I pictured a confident, controlled departure from the pits—no fish-tailing back end as the tires struggled for grip. Pulling onto the track and getting up to speed. Flying down the pavement, hands busy on the anti-roll bars or the weight jacker in every turn. Seeing what’s coming well down the track. A good time, a smooth run. I opened my eyes.
I can hope, and I can do my best.
A few minutes later, after a short talk with Nolan about the plan for practice, Holly and I walked to pit lane. I carried my helmet and stayed focused, only stopping twice for fans and only because they screamed my name. Ryan and Gramps arrived in our pit space as I pulled on my balaclava, helmet, and gloves, and I nodded at them, but didn’t speak. At that moment, I wasn’t thinking about anything but the car. Didn’t care about anything else.
Despite the day being named for our opportunity to tune our cars, we only got an hour of on-track time. It wasn’t much, but we’d take every minute to keep working on our race setup. And this was our last chance before the race.
I sat, buckled and settled, for a few minutes as the clock ticked closer to our official start time of eleven a.m. Bald John stood over me with an umbrella to give me some shade, but even with that, I was drenched in sweat before we’d fired the car. Temperatures were in the mid-eighties and humid, given the thunderstorms predicted to roll through that night and into Saturday. Race day would be dry and sunny—according to five different weather reports the team was following. We all hoped they were right.
Finally, the crew fired my engine, and when practice was green-flagged, I was waved out of my pit box.
I gave the car plenty of throttle and released the clutch into first gear, steering around the car in front of me that was still in its box. I fell in line behind a bunch of other cars, and as a group we accelerated around the first two turns in the warm-up lane. More throttle on the back straight, letting the car buzzing around behind me leap ahead.
Sofia, that figures.
My job in this session was to see how the car felt and run a full load of fuel to the end. I ran some in clean air, but mostly in traffic, getting used to different degrees of feeling uncomfortable, and I focused on being smooth, making lots of small adjustments to the wheel or the weight-balancing tools. The team and I kept adjusting through the session, and we inched toward better handling. Toward getting and keeping those wheels under me.
I spent every lap I could working on how to save fuel, primarily by letting off the throttle when I was right behind someone else to let the draft tow me along. Where I could, I also worked on easing off the pedal ahead of a turn to coast through it and rolling back onto it in the turn, to save small amounts of fuel. I might never need to do it, but throughout history, races had been won or lost for want of one or two laps of fuel. A typical stint, or fuel run, was about thirty laps, and at the miraculous extreme, drivers had stretched a stint to thirty-five or six. In the end, I went twenty-nine laps on the fuel load, and the team thought I could easily have done another lap and a half.
We worked on the car continuously until the very last seconds of practice, and I still wanted more. There was never enough time to make it perfect. But as I turned the car off in pit lane, a thrill went through me.
The next time I’m here, I’ll be starting the Indy 500.
Chapter Thirty-six
I had a full schedule before I sat in the car again. After changing out of my wet firesuit in the garage, I backtracked to the Frame Savings suite above the grandstands for lunch. There, I spent an hour enjoying food, air conditioning, and conversation with Frame Savings and Beauté executives, as well as assorted guests.
My half brother, Eddie, showed up as I was asked how I felt about my chances in the race for what felt like the nineteenth time.
Still, I smiled. “Pretty good. We’ve got a decent setup on the car. We’ll need some luck, but I think we’ve done everything we can to prepare, and I’m really grateful and thankful to the team for all of their hard work.”
The local Beauté VP wished me luck and headed to the buffet table, and Eddie leaned close. “I’ve got a different question. How’s your grandfather after the other night? It must have been traumatic.”
“Seeing a dead body’s never fun. But Gramps wasn’t out there with us—Ryan and I found Alexa and her father. Gramps only came along later.”
Eddie’s eyes went wide. “You found the dead guy the other night?”
“Alexa did. We found her.”
“Only you.” Eddie shook his head. “I meant how your grandfather coped with meeting the big, bad Reilly family?”
Right, the trauma I hadn’t even had time to consider.
“We haven’t talked about it. There’s been a lot else going on.”
“Looking for a murderer?”
I blinked at him. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s what you do. Why wouldn’t you look for whoever whacked the guy the other night? Or who killed PJ?” He saw my surprise and grinned. “It’s too delicious for PJ’s death to be plain old suicide. Come on, thirty-year-old cold case? That the person who duplicates her accomplishment solves? Tell me you don’t think she killed herself. Tell me you think someone did her in.”
I drank some water and stared at him. “You have quite an imagination.”
He took two steps to his left and nabbed two mini brownies from the dessert table. He popped one in his mouth. “In the banking world, I’m known as an ‘innovative thinker,’ and they give me raises because of it.”
“Stick to banking.” I declined his offer of the other brownie.
He gave me an admonishing look as he loaded a small plate with more sweets. “You can tell me, you know. I’m good with secrets.”
I sighed. “Everyone says I’m just like PJ, but if that’s the case, she couldn’t have killed herself, because I know I wouldn’t. I’m asking questions, but it’s hard to get answers thirty years later.”
