Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  “Dad always felt bad Ron was one of them. Not that Ron hadn’t done it—he never denied it.” Josh shook his head. “But he didn’t like seeing his friend, who was basically a good guy, in trouble for something lots of others were also doing.”

  Except few others handled the volume Ron did—or the cocaine with the weed.

  I was glad my FBI-agent boyfriend wasn’t here for the conversation.

  “Sounds like Ron wasn’t condemned by his peers for it,” Eddie noted.

  “From what I remember—I was a kid, but you still feel the vibes,” Josh said, “no one thought he shouldn’t go to jail, since he’d been tried and convicted. But the reaction was both sympathy and ‘I told you so.’”

  Eddie shifted his feet. “That’s typical anywhere. Something bad happens and someone’s always going to shake their heads, say they knew it would all go wrong.”

  “Hindsight is twenty-twenty.” I got the bartender to refill my water. “But I can’t understand being willing to take such risks, when it could all go so terribly wrong.”

  “Says the woman who straps into a racecar.” Holly winked at me.

  “I’m not going to jail if I do something wrong in the car,” I returned.

  Josh shrugged. “I think he felt it was his only choice. Dad’s always quoting someone who said, ‘There’s no reward in life without risk.’ That’s been a guiding principle for us building our business—from mortgaging our own house to save the business to paying out of his own pocket for an injured driver’s transportation.”

  Eddie grinned. “You’re literally all about risk, in the insurance game.”

  “We say it in our mission statement: ‘We take the risk for you.’ And Dad usually always adds, ‘And we’ll do what’s necessary to serve you.’” Josh paused. “It led to some unorthodox situations—fudging things here or there when we’re trying to help a team stuck in some way or trying to get an injured driver transported. But nothing systematically illegal.”

  “The ends justify the means?” Eddie asked.

  Josh sighed. “A debate I’ve had with my father many times. He’d agree more readily—a consequence of his heyday being those more freewheeling times when ‘everyone was doing it,’ like Ron.”

  “You said people didn’t condemn Ron, but…” Holly began, then hesitated. “Did you hear of anyone angry with him over the years?”

  “Who might have killed him?” Josh shook his head, then stopped and considered. “I hadn’t thought about this in years. But I remember being hurried out of the garage one day, because a guy came in and acted like he was going to attack Ron. I was bummed, because he was yelling great swear words, and I wanted to hear them.”

  I sensed the quickening of interest in Holly and even Eddie that matched my own. “Any idea who he was? Or why he was angry?”

  “I’ll ask my dad. He’ll know, and he’s around here somewhere.”

  “Not that it’s any of our business—that’s the cops’ job,” I admitted. “But it’s hard to have seen what happened to Ron without wanting to know more about his life.”

  Josh nodded. “Something goes wrong and we try to figure out how we might have stopped it from happening—or how we predicted it in the first place. Human nature.”

  By that point, it was time to sit down to dinner and make nice. As much as it was work, I was genuinely glad for the opportunity to thank everyone involved with my two biggest sponsors for their support of my racing. After the meal, when Alexa got everyone’s attention to thank them for being there, I took the mic to reiterate my point.

  “I couldn’t be here without your help—that’s every one of you. By being here, being at the track, telling your friends about our effort, talking about us at the office, sharing on social media—all of that creates the awareness, recognition, and support I need to be on the track. I can’t thank you enough. I’ll carry all of you with me when I’m in the car tomorrow. Make sure you’re watching!”

  Everyone applauded and went back to chatting amongst themselves. I worked my way through the crowd that formed around me and eventually ran into Josh.

  He toasted me with a half-empty wineglass. “Found out the guy’s name who was so mad at Ron—and why. It was earlier the same year Ron got indicted. Ron had been under investigation and he’d stopped receiving drug shipments, so he was running out of money. Rigo Herrera was one of his racing team’s suppliers—nothing to do with the drugs—a one-man business supplying machined parts of some kind. He was one of the first people Ron stopped paying when the money ran out. Apparently, though, Ron’s team supplied all of Rigo’s income—not a good business plan, by the way. Rigo went belly-up, lost his living, his house, his wife—the whole country song. Blamed it on Ron.”

  “The year Ron got arrested…that was ninety-two?”

  “Right.”

  After PJ. Then something rang a bell. “Rigo Herrera. Did he have a son?”

  “One, who grew up hanging out with Rigo at the track. The son’s now a big-time memorabilia dealer specializing in racing.”

  Maybe he wanted revenge on Ron for his father? But how does that tie to PJ?

  “What happened to Rigo?”

  “Couldn’t handle his losses. Probably couldn’t handle the shame. He killed himself less than a year later.” Josh frowned. “Hard not to lay some of that responsibility on Ron, but people make their own choices.”

  And did those choices lead Dean to murder?

  Chapter Forty

  “Ron Arvin ruined Dean Herrera’s father’s life?” Holly boiled hot water for tea while the rest of us sat around my dining table.

  “That’s what his father, Rigo, thought. I wonder if Dean agrees?” I replied.

  “We don’t know when he left the other night.” Gramps shook his head. “He could have stayed and walked around the building to the alley.”

