Avoidable Contact

by Tammy Kaehler

  I snapped my fingers. “That woman who kissed Stuart is part of the Arena team. Maybe you can check her out. She’s got to be up to something.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “Could Stuart have been cheating on you?”

  I winced. “I don’t think so.” He might have been disappointed in me, but he’d break it off with me before turning to someone else.

  “Stuart would never do that,” Holly put in. “He’s a Southern gentleman enough to be polite, no matter how forward or poor someone else’s behavior was.”

  “She’s part of this suspicious team—” I began.

  “Says someone who may or may not really be a reporter,” Latham interjected.

  “She’s acting aggressive,” I went on. “She keeps giving me dirty looks for no reason.”

  Latham looked blank. “In that case, I’ll be sure to check her out. Can’t have dirty looks.”

  “Don’t make fun of me.” I dropped my head in my hands, tired of the whole day.

  Holly shoved her chair back and stepped around the table to face him. Her fists were balled on her hips. “Don’t patronize either one of us. Would you prefer we don’t tell you about any of this? Because that was on the table.”

  I studied them: the tall, gun-toting detective facing off against a petite, flaming-redhead. I had to go with Holly.

  “I apologize, you’re right. I was out of line.” He looked chagrined as he rubbed the top of his bald head. “Let me write down the messages—and I’d like screenshots of them also. I won’t take your phone. But make sure you tell me about anything else you get—and don’t go digging on your own. I’ll take you seriously if you let us do the investigating.”

  “Deal.” I handed my phone back to him so he could read and make notes. Five minutes and a few more warnings about not getting ourselves into trouble later, he left.

  Holly ran her fingers through her short, corkscrew curls. “You gonna listen to him? Leave all the investigating to the po-lice?” She drawled out the final word.

  “Are you crazy? I’m going to figure out if this reporter is for real and if he’s right. Because I want to know who hurt Stuart—” I faltered, but kept going. “To make sure they get what they deserve.” I eyed her. “You in?”

  “Call me Dr. Watson, Sherlock.”

  I smiled and followed her out of the lounge into the garage area. She went to check in with the folks in the Western Racing team garage. I aimed for the Tommys: Thomas Kendall, our rock-star gentleman driver, and Tom Albright, our media guy. The two of them—who we’d agreed to call Thomas and Tom to avoid confusion—stood talking in front of the 30 car’s closed garage door.

  Thomas tossed an arm around my shoulders while Tom finished scribbling in a small notepad.

  “You taking off, Thomas?”

  “You kidding me?” He shook his head. “I’m part of this team, and I’m here to the end. I’m gonna soak it all in to be ready for next year—plus cheer the rest of you on.”

  “What happened today hasn’t ruined racing for you?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I won’t tell you it’s been a great experience. It’s also been an expensive one—but I can’t consider money when we think about poor Ian.” He paused, and scrunched his nose, looking down the paddock. “I know racing is about taking the ups with the downs. I figure this place owes me some ups after starting with the downs.” He shrugged. “Bottom line, I love racing.”

  I smiled at him. “I’m not going to argue with you.”

  He chuckled, then looked down the paddock. “There’s someone I’d like to meet. Guy who made it from sportscars up into NASCAR.”

  My stomach lurched as I realized he meant Sam Remington. Tom turned to me. “You know Sam, right?”

  I did my best not to grimace. “Sure, I’ll introduce you sometime.” How about not right now?

  But there was no avoiding it. Sam was coming our way, a beauty queen tucked under his arm. I took a deep breath.

  Sam greeted me and nodded at the two Tommys. “I’m so sorry about Ian. My condolences to all of you.”

  Hearing this has to get easier, right? “Sam, do you know Tom and Thomas? Tom Albright, our team media and logistics guy. And Thomas Kendall, owner of the 30 car.”

  Sam shook hands with Tom and then with Thomas. When he gave Thomas a confused look, I added, “You probably know him as Tommy Fantastic.”

