At first it had bothered her that a stranger was taking pictures from the distance. The presumption was annoying. There were enough people intruding in her life. She refused to make room for a curious child she’d never met. Then, as she started feeling isolated from the team, she began to look forward to the next installment. That’s why she wouldn’t lock the gate. Days like today, the intruder seemed to be her only friend in Indianapolis. The one person who didn’t think he knew more about cars than she did. A young person eager to learn. She was touched by the implied adulation.
She pulled her legs up onto the seat, stretched the sweater over her knees. Only her fingertips peeked out from under the cuffs.
“When I was about eight, a spring snow storm closed school early. No one was home when I arrived. Dad was at work; Mom was out with the twins; Mrs. Bellotti was stuck somewhere shopping. The snow was glorious. Fat flakes mounting up quickly, reducing vision, melting on my face, muffling the city noises. I rebelled at staying inside the empty, dull house, so I pranced through the drifts to the Boston Public Library feeling like Sir Hillary conquering the Pole. Stamping off my boots, I dropped my coat near the door and marched into the main reference room.
“I’d only been there a few times before, never by myself. It was so quiet. There was one other person besides the librarian. A man, who looked elderly, was bent over a table, half his face lit by the lamp. His hooked nose nearly touched the paper. He was scribbling as fast as stiff fingers would allow. Brazenly, I went over and sat opposite him. He kept writing. I pulled out a fat volume from the row of reference books and pretended to read. He continued to write. I looked down, turned a page, then more. Realized I couldn’t understand any of the letters.
“‘Read Greek do you?’ He threw out the question. I nodded, but he wasn’t looking. He repeated it louder as if he thought I was dim. Instead of admitting my ignorance I asked him what he was writing. He said it was none of my business. I asked if he was taking a test? That riled him enough to set down the pen.
“‘Young lady, the written word is man’s single most significant achievement. It separates us from animals. It joins people together by expressing that which we feel in common. If you should ever grow wise enough to have something worth saying, you too shall know the magic of words.’ With that, he slammed shut his notebook and stood up, towering over the table.”
Mick swigged his beer, wishing her face weren’t in shadow. “He walked out on you?”
“No. He gave me a scratch pad and sat me on the floor in front of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Said, pick a topic, any topic, look it up, read about it and start writing. I asked what I should write. ‘Whatever moves you,’ he said. ‘Don’t stop writing until your hand cramps or your pencil breaks.’”
Mick laughed, he couldn’t help it. The old guy knew how to get rid of a pesky kid. “Tom Sawyer lives. Or was it Huck Finn who handed over the paint brush? I’m surprised you ever wrote another word.”
Moore dropped her legs back to earth. “Because of that stranger, I became a reporter.”
“Okay, okay. Strangers can influence an impressionable kid for the better. Sometimes.” He straightened the stack of photographs. “But how do you know this kid isn’t the gunman? He’s obviously fixated on you. Spends his days watching you from a distance. Maybe he upgraded his toys, switched from a camera lens to a high-powered rifle.”
“To shoot me? The pictures aren’t threatening. Just inquisitive.”
“True. But you admitted to Delacroix that you don’t know where the bullet was aimed. Maybe your fan has decided to eliminate your playmates. Take out your driver, your boss, or both.”
Moore was shaking her head before he finished the sentence. “He’s a photographer—a watcher not a doer. I’m more concerned that he might have seen the shooter. He doesn’t seem to miss a trick.”
She grabbed the photographs from his hand and turned over the one of the hub missing its wheel. “He witnessed an earlier mishap. See what’s written on the back. ‘Why did the nuts fall off?’ Perceptive question. I’m positive the bolts had been tampered with. None of the studs were bent; all the nuts came off at the same time.”
Mick set down his beer, focused on her with one eye. “You’re saying the bolts holding on the wheel on this high-speed race car were intentionally stripped? Your driver could have been killed.”
Her guilty expression was affirmation. He pushed back from the table. “That’s great, Moore. Really great. And you say you’re not in danger. Any other life-threatening episodes you want to share with me? I mean, as long as I’m already here.”
Friday—Qualifying
Six
The night had gone downhill fast from there. Rebecca couldn’t remember what started the argument. Something in Hagan’s tone as he quizzed her about the idiocy of racing, the lack of security at the track, the crew’s antagonism toward her, the number of men on the team, the man living in the house with her. He’d called Ian a self-centered fop. Asked what kind of tools she was sharing with her driver.
Some of it, all of it, had chafed.
In another place, at another time his prying might have been obliquely flattering. She might have dismissed it as Hagan having had a long day, a boring trip, too many beers. But her day had been pretty damn lousy as well and his presence rankled. She didn’t want coddling or sexual antagonism. Or the painful memories he brought through the door, clinging to him like the smell of skunk on a wet dog.
The inquisition ended when she’d rummaged in the linen closet, dropped a blanket and sheets on the sofa and flung a pillow at his head. “The spare bedroom is at the end of the hall. You can use it, or the sofa.”
