Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  “You killed him, too?” Ryan asked.

  “Sometimes needs must, as my mother used to say,” Chuck replied.

  We heard the sound of an engine, and I tensed, readying for action. Chuck also tensed, tightening his hold around my neck again. I gasped for breath as Gramps executed a shaky three-point turn in front of us, then pulled to a jerky stop.

  I looked at Ryan, opening my eyes wide, trying to signal, Let’s act now.

  He gave me the tiniest of head shakes. I was confused, but I didn’t make a move.

  I hope he’s got a plan.

  Gramps got out, leaving the door open and the car running. “Kate, are you still all right?”

  “She’s fine,” snapped Chuck.

  “I want to hear it from her. Katie, are you all right?” he asked. “Does your neck hurt too much?”

  Was I bleeding? Did Gramps have a plan?

  I moved my head slightly. “I’m all right. My neck’s a little sore.”

  “Is it as bad as that time you had a rollerskating incident?” He held my gaze.

  Rollerskating? You were the one, Gramps—Oh! But what’s the trigger?

  Gramps could see when I understood, but Ryan looked confused.

  “Not that bad, yet,” I said, lowering my hands and flattening them.

  I saw a flicker of understanding in Ryan’s eyes, and Gramps looked relieved.

  “Stop right there,” Chuck snarled. “No more talking. The two of you, stand out of the way.” He started moving me forward.

  We were a single step past Gramps and Ryan when Gramps shouted, “Tell me one thing!”

  Go, Kate, go!

  I threw myself away from the knife and fell to the ground, flinging my arms and legs wide. The suddenness of the movement tore me out of Chuck’s grasp, but pulled him forward with me. He tripped over my legs, and might have fallen on top of me, but for Ryan, who’d also leapt into action at Gramps’ shout. He tackled Chuck from behind and wrested the knife away. By the time I sat up, Ryan had Chuck down on the ground, arms twisted behind him, subdued—ready to hand over to the six officers who’d swarmed around the sides of the concession tent, guns drawn.

  It was over.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  An hour after Chuck was hauled away in handcuffs by the Indianapolis police, Gramps, Ryan, and I sat in the Beermeier Racing garage with Alexa and Holly, while Uncle Stan and a couple other mechanics puttered around, continuing to pack up their equipment. We’d given the cops our statements and assured them we’d go to the police station the next day for follow-up. I’d also texted my father and told him not to worry about anything he’d see on the news, that I’d explain later. Then we dealt with the aftershocks of the stress and drama.

  “What I want to know is how the cops got there. You guys called them? Gramps, you worked out a signal with them?” I looked from one person to another.

  Uncle Stan nodded. “I called track security and told them to get the local cops and anyone they had on-site—since they had officers from various organizations here for the race. But Holly and Alexa were the most help.”

  I turned to them, my eyebrows raised, and Holly dimpled up.

  “We followed you.” She nodded. “Snuck up to the corner of the garage, peeked around once, listened to what was happening.”

  “Like super spies.” Alexa smiled for the first time since the showdown. She’d been blank with shock at first after discovering her father was murdered by his supposed best friend. “I ran back to tell Uncle Stan what was going on, and we kept a call open on our cell phones to relay information.”

  Gramps took a deep breath. “They were waiting behind that tent when I went off to get the car. They had an officer hidden inside the car with me, but they told me it’d be better to take him down before he got in. They wanted me to shout something and to try to get you to get away or fall down.”

  I turned to Ryan, sitting next to me on a cooler. “And you figured out the plan? Or you were just ready to jump?”

  “I figured someone got to Gramps while he was gone. And I was ready to move when Chuck was closest to me and distracted. I hoped you’d drop at the same time—which you did. The other officers were a bonus.”

  I relived the blinding fear of that moment of action and shuddered. “You all saved the day. Thank you.”

  “And maybe your life,” Ryan added, putting an arm around my waist and shifting me closer.