  “Of course!” Sam gushed. “I’m a fan. So sorry about your race.”

  “I’m a fan of yours, too,” Thomas replied. “I hope this will be your year in Cup.”

  The woman wrapped around Sam’s elbow cleared her throat, and we all turned to her. She was inches taller than Sam and gorgeous—slim, blond, and perfectly proportioned. She was decked out in skintight clothing and wedge heels that made her legs look like they should be insured. I was shocked the men had ignored her this long.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “Tommy—Thomas—and Tom, this is Paula Quinn.”

  She smiled, displaying perfect white teeth. “Sam’s fiancée. Lovely to meet you.”

  I waited a beat, then reached out a hand to her, since no one else was making the introductions. “Hi Paula, I’m Kate Reilly.”

  I got a quarter-wattage version of the smile and a handshake with only the tips of her fingers, as if she didn’t want to touch me at all. “Of course, Kate.”

  She knows about my history with Sam. I felt better than I had all day.

  She saw my smile and smoothed her thick, straight hair over her shoulder with her left hand, flashing her enormous diamond engagement ring. As the three men traded compliments, Paula leaned over to me. Keeping her right hand locked around Sam’s arm, she pasted a fake smile on her face and said quietly, so only I could hear, “Keep away from my man, bitch.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  9:35 P.M. | 16:35 HOURS REMAINING

  I laughed out loud, unable to help myself. When the guys all turned to us, I gave them a genuine smile and pointed to Paula.

  She fluttered her eyelashes at them. “Girl talk.”

  Don’t make me puke.

  Sam patted her hand and turned back to Thomas. Paula glared at me. “I will hurt you if you get in my way.”

  I spoke quietly. “You’re always welcome to my leftovers, Paula.” I leaned around her to speak to Tom and Thomas. “I’ve got to go. Catch you all later.”

  I set off back to our team lounge. I hadn’t paid much attention to who occupied the other rooms in the small building, but as I approached our door, Raul Salas exited the room to the left of ours.

  He broke into a smile and threw both arms in the air when he saw me. “My racing partner!”

  I couldn’t help smiling back. “That was fun, wasn’t it?” I held out a hand.

  He raised an eyebrow and shook my hand. “Very much fun, Kate. You are quite talented.”

  “As are you.” I gave an experimental tug, but he held onto my hand with both of his. He started caressing it with one of his thumbs. The sensation drove all thoughts from my mind. I stared at our hands, then looked up at his face.

  He ducked his head an inch or two to look me in the eye. “You are a compelling woman, Kate Reilly,” he whispered.

  His eyes, his focus on me, and his voice were all mesmerizing. I don’t know how long I stood there staring at him.

  What the hell are you doing, Kate?

  I took a deep breath and pulled my hand free. “Same goes. See you later.” I fled back into our team lounge.

  I spent the next ten minutes inside, watching the live race feed and coming to a few conclusions. First of all, Raul Salas was dangerous. But a hell of a driver. Second, Paula was crazy, and so, by extension, was Sam. Third, I was a horrible person because while I wanted Stuart recovered and back at the racetrack more than anything, I was glad for a break from his disappointment in me about our rel
ationship.

  Fourth, I was angry at Foster Calhoun, who I figured bore at least some responsibility for Stuart being hurt. Fifth and last, I wanted whoever had run down Stuart to pay—whether that person was from the Arena team or not.

  Calhoun believed an Arena team member was responsible, but it would take more than the word of a stranger to convince me. That meant I needed intelligence on the people in and around the Arena Motorsports megaplex in the pits. When Holly arrived in the team lounge, I was wrapping up messages to my father and grandfather asking for anything they knew about the team owner, Richard Arena, as well as his partners and supporters in racing—and swearing them to secrecy.

  Holly laughed hysterically when I quoted Sam’s fiancée. “Was Sam always so controlling, Holly?” I asked, reflecting on his comments earlier in the pits.

