“I’m sorry to bring it up. But everyone is talking about it and speculating. I don’t know what’s related or not, but I’ve heard words like cheating, blackmail, sabotage—and talked to people who have gut feelings that Wade was connected to some bad stuff. Put all that together and I have to at least ask the question: is it a problem with a supplier’s part or is there real cheating going on? And how much did Wade know?”
Stuart looked stony, but Jolley was nodding and writing in his notebook.
“Anyway, I can’t figure out how this helps you.”
Jolley looked up and flipped his notebook closed. “You just have to look at who benefits by Becker’s death and why. As an example, you benefit by getting his job. If Becker was really slowing down, Jack Sandham, every member of the crew, and Mike Munroe benefit—though death is more drastic than firing him. If he was a blackmailer or a cheater, his victims benefit by being free of him. Other drivers aren’t being threatened or run off the track. Mr. Trimble and Mr. Purley don’t have their loved ones involved with him. The ALMS doesn’t have a loose cannon around.”
He glanced at Stuart. “Your job is easier.”
Stuart looked weary. “Only in some ways. Have you located a family member who will come to collect his belongings?”
“He didn’t seem to have much family. We’re in contact with a sister in Wisconsin, but I don’t expect her to come here. They weren’t close. Do any of you know anything about Wade outside of the racing series?”
No one spoke.
“We’re here to do a job, and we’re focused on it,” I finally explained. “There’s not much idle chit-chat. And Wade wasn’t one for talking about himself.”
“I don’t think he had much going on outside of racing,” Stuart commented. “Most of us in the Series tend to hear what the next step or the side projects are for drivers—whether another career entirely, broadcasting, or team ownership. But I’ve never heard anything about Wade.”
Tom piped up. “Jack, Mike, or Marcus Trimble might know more.”
Jolley nodded. “Stuart, I’ll need to find Paul and Marcus Trimble. I assume you can help me with that?”
“Of course.”
“And you two,” Jolley turned to Tom and me. “Watch your backs, keep your ears open and your mouths shut. There’s every reason to expect that Wade Becker’s killer came from the racing world. Don’t poke at snakes. You might get bitten, too.”
He was deadly serious, and he scared me.
We emerged from the trailer to find overcast skies. Within seconds, fat, sporadic raindrops started to fall. Tom dashed off, back to the team paddock. Stuart escorted Detective Jolley in a different direction. I sat down at a table under the awning with a bottle of water and tried to empty my mind.
I was identifying the ALMS staff and VIPs seated at the other tables—Victor Delray was talking earnestly with the ALMS media relations guy, Michelin reps were pitching something to a team owner, and excited-looking people in Porsche shirts were listening to a Porsche executive—when I saw my father entering the tent.
He soon approached. “How are you today, Katherine?”
“Emotionally drained,” was the true answer I wouldn’t give him. “I’ve had better, and I’ve had worse.”
“The item I gave you last night. Did you have any questions about it?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“I haven’t had a chance to open it yet.”
He spoke stiffly. “Please do so as soon as you can. You could be courte—”
I stood, tired of the martyr act. “Look. You’ve given me nothing. Not once. And now you’re looking for courtesy. I’m fresh out this weekend.”
“Katherine.” He stopped me from storming away with a hand on my arm. I turned, but shook off his touch.
“I understand you’re angry. I accept that. But please—even if you never change your mind about me—please give me the opportunity to explain some things about our families and your childhood. I’m going to keep talking to you until you agree.”
I sighed. “Maybe you will wear me down someday. But not this weekend. I’ve got enough to deal with already—a new ride, a new track, finding a body, dealing with the police, ignoring rumors that I’m a homicidal maniac. The list goes on.” I looked at my watch. “And now I need to go.”
His eyes got big, and he grabbed my arm again. “You found Wade Becker?”
I looked at his hand on my arm. “Please let me go,” I said quietly and forcefully, and he did. “Yes, I found him yesterday. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“But Katherine, if you’re dealing with the police, does that mean you’re a suspect? And what are these rumors?”
“I’m not a suspect—not really. There are still rumors that I did it, which I’m ignoring, because I didn’t.”
“But Katherine, you need to be careful. I mean, if there’s been one murder—”
“Stop it! I race cars for a living, what makes you think I can’t handle rumors? Good bye.” I could feel him watching me as I left.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I got wet walking from the Series trailer to the Sandham Swift paddock, but I didn’t care. I was thinking about my investigation. Who had the opportunity to commit the murder was important, but that was simple information to gather—for the police, if not for me. What made the opportunity mean anything was motive: why Wade was killed, what had driven someone to murder. I needed to find Wade’s notebook and gather more information from people in the paddock—but carefully.
A fat raindrop landed on my nose. The showers made the paddock area smell fresh again—a break from the exhaust- and fuel-laden air I hadn’t really noticed. Connecticut was green for a reason, and showers were probably part of any week’s forecast. Rain. Race. I’d have to hope for the best.
Aunt Tee was standing under the team awning, looking at the rain with disapproval. “Kate! Get in here and get dry!” She tugged me under cover.