  “Except I owe you all an apology.” Alexa shook her head when we protested. “One of the mechanics found an envelope with my name on it buried in a storage bin this morning, right as we were going out to the grid. I shoved it in a pocket and never thought about it until Chuck took your grandfather. It explained everything.”

  She pulled a scruffy white envelope out of her pocket and slipped two familiar folded, yellow notes out of it. She handed one to me. “I could have prevented everything if I’d read these earlier.”

  With shaking fingers, I unfolded the paper she handed me. It was written in the same hand and language as the anonymous notes I’d received, but everything else was different. It contained more than one sentence, and the tone was apologetic. Most important, it was signed.

  I read it aloud to everyone: “Kate, I swore I’d never tell anyone, but I know who killed PJ—except she wasn’t supposed to die. That was his doing. She was only supposed to be unable to race, for the publicity. I left you anonymous letters to make you figure out what happened to her, so I didn’t have to break my word but PJ would still get justice. All I know is I can’t bear this knowledge alone anymore—God knows how he sleeps at night. If you’re reading this, something happened to me. It’ll be Chuck Gaffey’s doing.”

  I looked up at Alexa, who had tears in her eyes. “It’s signed Ron Arvin.”

  She held up a twin note. “This was addressed to me. It said the same, plus some personal stuff.” She turned to me. “I’m sorry I didn’t read them sooner.”

  Gramps, who sat next to her, leaned over to hug her, then held her as she broke down. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” he murmured, patting her back.

  “Shoot, sugar,” Holly said. “You haven’t even had time to grieve yet, have you?”

  Alexa pulled away from Gramps and wiped her eyes with a tissue. “His death was such a shock…I’d just gotten him back, then he’s gone again, permanently.” She blinked, fighting back tears, but her voice was steady. Angry. “Then to deal with the fact that someone killed him—deliberately took him from us. And now? That it was Chuck? I keep thinking I need to see Chuck—to face him and ask him why. Why?” She turned to me. “You know, don’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  “All started with PJ.” Uncle Stan leaned on a push broom near us.

  Alexa frowned. “How did you figure that out, thirty years later?”

  I’m still not sure.

  I shook my head. “Talking to different people and comparing their memories. Asking specific questions. Guesswork. It was a group effort.” I gestured to Gramps, Holly, and Ryan.

  Ryan was caught between amusement and amazement. “You all did the sleuthing. I came in at the end.”

  “What made you think it was Chuck?” Alexa asked.

  “We never really did.” I grimaced.

  Holly nodded. “We believed his story about being devastated when PJ died, so heartbroken over the idea of losing people to this sport that he almost quit entirely.”

  “I’ve heard him say the same thing,” Alexa said.

  Uncle Stan snorted and leaned his broom against the wall. “Always thought it was a pile of crap.”

  I turned to him, surprised. “Really?”

  “I watched him over the years. Saw the calculating look on his face after the person he was talking to turned away. Figured he was in it for himself alone.” He shook his head. “Mind you, I didn’t th
ink he was so far gone as to be behind PJ’s death. But I suppose it’s all of a piece.”

  “I wish I’d seen him as clearly.” I was embarrassed to have missed it.

  Uncle Stan put a hand on my shoulder. “Shows you’re not a cynical bastard, like me. You still see the good in people. I’ve gotten over it.” He winked at me.

  “Who did you think had killed PJ, if not Chuck?” Alexa wondered.

  “We’d only gotten to people who benefitted from her death.” I hesitated, not sure how to explain the rest.

  “Tell her,” Gramps said. “She’ll understand.”

  Alexa nodded. “You thought my father might have done it.”

  I hope this doesn’t get me fired.

  “We had to consider it as a possibility,” I admitted. “He got more successful afterwards, with more sponsors, bigger drivers. And, of course, he’d gotten the insurance payout from Gaffey for loss of business with PJ’s inability to race that year. But there were also others we knew had benefitted.”