  “He’s always been friendly, gorgeous, humble, but still somehow in charge. Always the one offering praise or comfort. You needed a boss or mentor. Someone to help talk through decisions. Maybe that’s controlling, maybe it’s guidance. But you sure need it less now than you did back then.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “It appears he found someone who does. I hope they’ll be very happy together.” She ignored my eye rolling and waggled her cell phone at me. “Different topic, back to Calhoun. I found something you should see.”

  I read the headline of the article displayed: Journalist Jailed for Assault on Potential Source. The journalist in question was Foster Calhoun.

  “It was eight years ago,” Holly said. “But he did punch a guy who promised him a scoop and didn’t follow through.”

  I looked at her. “You think he attacked Stuart because Stuart wouldn’t give him information?” I supposed it was possible Calhoun had become irate at Stuart refusing to help him with his article, and then Calhoun had run Stuart down.

  Possible, but not likely?

  Holly sighed. “I’m not sure what I think, but I found the article.”

  “It’s hard to know what to believe or who to trust, isn’t it?”

  “You’re not kidding, sugar.”

  I changed the subject by asking how Greg and the others down at Western Racing were coping with the news about Ian.

  She shook her head. “Greg wasn’t there, but everyone else is shaken up—upset, angry. The car’s still running sixth, but they’re all unsettled because they’re not sure what Greg’s going to want to do, if and when he reappears. I can’t blame them—or him.”

  I looked at the clock on the wall then pointed to our long, water- and wind-proof jackets with Sandham Swift, Beauté, and BCRF logos embroidered on them. “Time to bundle up and get back to the pits.”

  The fastest route there was through the Fan Zone, an extensive area that offered everything from viewing windows into the garages—this was a NASCAR track, after all, and fans couldn’t be allowed to overrun the garages; they had to watch through windows—to a stage, gift shop, and concession stand. Plus the real bathrooms I was so fond of. The zone extended from the interior of the V-shaped garage buildings to the Daytona 500 Club that loomed above Victory Lane, opposite the track’s start/finish line.

  At the Daytona 500 weekend, the Fan Zone would be packed, and any driver who dared show their face inside would be mobbed. But during the 24 Hours of Daytona, drivers, teams, and fans mingled everywhere. The real rock stars—of racing and music—were still surrounded by small crowds when they ventured into the public-access space, but drivers like me typically wandered everywhere unrecognized and unmolested. That level of acceptance or anonymity suited me fine. I didn’t need the insane fan worship Miles had, for instance.

  This time through the Fan Zone, we ran into Zeke Andrews, a former driver, on-air commentator for SGTV, and my friend and mentor. I was surprised to see him in the infield of the track, because this race was his first in his new role of reporting from the booth instead of running up and down pit lane all race.

  “You couldn’t stay away?” I asked as he enveloped me in a hug.

  He laughed, releasing me and turning to hug Holly. “Did my opening stint, didn’t I? Now I get a break for dinner like a good lad.” Zeke was born in South Africa, grew up in Australia, raced for many years in Britain, and currently lived in North Carolina. His accent and expressions were all over the map, depending on who he’d spent time with recently.

  He turned back to me. “Plus I hoped to catch you now rather than later tonight. Are you doing all right, Katie-Q?”

  “I’ll be okay.” I was already tired of the question, though I appreciated those, like Zeke, who asked and really meant it.

  “And yourself, Miss Holly?” he asked.

  “Coping.”

  Zeke nodded. “Best that can be hoped for. You tell me when you need anything at all. A shoulder for your weeping, a drinking buddy, someone to help you face down the bullies. Either of you, say the word.”

  I smiled at my burly, big-hearted surrogate big brother. “You can help us with one thing.”

  “Anything, luv.”

  I looked around to be sure no one was within earshot. “Tell us what you know about Arena Motorsports and Richard Arena.”

  “Tell me first how you’ll use it.”

  “Nothing public,” Holly assured him. “No publication, no spreading stories around.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Then, why?”