“Any idea of tomorrow’s forecast, Aunt Tee?”
“They’re all saying no rain until next Thursday. A dry spell, it’s supposed to be.” We turned to look at the rain and laughed together.
I pushed my damp hair away from my face. “I’m just hoping for the best tomorrow. Do you have an umbrella I can borrow?”
“Sure. Where are you going now?”
“Torsten and Andy are leading a track walk for fans in a few minutes. I’m going to tag along and see if I can learn anything.”
Seth, the 29-car driver, approached from the garage area. “Kate, do you have a minute?”
Aunt Tee waved her hands at us. “You two talk. Kate, I’ll dig up an umbrella and a jacket for you. Come get them when you’re done.” She went into the motorhome.
“What can I do for you, Seth?”
He crooked a finger and led me to the chairs. “It’s what I can do for you.”
I studied him, a short, stocky, mid-fifties corporate executive who kept himself in good shape and raced cars for fun. I wasn’t surprised he’d made a fortune in the hotel business, if he applied the same focus and determination I saw him apply to his racecraft. “I’m all ears.”
“You may know, I own a resort up the road in the Berkshires. My head of security, Dennis Weston, apparently moonlights as a guard for this track—I ran into him last night as I was leaving. Turns out, he was working Friday night.”
He saw my interest. “Exactly. I know he’s spoken with the police about the cars he saw leaving. But you might want to talk to him—since you have a vested interest in the outcome of this investigation.”
“Making sure I’m not arrested?”
He laughed at my dry tone. “In a nutshell.”
“Yes, I’d like that. Is he here today? Tonight?”
“He’s not working until 9:00 tomorrow morning. But he’s happy to talk
to you.”
I stifled my impatience at the delay. “Thanks, Seth. I appreciate the help. Did he tell you anything?”
“I don’t remember all the details, but there were four cars leaving the track in the timeframe the police were interested in: two silver Ford Tauruses, a red rental Chevy, and a red Ferrari. The Ferrari had…an amorous couple in it.”
“A busy place for that hour. Listen, thank you. I know I shouldn’t be asking questions at all—”
He pointed a finger directly at my nose. “In my book—and the business world—if you’re not looking out for number one, you’ll be trampled. Just do it intelligently. And watch your back.”
While he returned to the garage, I spent a minute considering his information. The Ferrari might be easy to track down, if it was someone involved in the ALMS, but three generic rentals didn’t narrow the field—silver Tauruses were as common in race parking lots as straw in a haystack.
Aunt Tee’s hands were full with a mixing bowl and spoon when I entered the motorhome. I sat on one of the sofas while she worked on cookie batter and told me about another dinner I needed to attend that night. She was listing who’d be in attendance and their importance to the team when I lost track of her words, struck by a memory of sitting on the couch the day before. That’s where I’d found Wade’s notebook! Then what?
“Kate?” Aunt Tee was standing in front of me with a jacket and a Racegear.com umbrella in her hands.
“I’m sorry, I was remembering something that happened yesterday.”
“What was that?”
I slipped on the Sandham Swift–logoed windbreaker. “Fits great, thanks. I found a notebook in the couch. I think it was Wade’s.”
“A small, black one?”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Not recently. But I’ve seen Wade writing in it. Is it important?”
“I don’t know. The police want it. I just remembered I found it between the couch cushions when I was changing for practice. I stuffed it into my firesuit pocket—where is my suit, by the way?”
“Hanging in the back.” She led me into the bedroom and opened a clothes closet.
I reached past her and rummaged in the pockets. “Nothing.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for it. You’d better get going to the track walk. You’ve only got a couple minutes.”
She followed me out of the motorhome, and I waved goodbye with the umbrella. “Thanks again. I’ll check in later.”
I joined the group of about fifty fans standing on the racetrack at Pit Out, and glanced back down pit road, picking out the Sandham Swift setup. That’s when it hit me: I’d moved Wade’s notebook from my suit into my pit cart locker along with my own. With the ensuing activity, I’d forgotten them both.
I darted to the pits, even as I heard a voice behind me introducing Torsten and Andy, LinkTime Corvette drivers, as the leaders of the tour. A minute later, notebook secured, I rejoined the group just as it started moving. I was out of breath, my heart thumping.
I knew that Detective Jolley would want me to call him and hand over the notebook immediately. And I imagined the notebook as a beacon in my zippered jacket pocket, broadcasting an alert to him that I’d found it. But my first concern was racing, and I needed this track walk. I’d hand over the notebook later—after I had a look at it myself.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I stood near the edge of the group, warding off the light rain with my umbrella and trying to be inconspicuous. Half the people carried umbrellas, including Torsten. Others wore hats or hoods. Andy wore nothing to stay dry. He just grinned at the crowd and rubbed his bald head, explaining he needed another shower anyway.
As we approached the first turn, Big Bend, the walkers had split in two, one group following Andy, and the one I was in following Torsten. He was giving a running commentary on how to handle the track and answering questions fans asked.
The wife of a married couple sporting his-and-hers fanny packs and car-themed Hawaiian shirts asked the next question. “What do all the flags mean?”
