Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  “Sources, like you wouldn’t believe.” I grinned. “Holly can tell you anything about anyone in the paddock almost as soon as it happens.”

  Holly smirked. “I’ve already got a list of confirmed party attendees from the team PR person. Plus, I was able to pin down when most of our people of interest left—or last verified sightings. We can compare those with our own observations, double-check with one or two other trusted people, then cross-check with what we find out about their whereabouts thirty years ago. Maybe that’ll give us something without having to deploy the magnifying glasses.”

  Ryan laughed. “Holly, if you ever want a career at the FBI, say the word.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Holly handed me the list of party attendees. “Tell us everyone who was also around thirty years ago.”

  “I didn’t see half these people last night.” I ran my finger down the list. “In alpha order, Ron Arvin, Tom Barclay, Scott Brooklyn—I didn’t see Scott, did anyone else? Also Chuck Gaffey and his son, Josh—does Josh count as having been around back then? Kevin Hagan, Paul Lauth, and Don Strange—he’s from the tire company, so that must be the Donny I talked with. And Lyla Thomas, Vallorie Westleton, and Diane Wittmeier.”

  “Don’t forget Gramps,” Holly said, winking at him and writing down the names.

  I thought for a moment. “This list doesn’t include the team, who were also all at the party. I know Uncle Stan, Bald John, and Banjo were there in PJ’s day.”

  “Kate and Gramps, do you remember seeing Barclay or Hagan at the party?” Holly asked.

  “I know Barclay, but not Hagan.” I turned to Gramps. “Do you know what either one looks like?”

  He shook his head, and Holly made a disgusted sound. “If we could organize, we might be dangerous. Let me find photos.”

  She pulled out her phone while the rest of us finished clearing the table. I was wiping it down when Holly showed us a photo. “Kevin Hagan, reporter extraordinaire.”

  “That guy,” I said. He was coarse-featured, with a thick jaw, prominent chin, and a heavy brow that made him look like he was constantly scowling. “He acts like he looks, asking questions as if he knows the answers and getting angry about boilerplate responses.”

  I turned to Ryan. “In drivers’ defense, there are only so many different responses to ‘How’s the car feeling and what do you think of your chances in the race?’”

  “The team said they saw him leave with the main group of attendees after the police arrived,” Holly reported. “Did either of you see him?”

  Gramps nodded. “Early in the evening, at the buffet. He liked the meatballs.”

  Ryan took the phone from her and studied Hagan’s face. “At the end of the night, at the tape line. Watching the police activity.”

  Holly nodded. “Pretty good for someone you don’t know at all.”

  “The jawline and attitude are hard to miss,” Ryan said.

  “Hagan was there and could have done it. And he was around thirty years ago and he benefitted from PJ’s death.” Holly put a double star next to Hagan’s name. After a moment, she put a line through Ron Arvin’s name at the top of the list.

  “Go to the previous photo,” Holly directed Ryan. “Recognize him? That’s Tom Barclay.”

  “He’s familiar.” Ryan frowned. “The all-American boy going to seed.”

  “Nothing a little Botox won’t cure, sugar,” Holly said.

  Gramps studied the photo. “He left the party as Ryan was arriving. You must have passed him in the parking lot.”

  “That means he left before Ron was killed?” I asked, hearing disappointment in my voice.

  Is Barclay the killer? I already think he’s sleazy, why not a murderer?

  “If you didn’t see him get in his car and drive away,” Ryan said, “we don’t know he left. He could have walked around the building to meet Arvin.”

  Holly added Tom Barclay’s name to the list with another double star, explaining to Ryan, “We know he was working for another team in PJ’s day, and he got the idea for his life’s work—and obviously successful business—from PJ’s death.”

  “Would he have had the forethought to kill her to generate the idea?” Ryan asked.

  I frowned. “Probably not. Still, scumbag spreading rumors about me to drum up business for himself? He stays on the list.”

  “Fair enough.” Ryan grinned.