From his actions this morning, he felt as contrite as she did. The linens were folded and stacked. He’d fetched the Indianapolis Star from between the doors and separated out the twelve-page race section. Placed it on the counter as a peace offering. He’d even made a pot of decent coffee, which she considered an essential talent in any man sharing her living space.
The clouds were building. It would be overcast by afternoon. Right now there was enough sun to make it pleasant on the patio. Hagan was out there pretending to read the AutoWeek she’d carried in last night, waiting to assess her mood. She wished him good luck; she wasn’t sure of it herself.
Hagan had appeal. He was—in the consensus of the regulars at Head Tide’s only diner—a hunk with an edge. Black Irish: dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, tight jaws and tighter glutes. He was also trouble. As the diner’s owner quipped, “Man’s got an edge sharp enough that a girl could cut herself and bleed to death without noticing.” When he’d moved to town, Flo sent her a box of gauze bandages.
Unknown to the gossipers, Hagan was also a closet intellectual, who masked his intelligence for use only behind the scenes, on an as-needed basis. She’d caught him a few weeks ago in her living room flipping through the OED, lips moving as he pronounced jaup or jawp. Chortling over the definition: “to dash and rebound like water with splashing of the vicinity; to move with splashing; to make a light splashing sound.” The noun meant the splash of water that landed against a surface, a spot of mud on clothing. Hagan was one person she wouldn’t challenge to a crossword competition. Who was she kidding? She wouldn’t challenge him to any kind of competition, if winning was important. They’d butted heads before.
She squinted at the clock on the stove. Barely enough time to toast a bagel before heading to the track. She had work to do. What was she going to do with Hagan? The most practical move would be to take him with her, let him check out the players, scout out where the shot came from. But she’d be embarrassed if the other crew members suspected he was there to baby-sit her.
On the other hand, Ian already knew he was in town. He would think it queer if she hid Hagan away. If Ian didn’t tell them differently, the guys would peg Hagan as a boyfriend. Or a groupie trying to hog reflected glory by hanging around the pits. Right. Hagan who drove a ten-year old SUV, which he could barely keep on the road.
“How about filling me in on the crashed Arrows and a windshield that’s ‘priceless beyond rubies’?”
She raised her eyebrows. Hagan gestured to the glossy magazine open on the table. He had been reading after all. She slathered cream cheese on both halves while she gave him more background than he wanted on Arrows Racing. The British team had operated from the late 1970s to the early 1990s. It had been formed by defectors from the old Shadow Racing, who splintered off, taking the car design with them. The first five cars Arrows produced were forfeited when they were sued by the original designer. Peyton’s was an early car, the third one constructed according to Arrow’s own, very complicated design. “If I remember correctly, their claim to fame is being the longest existing F1 team that never won a Grand Prix.”
Hagan reached for a half of the bagel. “The brake line was definitely cut?” Rebecca nodded. He chewed. “By someone on the crew?”
“Not necessarily. Anyone inside the track during off-hours could have done it. Fifteen seconds with a Swiss Army knife. It had been sliced partway through from the bottom, close to the fitting. It wouldn’t be noticed unless you were looking for it. I wasn’t.”
“Why?”
“At that time, I didn’t know someone had it in for the team.”
Hagan held up a hand. “No. Why do it? What’s gained because of the crash? What did it change?”
She broke off a bite, licked at the cream cheese before answering. “If Ian had been hurt or killed, the team would have pulled out, probably. Though Peyton might have found another driver.”
“Anyone knocking at the door?”
“Not that I know of. As it happened, only the car was put out of commission.”
“But, conveniently, Peyton had a spare. A very expensive one, according to that article. One that someone tried to fill with water instead of gas, filed the bolts on a front wheel, and shot at with a high powered rifle—according to you.”
She nodded. “The only good news is that the bullet shattered an aftermarket windshield, not the original. We only install the ‘priceless’ one for photographs.”
“Sure your boy Browning doesn’t have a sworn enemy stalking the stands?”
“Am I positive? No. But the evidence contradicts it. The bolts on the Lotus were stripped so smooth that the wheel came off at the first bend, i.e., early in the morning when he was driving on a near-empty track, before the car was up to speed. Similarly, judging from the depth of the cut, the brakes on the Arrows were intended to fail the first time he applied them, at turn four. Ian’s frugal with braking, so they didn’t go until turn six. If they’d let go earlier, the car would have spun through the grass, not into a wall. The water would have annoyed the engine but not hurt Ian. And, as you know, the bullet missed. Q.E.D.—he’s still alive.”
Hagan pushed his plate away, folded his paper napkin and laid it on the dirty plate. “Okay, we’ll scratch the driver as the target, eliminate murder as the motive. How about financial ruin? By switching cars, Peyton’s still in the game, but poorer.”
“Way poorer.”
“So, the pressure’s on to produce a good finish.”