Torsten stopped walking and faced the group. “The flags. There are a lot of them, aren’t there? Part of the corner worker’s job is to communicate to drivers, and they do that through the flags. You’ll know some of them. How about green?”
“Go racing,” a male voice from the crowd called out.
“Correct. How about white? And checkered?”
“Last lap and race over,” said the Hawaiian-shirted husband.
“Right.” Torsten waved his arms to keep the crowd walking down the track as he walked backwards, facing us. “Yellows you probably know about; that means caution and no passing. But there’s also a distinction: you might get a local yellow at a corner, or double-yellow from the start/finish line that means full course caution and lining up behind the pace car. A variation on the yellow is a yellow with red stripes, which tells me there’s a slippery surface or debris on track. And a red flag means stop in place because the track is closed. Now, what am I forgetting?”
“Black?” came a voice from the crowd.
“What’s the blue one?” shouted a female voice at the same time.
Torsten nodded. “Of course, one flag you never want to see and the other that we see all the time. Black first: that’s telling you to leave the track immediately, either because of a mechanical problem or a rule infraction. It usually spells trouble. And the blue, with a yellow diagonal line, tells me faster traffic is coming behind me. That one’s rarely out of corner workers’ hands in the ALMS.”
Flags took us all the way through Big Bend, and Torsten stopped to tell the group about apexes. Someone asked him what he’d thought the first time he’d driven the track, and with a wink at me, he blew my cover.
“It’s been too many years to remember what it was like, except for being tight and bumpy, like I’ve told you. But we’ve got a new driver here—stealing my precious secrets. She just drove it yesterday, and she’ll be racing tomorrow, in another Corvette. Kate, why don’t you tell everyone what it’s like to drive this beast for the first time?”
Two dozen pairs of eyes followed his gaze to me, and two dozen brains clicked, “She’s that one.”
I put on my best public smile. “I second everything Torsten said. It was shocking to drive the first time. Bumpy. My insides felt carbonated by the end of the first lap, and by the end of the tenth? My body still feels pounded on today from twenty minutes in the car yesterday.”
The faces still looked interested, so I kept going. “You also never get a break here. Every second of every lap, you’re thinking about what you’re doing now and what you’ll do next. A shift of the wheel, a tap of the brake, the line for the next turn or straight. There isn’t a single second when you can drop your shoulders and take a breath—which usually we can do on a long straight. This track is so short and narrow that you’re mentally on every fraction of every second. You have to drive very technically—being very aware of your hands and your approach to turns, that sort of thing.”
Torsten winked at me again when I’d finished. He continued leading the group through the Esses, pointing out the large concrete patch in the left-hander. A couple people attached themselves to me—staying near as the group ebbed and flowed around Torsten’s stops and starts. They didn’t ask questions until we stopped at the top of the chicane—What was it like to be a racecar driver? Was it hard to be a woman and be a driver? What did I think my chances were in the race?—but I was frustrated at missing Torsten’s information. He got people moving again as Andy joined us, and I ditched my questioners to slip into the fringe of Andy’s followers. One man followed me, but he didn’t say anything until we were walking down the Back Straight and Andy was answering questions.
He flipped back the hood of his light jacket and spoke in a light English accent. “You’re driving for Sandha
m Swift now, is that correct?” When I turned to him to respond, I tripped over my own feet. He was my gorgeous mystery-man, and he was even more beautiful up close. I couldn’t see his eyes behind his aviator glasses, but the rest of him was straight out of Vogue or the Abercrombie catalog, all six-feet, sculpted cheekbones, and perfect, wavy, sun-kissed brown hair of him. He didn’t seem real, because he was just too beautiful.
I gathered my wits. “Yes. The 28 car.”
“I thought so.” He straightened, took a deep breath, and stared ahead down the track.
“Are you a fan of the team? A friend?”
“Yes, Wade’s—Wade was a friend. I’m Marcus Trimble.” He held out a hand and gave a sad smile—one potent enough to make me weak in the knees.
We shook. “Kate Reilly. Obviously, I’m driving for Wade.”
“Yes, and I wish you all the best luck.”
“Thank you.” The impression of Marcus I’d gotten from Stuart was of an aimless, unfocused, and irresponsible boy. He wasn’t any of that in person.
“Where did you race before this, Kate? How did you get here? I’d really like to know how someone just breaking in actually makes it.” He took his glasses off, revealing an intent look. Mother of God. His eyes were light green, rimmed with the longest dark brown lashes I’d ever seen.
I had to concentrate on my breathing before I could give him a short version of my background. When he appeared ready to ask more questions, I suggested we talk later—hard as it was to shut down his attentions—in order to listen to Andy now. But Marcus was eager for Andy’s pearls of wisdom also, and we finished the track walk in harmony, attentive to Andy’s every word—which wasn’t lost on Andy.
“So, you’ve got Trimble Junior now,” he whispered, when I went to thank him at the end. “Just watch yourself.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Nice guy, crazy about racing, always around. Really terrible driver, though. He’s a leech—latches onto people to suck up their time and energy. Yet everyone likes him.” Andy rubbed his goateed chin.
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