  I checked the list. “I don’t see Dean Herrera’s name.”

  “Go back one more photo,” Holly said. “That’s Herrera. Anyone see him?”

  “Was he there?” I asked, as we all studied the photo on Holly’s phone.

  “He was.” Holly looked smug. “He tried to breeze into the party, but they wouldn’t let him in without an invitation. He gave them attitude, said people from one of the team’s major sponsors were waiting for him inside, and the team—fortunately Banjo was there with Cindy—would be in trouble if they didn’t let him in. He tried to walk through the door, but Banjo stopped him.”

  “Banjo’s protective,” I explained to the others. “And big.”

  “Did Herrera leave then?” Ryan asked.

  Holly shook her head. “He left the lobby, but stood in that small, front lot, by the walkway. One of Beermeier’s retired drivers came along and Herrera got him to sign a photo. That’s when Banjo escorted him off the property. They say he got into a white van parked across the street and stayed there for some time. They weren’t sure when he left.”

  Ryan glanced at the photo again. “Does the shop have security video that might show the street?”

  “There’s an idea.” Holly raised her eyebrows. “I’ll have to ask.”

  I gestured to names from the party list. “What about the other people?”

  She picked up the paper. “Ron Arvin, not relevant. Barclay, we talked about. Scott Brooklyn?”

  I shook my head. “Not a suspect.”

  “That’s the media guy?” Gramps asked.

  “The pit reporter,” I confirmed. “He was a kid in the paddock, but he’s got no other connection. Trust me, not anyone to waste time on.”

  He’d slay with words, not whatever killed Ron Arvin.

  “I saw him,” Holly said. “He was in line for the bathroom with me around the time you found Ron and Alexa out back.”

  Her statement sparked an idea, and I only paid partial attention as Holly kept reading names.

  “Chuck and Josh Gaffey. I saw them early. The team says they left with everyone else after giving the cops their basic statement and contact information.” She glanced at the rest of us, saw no comment, and kept going. “Paul Lauth, PJ’s former boyfriend. Arrived late and left early, missing all the drama. I didn’t see him, did you, Kate? Kate?”

  I snapped out of it. “Sorry. Paul? I don’t remember, but I don’t think so.”

  “Don Strange? I don’t even know him,” Holly read. “Lyla Thomas, the reporter.”

  Gramps grinned. “Old Lead-Foot Lyla. She could wheel a car.”

  “Who’s Don?” Ryan asked.

  “A crew member who provided protection for PJ. He’s working for our tire supplier now.” I related the conversation I’d had with Donny, and we agreed he didn’t seem like much of a suspect.

  “And Lyla’s been in the business forever—driving and writing back then, still writing today,” Gramps explained. “She’s supportive of women in racing, and she’d have gained nothing from killing either of them. No dice on her.”

  I smiled at his vehement defense, but since I agreed with him, I didn’t comment.

  “Lastly, Vallorie Westleton and Diane Wittmeier,” Holly said.

  I shook my head. “Vallorie was a good friend of PJ’s who now works in Timing and Scoring, and had no problem with Ron that I’ve heard of. And Diane, Ron’s ex-wife, seemed to get along with him. Ther
e was no interaction or drama at all.”

  “I don’t see either one of them being involved. That leaves us with Kevin Hagan, Tom Barclay, and Dean Herrera.” Holly put the list down and addressed me. “What’s brewing in your head?”

  “I wondered if we could figure out who was at the back of the building at the right time—we know Cindy and Banjo vouch for each other in the front lobby, so they couldn’t have killed Ron. Let’s figure out everyone who used the bathroom in that last half-hour or so.”

  Holly took only a moment to catch on. “I ask who I remember seeing, then ask the people they remember, and slowly expand our list.”

  “Maybe someone even saw someone else go outside,” I added.

  Ryan was skeptical. “These questions won’t make people suspicious?”