  “But Lyla said he was at the track the morning PJ was killed,” I remembered. “Besides, PJ died before Rigo’s business went downhill. So he has no motive for her.”

  “Maybe PJ and Ron’s deaths aren’t connected?” Gramps offered.

  I dropped my head in my hands. “I wish I knew what I was doing.”

  Holly set mugs of tea in front of me and Ryan and a plate of cookies in front of Gramps. “What does our special agent think of the news?”

  Ryan hadn’t said much since I’d related what I’d learned from Josh. He frowned now. “I think too many people know you’re asking questions about two deaths.”

  “Josh was a kid when PJ was around,” I protested. “Plus he’s got no motive for either of them.”

  “Josh asked someone for Herrera’s name,” Ryan said. “Who was that? And who was around when he did? Who was nearby when the four of you talked about it?”

  I felt my face heat. “You’re right. But we were standing away from people, and we weren’t speaking loudly—I know because I kept looking around to make sure Alexa didn’t hear us talking about her father.”

  Holly blew on her tea. “Josh was going to ask his dad about Rigo. But that’s just Chuck. He was Ron’s best friend, and he was heartbroken over PJ.”

  “So he says.” Ryan took a cookie from Gramps’ plate.

  I frowned. “I don’t see motive. But you’re the expert. Do you?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But his name keeps coming up.”

  I broke a small piece off one of Gramps’ cookies, ignoring his protest. “Ron was also around. Uncle Stan. Lyla Thomas, the reporter. None of them have motive either.”

  “My point was to be careful who you’re talking to. The more people who know you’re asking questions about a murder, the more likely the murderer will hear about it.” Ryan frowned at me. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “You think the killer thinks I’m onto him?” I laughed. “I don’t know anything.”

  “He or she doesn�
��t know that,” Ryan replied.

  That sobered me. “What do we do, stop?”

  Gramps and Holly were as wide-eyed as I felt.

  Ryan sighed. “I don’t expect you can help yourselves, but yes, back off?”

  Holly scowled into her mug. “How do you investigate, without being obvious? Don’t people know you’re searching for a criminal of some kind?”

  “It’s different when you carry a badge and a gun,” Ryan said.

  Point to the FBI agent.

  Ryan looked from Gramps to Holly to me. “How about tomorrow you all cool it? And watch each other’s backs?”

  The race!

  My mouth was suddenly dry, and I drank some of my chamomile tea. “I’ll only be alone in the car. But you two,” I gestured to Holly and Gramps with my mug, “keep an eye on each other or stay in public.”

  “I’ll be with you most of the time,” Holly noted.

  Ryan nodded. “I’ll stick with Gramps.”

  We went over the schedule and details for the next day, and then I took my tea to my room, while the others tidied the kitchen for the night. After the non-stop activity of the past couple days, I’d made sure to be home tonight at a reasonable time. Most drivers, and even some teams, did the same to ensure time to relax, rest, and hopefully get a good night’s sleep.

  If I can calm my nerves.

  I sat on the bed with my eyes closed, working on making my mind still, trying to think about getting in the car and starting the race. But my usual meditation and visualization routine wasn’t working. One panicked thought after another chased around my brain.

  Did we put ourselves in danger asking questions? What did I do? Did I put Gramps and Holly in danger?

  I felt my breathing accelerate at the thought of something happening to my beloved Gramps, the only father figure I’d had for most of my life.

  And my father…what would happen when I opened the envelope from my grandparents? Would some horrible family secret tear us apart? Tear his family further apart? Would he be better off without me in his life causing problems for his family?

  Everything suddenly piled in on me, draining my energy. I was tired of struggling for the truth about the past, tired of battling my father’s family—and my own. Tired of weathering the storm of public opinion on social media or in person at the track. Tired of answering the same stupid questions over and over. Exhausted from holding my head up and pretending none of it affected me. Tired of doing it alone.

  Ryan found me a few minutes later, curled into a ball, crying it all out.

  “Hey, now.” He sat beside me and gathered me into his arms. “What’s all this about?”

  “Everything,” I got out, my lower lip and chin quivering. “I’m afraid Gramps and Holly are in danger. I’m afraid I’m being a fool pretending to investigate a serious crime. I’m worried about performing well in the race.”

  The race! What if I wasn’t prepared enough? What if we’d gotten the car setup wrong? What if I screwed something up? What if I don’t get any sleep tonight and I’m not in shape for the race tomorrow? I can’t let everyone down!

  “Easy, now,” Ryan soothed. “Take a breath. I’ve got you.”

  He does, and isn’t that amazing?

  I focused on a few deep, regular breaths. “Have I mentioned I’m glad you’re here?”

  I felt a laugh rumble in his chest. “You have, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He tipped my chin up to look me in the eye. “I love you, Kate Reilly.”

  The tears returned to my eyes, this time for joy. “I love you, too.” We’d said the words before, but we didn’t toss them around like confetti. Seeing the love in his eyes made them more precious.

  Ryan shifted to sit with his back against the headboard, legs extended, and I snuggled more comfortably against him. He stroked a hand down my back, continuing to soothe me.