  Holly held her fingers up one at a time. “Kevin Hagan, the reporter. Dean Herrera, the memorabilia guy. Tom Barclay, the sports psychologist. Even Nathan Standish, for a minute. Plus your father. Of course, that all changed when he was killed.”

  I sighed. “It showed how wrong we were.”

  “It also gave you more to work with,” Ryan noted, “once you decided there was a connection between the deaths.”

  “Not that we knew what the connection was,” Holly said.

  I realized how arrogant we sounded, thinking we could solve Alexa’s father’s murder. “I know the cops were working on finding your father’s killer, but we had information they didn’t—the connection to PJ. We figured it had to be someone who was around back then and now. Also someone who wasn’t at the track when PJ was killed and who was at our party last week.”

  “Pretty clever.” Uncle Stan leaned against the garage wall next to us.

  I shook my head. “It didn’t feel clever. We kept turning up evidence of people doing borderline illegal or unethical stuff, but nothing seemed to point to murder.”

  “Like what?” Uncle Stan asked.

  “Dean Herrera was the worst. It seems like he’s selling forged goods—all those items he sells signed by famous drivers might not be. Certainly some stuff signed by PJ doesn’t seem to be. Any news on that?” I asked Ryan.

  “I’ll know more next week, but I expect the FBI will question him,” he replied.

  Holly jumped in. “Kevin Hagan was a reporter with AP in PJ’s time, and he won prizes for the long features he did on her life and death. It doesn’t seem like he’s ever done anything wrong, but no one likes him. Or respects him. And we couldn’t ever figure out why he’d kill your father, Alexa, though he was around that night.”

  “And Tom Barclay?” Alexa asked. “I’ve always liked him.”

  Holly grinned. “Kate wanted it to be him, especially after that rumor came out about her feeling unstable and seeking help.”

  “Turns out, he didn’t plant that story, but he didn’t deny it.” I nodded at the surprise on everyone’s face. “I confronted him earlier today, and he was stunned when I told him PJ might not have committed suicide. He found me after the race to apologize and tell me I’d made him question fundamental assumptions.”

  “What did that have to do with anything?” Ryan asked.

  “In his case, it meant he realized he’d been used by Sofia Montalvo to make me look bad—meaning she sent the Ringer the rumor about me.” I waved off everyone’s anger about Sofia. “When he said he’d questioned core beliefs and doing so made everything turn upside down, I did the same.”

  I glanced at Ryan, chagrined. “Like you told us, only days too late—question everything. I realized the only reason we weren’t looking at Chuck Gaffey, whose name kept coming up over and over, was because of his own story.”

  Holly nodded. “If you didn’t believe he was heartbroken, all the rest of the pieces fit. He benefitted, he wasn’t at the track the morning PJ died, he was at the party where Ron was killed—he was even on my list of people in the back of the shop.”

  “I was convinced, but had no proof,” I said. “Here in the garage, I tried to get Gramps to move away from Chuck, but Chuck probably saw on my face that I suspected him. Then the brake people were here for a photo, and Gramps was gone.” I fell silent, reliving my panic.

  After a long moment, Ryan shook his head. “There’s one thing I don’t understand.” He paused. “Rollerskating?”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  I laughed at Ryan’s question. “One year when I was a kid, I had a rollerskating party for my birthday. Even Grandmother and Gramps got out there with us, but poor Gramps.” I giggled. “He couldn’t make it five feet without falling down.”

  “I was the hit of the rink that night.” He flushed. “Never could get the hang of those suckers.”

  “It became a family joke.” I smiled at him. “Anytime anyone fell down, it was ‘a rollerskating incident.’”

  Gramps nodded. “When the cops asked if there was any way for you to get away from Chuck or at least to drop to the ground, it’s all I could think of.”

  “It worked. I knew exactly what you wanted me to do,” I said. “Didn’t understand why, but it was strange enough I figured someone was helping you.”