“I met a guy who hooked up with the series then.” He glanced around the room. “Over there. Standish, with the hotel chain.”
When he pointed, I finally saw Nathan Standish sitting at a table with Charlene Menfis, the Frame Savings executive and superfan. “I met Nathan in Phoenix this week. He was going to try to find some information for me.”
“Get to it, Inspector Reilly.” Eddie made a sweeping gesture with his arm.
As I reached their table, Nathan Standish stood up and greeted me. “I understand you know Charlene already—here I thought I held some kind of record for attending the race, but Charlene has me beat.”
“You’ve had better access and insight in your thirty years,” Charlene assured him. “This year will be my first year in a suite—it’ll be especially great since Sunday’s my actual birthday.”
I had a thought. “Have you ever gotten a look inside the garages?”
Her eyes got big and she shook her head.
I pulled out my phone and checked my schedule. “If you can be at my garage at eight-fifteen Sunday morning, I’ll have a couple minutes to show you around.”
She jumped up and down as if she’d won the lottery. “I’ll be there, thank you!”
I love this part of my job.
Nathan smiled and apologized for needing to leave. He handed me a small book in a doubled-over manila envelope, secured by a rubber band. “Here’s the information I mentioned, Kate. I hope it helps.”
I tucked it under my arm, wishing I could dig into it there and then. “Thank you again. I’ll let you know.”
A few minutes later, I left also, and the minute I stepped foot outside the suite, the butterflies hit. My next activity was something new, and it made me more nervous than anything else we’d do at Indy, aside from qualifying.
The pit stop competition.
It was one of the staples of Carb Day, and though I’d watched it the two previous years, I’d never comp
eted. This year, I was a full-time competitor in the Series and my crew had lobbied Alexa to compete, so I’d be there.
I knew it was silly to be nervous—the pressure was on my crew to change four tires and simulate fueling the car as quickly as possible. My job was to get off the line quickly, drive the short distance to the temporary pit box—marked by tape in the middle of pit lane—stop on my marks, and drive away quickly when directed to by my crew. Simple. The same thing I did multiple times in every race. But minor flubs in a race, whether by me or a crew member, could be made up. Not so here.
Of course, this contest didn’t have a larger impact for the race or the season. The prize was bragging rights and a small check. But I didn’t want to let my guys down.
In the garage, before we went out to pit lane, Alexa gathered us together. “I won’t be in your ears for this one. It’s on you. You know what to do—watch the officials and watch each other. And focus. That’s what I want you to remind each other right before you go. Focus. Now go get ’em.”
Sitting out on pit lane, the fans cheering up and down the front straight, we kept repeating the word to each other. “Focus.”
Bald John strapped me into the car and Tyler, the kid on the crew, held the umbrella over me for the shade. “Focus,” they reminded me, patting my helmet.
“Focus,” I shouted through my helmet when they were close enough to hear.
Slowly we moved forward, hearing the roar of the crowd as pairs of cars and crews before us went head-to-head. Hearing groans and cheers as teams lost and won.
Then it was our turn. Focus, I told myself. My crew waited down pit lane in front of me, and my engine rumbled. Bald John stayed with me as each crew member lifted a hand to acknowledge their introduction over the track PA.
Bald John stepped back. The horizontal row of round lights lit up red, one by one, left to right. One, two…five red—now green. Go!
I spun my tires a tiny bit off the line—and later learned the other driver stopped just before I did—but hit my marks perfectly. Go, guys, go!
I was ready, my foot poised, trembling, on the throttle, fingers on the clutch. Now!
As the car bounced down on its tires, I launched. My crew had worked their magic—or the other team fumbled or both—and I crossed the finish line before the other car. I braked hard, my heart pounding, and I saw my crew cheering in my mirrors.
Twenty minutes later, we were lined up and ready for the quarterfinal matchup—this one against the previous year’s pit stop competition winner. My heart thundered in my ears.
I won’t mess up this time. We’re beating this guy.
Red lights illuminated, then flashed green. Less than thirteen seconds later, I crossed the line ahead of the other car, not sure if I’d taken a breath.
Twenty minutes and another blistering twelve-and-a-half second-run later, and we made it to the finals.
I had a few more minutes to regroup, and then we were set up again at the starting line, side-by-side with the other finalist, a Dutch driver with one of the three big teams. I heard the PA announcer proclaiming us “the little team that could” and praising our coordination for being new together this year. He also mentioned this being the highest a female driver had ever gotten in the competition. As the announcer whipped the crowd into a frenzy of anticipation over the final run, Alexa broke her own promise, and came over to huddle with all of us.
“You all are awesome, and as far as I’m concerned, you’ve won already by making it here. You’ll get a bonus next week, from me, win or lose—plus a pizza night.” She looked around at everyone, her eyes bright. “That said, go kick some ass. Show the big boys what we’re made of.”
We all reminded each other to focus, and we lined up. I was finally calm, ready for the lights, looking down the road to my marks. Red, green—go!
Go, go, go!
I hit my marks, waited, and sped away from the box as quickly as I could, sure we’d gone even faster than the last time.
