’s in front of our faces because it’s familiar,” I said.
Holly made a sound. “I forgot. I have the item that the Ringer picked up at Herrera’s memorabilia shop. But I haven’t compared it to the others yet.”
We were all quiet for a minute, eating the steak and vegetables—plus garlic bread for the others—Ryan had prepared.
I
thought about the blank road ahead of us. “What next? We’ve found people who got something out of PJ’s death…so what? We can’t ask them what they were doing on a specific date thirty years ago.”
“Why not?” Holly asked. “It’s not every day you hear a driver in paddock is dead, let alone a woman who’s killed herself. People might remember where they were or what else was happening when they heard.”
Ryan nodded. “It’s worth a try.”
“That means we need to know exactly when PJ died.” Holly told me.
“I’ll contact her brother.”
Gramps put down his fork. “We’ve decided Ron’s death is connected, right?”
I glanced at Ryan, who kept his expression blank. Your show, his look seemed to say. I turned back to Gramps. “Probably. Why?”
“People might not remember thirty years ago, but they’ll remember two nights ago.” He pushed back his plate. “We need to know that, too.”
“Easy now.” Ryan’s face was no longer neutral, but serious and worried.
“Is he wrong?” I asked.
He sighed. “I get twitchy when you’re excited about hunting for the perpetrator of a deadly assault in the last couple days.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Murder is murder, isn’t it? Thirty years ago or today?”
Ryan muttered what sounded like “Smart ass” under his breath. “It’s all violent crime. But one is more recent and vivid.”
His words brought back the image of Ron Arvin’s battered head and the sound of Alexa’s weeping. “True.”
Ryan rubbed his eyes. “I had a vision of you three running around with magnifying glasses and notebooks asking everyone where they were at 7:38 Wednesday night, the moment Ron was killed.”
I frowned at him. “That’s not giving us any credit.”
“You’re right, and I’m sorry for that. But you all have to admit, you have more enthusiasm than training.”
“Can’t argue.” Gramps chuckled as he got up to clear his and Holly’s plates.
“But what you don’t understand,” Holly said, “is we have sources.”
Kiss the Bricks Page 17