  Red curls bounced as Holly shook her head. “Not if I say the police asked me who I saw in the area—which they did—and I’m trying to remember every name possible. Then I throw out a couple names for them to verify and see who they remember. Piece of cake. I can do subtle. I’ll make that my assignment for tomorrow.”

  “And I’ll keep sitting on the stool and reminiscing,” Gramps said.

  It was eleven o’clock by the time we went our separate ways. Holly gave the signed items purchased from Herrera to Ryan, who agreed to call his FBI contact about our suspicions. I was horrified to see the time, since I still had e-mails to answer.

  While everyone else headed to bed, I sat on the couch with my laptop and responded to the urgent messages that had piled up over the day. Half an hour later, Ryan wandered out from my bedroom. Shirtless.

  My mouth went dry. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

  “I was waiting for you.” He smiled. “How much do you have left to do?”

  I clicked “send” on the last e-mail. “Unless I want to know how many people on social media support me, hate me, or want to have sex with me, I’m done.”

  His smile broadened. “That information important to you?”

  “Not so much.” I set my computer aside and stood up, moving close to him and running my fingers down his well-muscled chest and stomach.

  Then I stilled my hands. “I lied.”

  His eyebrow quirked up.

  “I do need to know one opinion.” I smiled and started exploring with my fingers again. “I’m hoping to get a response, you might say, from one particular fan.”

  The heat in his eyes threatened to set me on fire. He grinned and pulled me against him.

  His response is clear, all right.

  He started walking backwards, toward my bedroom, never breaking that smoldering eye contact. I lifted my chin, wanting his kiss, but he bent down and put his mouth close to my ear.

  “Let me assure you, I’m very eager to give you as much feedback as possible.”

  A thrill ran down my spine, and we covered the last few feet to my room quickly.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The next morning was Friday, the day the schedule got really nuts. It was known as “Carb Day,” for Carburetion Day, even though the racecars haven’t used carburetors since 1963. Next to race day—always the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend—the Friday prior to the race saw the largest attendance. What with our practice session, an Indy Lights race, a pit stop competition, and a concert by a top country star later in the evening, it was a day of activity that brought tens of thousands of fans to the track.

  We arrived by eight, and I left everyone at the garage to head to the media center for an interview with a sports magazine writer. After that, I had a meeting with a different reporter, this one from a women’s magazine, who was writing about “Fast Women: The Women of the Indy 500.” It sounded like a great article, which would cover a bit of history and also current day. The unfortunate result was a joint, sit-down interview with my least favorite driver, Sofia Montalvo. It would be a trial.

  For my part, I wished Sofia hadn’t hated me from the moment she met me. I wished I had an ally, not an enemy, in the only other female driver in the field. I didn’t, but I wouldn’t be seen publicly as antagonistic to another female driver. She could play that role if she wanted. I wouldn’t.

  But Sofia—who was tall with olive skin and sultry looks that contrasted with my short stature and milkmaid vibe—arrived pretending everything was sunshine and unicorns. And when the reporter, another woman, asked us how we supported each other, being the only two women in the field, Sofia outright lied.

  “We know we are there for each other,” she said, in her light, Spanish accent. “We support each other, should I need Kate or she need me.”

  I kept a smile on my face. Which is never.

  The only time Sofia’s mask slipped was when the reporter asked us what we thought about the comparisons between me and PJ after my leading the first practice session this year.

  Sofia wasn’t smooth enough to hide the twist of her lip at the question, though she recovered quickly. “I was, of course, happy for Kate that she did it.”

  I remembered her sneering comments. Could have fooled me.

  The reporter turned to me. “Your thoughts on the comparisons, Kate?”

  “I’ve never been the one making them. I’d rather people let PJ be PJ and let me be Kate.”

  The interview ended soon after that, and Sofia left quickly for another commitment. The reporter eyed me after she left. “Anything else you want to say? I have the feeling I missed some of the story.”

  I smiled at her. “I think we covered it. Thanks for your time.”