  I explained about the accusations made by Foster Calhoun. “In fact, maybe you can find out more about Calhoun, too. From your journalism sources or something.”

  “If it’s his investigation, his story, and his arse in danger, why are you asking questions?”

  “To find out stuff the police can’t. I swear, we’re in the cops’ back pocket with this, Zeke.” I took a breath and looked across the Fan Zone. “But I need to do everything I can to make sure whoever hurt Stuart is caught. And punished.”

  Zeke hugged me again.

  “Dammit, I’m not crying, Zeke,” I said against his shoulder. “I’m pissed off!”

  He chuckled and released me, then thought a moment. “What I know is the Arena team raced in Grand-Am for half a dozen years, getting better and bigger each season. This is the first year they’ve had such a presence.” He shook his head. “The logistics of that many cars, trucks, and people is amazing.”

  Holly twirled a finger in the air.

  “I’m getting to your point, luv. The money comes from Richard Arena, who’s made several fortunes in a few different businesses. He drives. He’s gone from being a raw amateur to quite good and respected—for his driving skill, at least. He’s especially good at capitalizing on other drivers’ mistakes on track—keep that in mind when you’re out there, Kate.” At my nod, he continued. “On a personal level, most people find him withdrawn and aloof—particularly the media, who can’t get an interview. Ever. His official bio says he grew up poor in Los Angeles, the oldest of five kids.”

  “I know about the olive oil business—that’s one of his, right?” I asked. “What else?”

  “A national chain of Laundromats and a home security company. And now the racing team, which must bring in some money, the way he’s got a dozen or twenty guys paying for a ride.”

  Holly looked between me and Zeke. “None of that sounds like something to have a reporter on the run, afraid for his life.”

  Zeke rubbed his chin. “There’s also the federal investigation.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  10:00 P.M. | 16:10 HOURS REMAINING

  “The what?” Holly and I chorused the words.

  “No one I know will talk about the details,” Zeke said. “The media knows multiple federal agencies spoke with the Series and some of the team’s partners. No charges yet, but we’re all assuming it’s a matter of time.”

  I sputtered. “If he’s doing something illegal—”

  “Is he?” Zeke l
ooked at our shocked faces and glanced around. “No one has proof of anything. I suspect the racing world is making as much money as they can from him before he goes down. Or goes away.”

  Holly lifted a shoulder. “I’ve seen that happen before. Out-and-out crooks racing until the day before they’re carted off to jail. Racing takes all types.”

  I put some pieces together. “Calhoun must know more of Richard Arena’s story.” Another thought occurred to me, and I swallowed my distaste. “Zeke, what do you know about the brunette woman associated with the team?”

  His eyes brightened. “Yeah, her. Wowzer.”

  My insides clenched. Holly hit Zeke on the shoulder. “Cut it out.”

  “What?” When he got nothing but stern looks from us, he sobered. “All I know is she works for the team—or for the boss in general, not sure. Her name’s Monica. She’s gorgeous but unfriendly.”

  Holly shook her head. “Or she’s only friendly to the right people?”

  “Which doesn’t include me, more’s the pity.” Zeke shrugged, then waved at someone approaching behind us.

  I turned to see a guy I recognized from the former ALMS, Perry Jameson, who’d had something to do with media or marketing.

  Perry turned when Zeke asked if he knew us.

  “Of course, good to see you. How’s the race going for you?” He shook our hands.

  “Our car’s—”

  Yet another man in a firesuit walked past and darted over to shake hands with Zeke.

  Perry turned and then looked my way again. “I’m good, thanks. Working freelance now for a few teams.”

  I saw the same mystification on Holly’s face. I cleared my throat. “The merger turned out all right for you?”

  His expression soured. “For me it’s been great. I can’t say the same for everyone, can you? The teams don’t know whether they’re coming or going with regulations, drivers don’t know their rankings—it’s no way to run a series.” He sighed. “But the geniuses in the front office aren’t asking me, so I’ll withhold comment.”