  “Clever,” Ryan said. “I was hoping we could stop him before he got Kate in the car and took off for the airport—since I didn’t know what airport and how quickly we’d be able to get someone there to try to stop him.”

  Alexa knew the answer. “Eagle Creek Airpark is about five miles away.”

  “We’d never have gotten anyone there in time.” Ryan shook his head. “It’s a good thing we didn’t have to.”

  Alexa drew a deep breath and turned to me. “I’m glad that for whatever else he did in his life, my father had a role in bringing PJ’s killer to justice.” She paused. “It’ll always be hard to know he was part of the scheme in the first place. But at least he helped in the end. I think he’d be glad of that.”

  “He was more than just part of it, Alexa. He actively encouraged it with his anonymous notes,” I explained. “Early on—as early as the second day of practice—I got notes in my locker. At first, I thought they were threats, but by the third one, I knew he wanted me to ask questions about PJ.”

  Holly nodded. “They succeeded.”

  “Another thing.” I leaned forward. “He was trying to make right what he’d done. He wanted redemption.”

  We were all quiet, then Uncle Stan spoke. “Ron found it in the end. He knows.”

  There wasn’t much else to say after that, and we slowly collected our belongings and went our separate ways. The four of us returned to our apartment, and while I showered, Holly and Ryan went out to pick up dinner.

  “Anything but chicken and steamed vegetables,” I’d told them when they asked what I wanted, and I was delighted with their choice: big juicy burgers, piles of crisp French fries, and mounds of coleslaw. We sat at the table, feasted, and talked about the race—without saying a word about Chuck Gaffey.

  But I hugged Gramps extra close and long before we all went to bed that night. Ryan did the same for me when I woke at two o’clock from a nightmare of the knife against my neck and that white Porsche.

  Monday, Memorial Day, dawned bright, sunny, and breezy in Indianapolis, and for the first time in weeks, I felt like all was right with the world again. My two big activities for the day were cleaning out my locker at the track and attending the Indy 500 Victory Banquet that evening. I also had a few other odds and ends to take care of, including meeting PJ’s family at a coffee shop right after the lunch hour. Gramps and Holly wanted a lazy day at home before the evening’s party, but I took Ryan with me.

  Elena and Tony had heard the news, and we’d all read Lyla Thomas’ reports onl
ine, but what I didn’t anticipate was how clearing PJ’s name would have transformed her family. Elena looked ten years younger and joyful. Tony’s humor was much the same, but without the grim edge underneath.

  They thanked me, effusively. Embarrassingly. “It wasn’t me alone—lots of other people helped, including Ryan.”

  They turned to thank him, and he shook his head. “None of us thought we could actually unravel a crime that old. We were lucky.”

  I nodded. “We’re all glad PJ can be remembered as she deserves to be.”

  Elena blinked back tears. “You returned our daughter to us. We can’t ever thank you enough.” She reached into her purse and came out with a small box, which she set on the table in front of me.

  I kept my hands in my lap. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “It was PJ’s,” Tony said. “I think she’d like for you to have it.”

  I was surprised and intrigued, so I opened the box and found a small medallion on a metal bead chain. I looked at Tony and Elena for an explanation.

  “It’s a medal of St. Christopher,” Elena told us. “She always wore one. I know she’d like you to have something that was important to her.”

  It reminded me of the triumphant photo that accompanied Lyla Thomas’ interview, and it was the perfect way to remember her. “I’ll treasure it, thank you.”

  As we stood in the parking lot outside the coffee shop, saying goodbye, Tony’s phone rang, and he frowned before shoving it back in his pocket, unanswered.

  Elena frowned. “Another one?”

  “The same,” he replied.

  “Reporters?” I asked

  “That cabrón, Kevin Hagan,” Tony said. “He leaves messages telling me he’s the only person to tell PJ’s story now, because he was the one to tell it then.”

  “Are you going to talk with him?” Ryan wanted to know.