  She nodded and tapped her pen on the table. “What do you really think about being compared to PJ Rodriguez?”

  “PJ deserves her own identity, as do I. I’d like to be considered on my own merits as a driver—not a female driver, either, but a driver.” I shrugged. “But until women aren’t the rarity in the field, it’ll be an issue. I’m simply glad to be here, and I hope the best for every other driver in the field.”

  She stopped her tape recorder and thanked me for my time, adding, “Scuttlebutt around the media room says you’re something of an amateur sleuth. Are you planning to investigate the death that took place two nights ago? Or PJ’s death? I mean, in a soap opera, she’d have been murdered, so why not real life?”

  I managed to laugh off her questions and get out of there fast.

  How about let’s not go public on my dubious investigation skills?

  After I finished talking with journalists in the media center, it was time for the drivers’ meeting—the real one. We’d all attend a ceremonial public drivers’ meeting the next day, but this one was for participants only. This was where drivers argued, complained, and generally behaved like fractious children. I stayed out of the discussions and name-calling, keeping my mouth shut. It was safer that way.

  By the time that meeting was done, the crowds had arrived for the day. I made my way back to the garage through most of them, stopping every ten feet for a photo or signature. Not that I minded. I appreciated everyone who cared enough to say my name. The ones who called me PJ, not so much. But I kept smiling, glad for the real fans, and ready to educate the others.

  “Busy out there,” Holly said, when I finally reached the Beermeier Racing garage. “How was the Kate-to-PJ ratio today?”

  “Three to one.” I continued past her through the engineers’ office area and into our driver area.

  Holly followed me after a quick peek to make sure the other drivers weren’t in the middle of changing clothes. “Twenty-five percent PJs seems like less than last weekend,” she said. “Maybe that’s progress.”

  “How’s social media?” I asked. I stripped down to my sports bra and underwear, tucked my street clothes in my locker, and pulled out my firesuit.

  “Nothing we should discuss. But I had an idea. Maybe a sympathetic reporter could do an article about the disservice it is to compare you and
PJ.”

  “It’s a disservice to all women in racing. There aren’t many of us, and to lump two of us together as if we’re interchangeable promotes the idea we’re here as tokens.” I stopped and took a breath.

  Focus on the car, that’s what you can control.

  Holly nodded. “I bet I could talk Lyla Thomas into it. Maybe it’ll help people recognize that’s what they’re doing.”

  “It’s a great idea.” I finished lacing up my shoes. “Anything else going on?”

  “Uncle Stan confirmed Jimmy worked on suspension for PJ’s car, like we’d heard. And Gramps is doing his thing—you probably saw him out there with Chuck, chattering away to the crew.”

  I zipped my firesuit closed. “Where’s Ryan?”

  “Checking in with the law enforcement agencies here at the track. He’ll come into the pits when practice starts. Did you get PJ’s time of death?”

  I slipped my lip balm into my pocket and put my sunglasses on my head. Then I reached for my phone, which I hadn’t looked at since I started my media appointments a couple hours earlier. “Her brother texted, saying official time of death was about eleven that morning, and he confirms word hit the track a couple minutes after noon.” I closed my locker door. “We should ask Lyla who she saw. She was in the team garage when everyone found out—or got here right after.”

  “Copy that. I’ll tell the others about the time for PJ. Let me know when you’re ready to go out to pit lane.”

  “After I check in with Alexa and Nolan.”

  With a wag of her phone, she went back out to the main part of the garage, leaving me alone—or as alone as I could get in the semi-private corner of a team garage. I leaned my forehead against my locker and closed my eyes, feeling the cool metal and focusing on my breathing. I visualized climbing over the low pit wall to get to the car, nodding to Bald John as he helped strap me in and secure the extra padding around my head. Snapping the steering wheel into place on the column and flexing my fingers around it. The rumble of the car as they start it up, and the spring-loaded feel of the throttle. The firm feel of the brakes.