We had, but we’d been beaten by six-tenths of a second. I turned off the car and struggled out of the car, dejected. Within seconds, I was surrounded by my crew, who’d run down the lane to hoist me onto their shoulders.
“We didn’t win,” I got out, as they bounced me around, cheering.
“Doesn’t matter.” Banjo grinned up at me. “We got closer than we thought we would, and we proved we’re a team.”
Tyler ran up, whooping. “You don’t mess with the 82 car crew!”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Our near-win meant I spoke with four different reporters, including the PA announcer, who let me thank all the fans on-site for their encouragement and support. Lyla Thomas was the last reporter to ask for a quote, and after I gave her my thoughts on the competition, I asked her a question. “Where were you at the track when the news broke that PJ was dead?”
“Headed to her garage.” She saw my surprise. “Her car hadn’t come to pit lane—nor had any crew. I was on my way to find out why.”
“When do reporters usually get here on a practice day?”
“Usually an hour before, give or take. Though it depends on the individual.”
“Do you remember more about that day? Anyone who wasn’t here but should have been?”
“Thirty years ago?” She laughed.
“Maybe if you think back to where you were, what you heard, and who you saw, it might bring back other memories. What you did after you left PJ’s garage, who you talked with then—what report you filed—that sort of thing.”
“Let me think about it. I’ll let you know. Who are you trying to alibi? Off the record,” she added.
“Hagan. And maybe the memorabilia guy, Herrera. For now.”
She nodded. “I’ll see what I can remember.”
We parted with a wave, and I made it back to the garage with barely enough time to change and drink a quick glass of champagne with the crew before literally running from one thing to another for the next five hours—culminating in a dinner hosted by Beauté for executives and guests. I arrived late and left early, but between my heartfelt thanks and the party atmosphere, no one minded. The open bar didn’t hurt.
By the time we got back to our apartment complex, it was all I could do to drag myself inside where my two favorite men waited with the latest clues to a double-murderer.
Holly did most of the talking as Gramps assembled ice cream sundaes for the others. She’d started making a list of who’d been in and around the bathrooms near the time of Ron’s murder, but she wasn’t done yet, and none of the names on her list so far had been alive or in the racing world in PJ’s era.
She was also the only one to have come up with a solid, useful fact. Vallorie Westleton, on a rare break from timing and scoring duties, had verified Tom Barclay was at the track when PJ was killed. Vallorie and Tom had both worked for her uncle’s team, and everyone was required to be at the track every morning by eight. Since being late had been a firing offense, she knew Tom had been there.
“Between that and Ryan and Gramps seeing him leave the party the other night before Ron was killed, I suppose we scratch him off the list.” I was disappointed.
“Vallorie also said she knew the recent rumor about you was fake, and it’s not the first time he’s leaked that kind of thing to try to drum up business.” Holly grimaced. “He goes off the murderer list, but stays at the top of the asshole list.”
“Herrera, our forger, should be on that list too,” Gramps noted.
I finished my miniscule scoop of ice cream. “I didn’t learn anything useful today, but I got information from Nathan Standish—notes, a case study, business thoughts, I’m not sure. But it’s from thirty years ago.” I yawned so hard my jaw cracked. “If I can stay awake to read it.”
The three of them shooed me out of the kitchen and dining area. I went straight to bed, though I took my laptop
and the envelope from Nathan with me. When Ryan joined me most of an hour later, I was finishing the last e-mail I had to send.
“I thought you’d be asleep.” He shook his head. “What did you still have to do?”
“Confirm when I’ll arrive and how long I can stay for every event tomorrow. Verify everyone has the giveaways or that I’m bringing hero cards to sign. Respond to requests for comment or quotes from different media—Holly deals with most of those, but passes the important or specific ones to me. Confirm a time with the fan coming to the garage on Sunday morning. That sort of thing.”
“Here I thought the racing driver’s life was one of glamour and adulation. You work hard.”
“I have it easier than some people.” I got up and plugged in my laptop on the desk. “I don’t have to do my own merchandising, and I’ve got Holly to help me with the general requests and social media. But we all have to hustle.”
I settled back under the covers, propped up against my pillows, and opened the envelope from Nathan Standish. What I pulled out was a slim notebook, covered in rich, dark leather with the initials “NPS” embossed on the front. I flipped through the pages, finding each one full, top to bottom, of neat printing. Every few pages there was a new date at the top, all in May and June of 1987.
Ryan turned out the overhead light and joined me in bed. He didn’t speak, but entwined his legs with mine and opened his own book. I smiled and settled back to read. As I turned to the first page, a note from Nathan fell out.
“Kate,” it read. “Please excuse the disjointed nature of my writings. Though I never collected or shared my thoughts more formally, writing down my impressions helped me recognize some of the intangible values of the racing market for our promotional purposes, and these pages served as a valuable complement to structured metrics and ROI. I hope the information is of use to you. Keep the journal for as long as you like; I’ll happily arrange for return shipping when you’re done with it.”
I understood his “disjointed” comment when I started reading. His writings were one part stream-of-consciousness about what he experienced in the racing industry and another part formal language I could imagine him using for more public consumption.
Kiss the Bricks Page 19