  “I don’t always fall apart like this before a race,” I told him.

  “Didn’t think so. But this one’s big.”

  “And there’s all the other crap—PJ and her family wanting my help, all the media, and the family secrets Gramps brought. I hit overload.”

  “Totally reasonable. I won’t tell anyone superwoman’s façade cracked.” He kissed the top of my head. “What’s your normal routine for the night before a race?”

  “Do a little reading, try to stay calm and get some rest.”

  “If it’s reading material you want, I’ve got Standish’s journal marked for you.” I felt him chuckle. “Maybe it’ll put you to sleep.”

  I sat up to see his face. “I figured you’d want me to stop investigating.”

  “I won’t tell you what to do, Kate. I’ll tell you if I think you’re putting yourself in danger or being careless.” He frowned. “And I won’t promise that won’t sound like ‘You’re being an idiot’—but you’ve got to make your own decisions. I’m in this for a partner, not a dependent.”

  I couldn’t speak for a moment. There were plenty of men who fed my ego and told me I was beautiful or sexy, but it was a rare man who loved me for my independence and power as a woman. I kissed him. “So glad you’re here.”

  He handed over the journal. “Be careful.”

  I spent the next hour reading the pages Ryan had marked. Nathan had noted the ups and downs of dozens of sponsors in the months leading up to and following PJ’s death, recording information about products, local or national reach, and race-weekend activities. He paid particular attention to other companies hawking services or lifestyle—such as an international shipping company, a limousine service, and watchmakers.

  Nathan was as interested in successes as he was in failures and went out of his way to talk with companies that had gotten out of the sponsorship game, including a high-end jewelry company based in the Midwest. “Their target audience was too narrow a subset of the market reached by racing,” he concluded. “Racing sponsorship will only work if nearly everyone who sees your message will someday need your services—better still if they need them every month or every week.” He went on to note the idea of trying two approaches: business and vacation travelers.

  One of the pages Ryan had flagged was a discussion of a failure Gaffey Insurance had experienced. They’d introduced their new business interruption insurance product the prior year and couldn’t drum up interest. “Team owners and other sponsors are used to covering their own losses in the event of a problem,” Nathan wrote. “Gaffey is frustrated, but still determined to prove the product’s value. He tells me he’s sure it can be the cornerstone of comprehensive coverage for racing teams and the differentiator for his own success, if he can only prove its worth.”

  The next page concerned Tom Barclay, who Nathan described as “a clever young man, full of out-of-the-box ideas for his new business.” Farther down, Nathan added, “His work for the team this month, as a break after completing his recent graduate degree, has filled him with ideas—particularly that of a business based in counseling athletes, such as racing drivers. We chuckled about the fragile egos drivers have, but he also spoke about helping confidence levels and performance anxiety in pit crew and teams. I told him I thought his ideas were interesting and innovative, and all he needed to launch his practice was one great case study for the value of his services. I wish him well, and I plan to follow his progress.”

  One great case study? PJ provided that. Could he have left the track that morning after all, and gotten downtown to kill PJ? I still wouldn’t put it past him…

  Chapter Forty-one

  We were all up early the next morning to be ready for our six-thirty escort to the track. I’d slept well, but once I was awake, I was buzzing on adrenaline.

  Race day!

  The sun was rising, casting everything in blue-gray tones as we followed a motorcycle officer through the empty streets on the north side of Indianapolis. Because IMS was
notorious for long lines of cars waiting to enter parking lots on race day—small wonder given its capacity of up to 400,000 seats—the solution for getting drivers, team members, VIPs, and even special tours past the lines was a police escort.

  As we approached the track, I estimated a backup of at least a mile already, stretching east on Sixteenth Street, headed for the large, gravel lots directly across from one of the main entrances. As our small group of cars zipped past them, I was grateful all over again for not having to wait.

  As much as I didn’t like getting up to do it, I loved being at the track early on race day. I’d always found magic in seeing, hearing, and feeling racetracks come alive—and IMS was the most dramatic of any I’d been to, because the contrast was so stark. I knew some staff arrived as early as four or four-thirty, to prep for their day’s work or simply to beat the traffic, and they told me of a quiet front straight and pit lane, illuminated only by the digital scoring pylon and the softly glowing pagoda. I didn’t think I’d ever make it there that early, but I could imagine the peace of those moments.

  By the time I arrived, the sun was up in a clear, blue sky and crews moved slowly around their garages. A chill remained in the air from the small rain shower we’d had overnight. It would be hot and humid later, but at least we wouldn’t have rain.

  We parked and walked into the paddock from the east entrance of Gasoline Alley, and a thrill coursed through my body like an electric shock.

  For more than a hundred years, cars, teams, and drivers have walked this path from garages to pit lane to track. And I get to be part of it again.

  Even someone calling me PJ didn’t dim my mood. I signed a couple autographs outside our garage, and then we all went inside.

  I ducked into the office and collected hot-pit passes for Gramps and Ryan—long, narrow stickers that wrapped around their lanyards and ensured they could be in the pits during the race. “Holly will be with me for the rest of the morning. You’re on your own.”