“He needs a victory.”
“Right, per the article he has betting losses to cover and the wrecked car to repair, even if only to sell it. The nickels add up.”
She nodded. “Plus he has a personal stake: besting Derek Whitten. Another idle son of the very rich, but with a difference.” She wetted her fingertip, used it to pick up sesame seeds that had fallen on her plate. “Peyton is obsessed with buying his way into F1. I assumed he was rolling in the necessary dough. Ian says no. Thinks he’s living off a limited trust.
“Whitten, on the other hand, has already inherited the family manse and the funds to maintain it, and still has plenty to fritter away. His wealth really irritates Peyton. It’s like he believes they were switched at birth. He should have been the one raised in the castle.”
“They’re related?”
She laughed. “Only in temperament. Both are self-impressed manipulators. Each is so busy pushing other people’s buttons, he doesn’t realize he’s being backed into a corner until he bumps into the wall.”
While she took the plate to the sink, Hagan wandered outside. When she followed, he was inspecting the gate latch for a way to lock it. She pulled at his elbow. “Please leave it open. I’d like to find out the intruder’s name, even if I never meet him.”
Hagan’s gaze was so intense she wanted to take a step back. She swayed forward instead, brushed the back of his hand. He let out a short whistle. “Okay. The gate stays open, but we’re locking the slider. And give me the front door key. I’ll have a copy made. In exchange for my being so accommodating, you’ll call your buddy Peter Hayes at the Post and have him run a background search on your boss, Peyton Madison III. I want to know his every flaw.”
Seven
Mick turned his back to the crew, lowered his voice. “Swiping tools, Moore? I’m not swiping them. I’m not even pilfering. I’m borrowing. Once I lift the prints, you can return them.”
He crammed his hands into his jeans pockets to keep from shaking her. His jacket clanged as a small wrench belonging to the crew chief bumped against a socket from the tool chest of the tire changer, or maybe a Phillips from the smiling Black’s stash of screwdrivers. Moore wasn’t stupid, but she was a fool for blindly trusting her teammates. Any one of them could be an escaped homicidal maniac with recidivistic tendencies. With pseudo annoyance, she slammed binoculars at his chest before banishing him from the pits.
He grinned. She was probably just jealous of his dexterous prestidigitation and his access to a fingerprint lab.
“Where was the shooter when he fired?”
A car screamed past as Moore mouthed something about turn twelve. She tried visual aids, both hands holding a program map steady against the wind. He noted the spot then snatched the map to take with him.
The road course snaked through the infield of the oval track, which looked like a rectangle with rounded corners. For some reason, they raced the road course going clockwise, but the oval counter-clockwise. The road course used two straight sections from the oval connected by a series of thirteen turns, so apparently road racers weren’t superstitious.
From the infield to the stands was a regular “you can’t get there from here.” He had to cross under the track via a tunnel that deposited him at the backside of the stands. Then cut through a narrow aisle between stands, tromp up a short flight of steps set sideways before he could start climbing. Once halfway up, the stands were open, the view unobstructed. Not ideal for a sniper, but if he laid down in the foot well between the bleachers, he wouldn’t have been visible from the infield.
Smuggling the rifle in and out of the track wouldn’t have been much of a challenge. Especially if it were broken down. Every other person was lugging something—cases of sodas, cartons of souvenir T-shirts, racks of hot dog rolls, coolers with beer. All going about their business, no one looking like a sniper. Or expecting to bump into one. Given the options, he would have rolled a fully-assembled rifle in one of the four-foot-by-six-foot Ferrari flags. About 60 percent of the fans had a red banner with the prancing horse slung across their shoulders.
Mick selected a seat midway along and focused the glasses on the track. Per Moore, the cars would qualify one at a time. He’d asked if that was normal.
“It is for F1. It’s better. No other racers on the track warming up their tires, spinning out of control, slowing down or generally getting in the way. The qualifier takes a few practice laps, gets the green flag, does three laps at speed. Timekeepers average the times. At the end of the day, the fastest car gets the pole.”
Fans could see the whole show on eighteen huge video screens placed in the infield; hear it over the loudspeaker. Announce
rs gave the times, told the scattered spectators if a driver was over or under the current pole sitter’s time at an intermediate stage. Or predicted the outcome of the lap just by listening to the lift in the corner, whatever that meant.
He stretched out his legs. Just like Dad and baseball. Mick smiled.
Patrick Hagan couldn’t have seen most of the games he’d watched. He was too busy jotting down strikes, balls, errors and RBIs. Each spring, he had walked to the corner drugstore and bought a kid’s composition notebook with the black and white marbleized cover. In Magic Marker he scribbled the year on the front. He took it to every home game he attended. Had it on his lap as he listened to endless, butt-numbing away games. More boring to his son than watching paint dry.
“You’re missing the point, Michael. Any major league player can throw a perfect strike. It’s how consistently he can do it, and against which hitters that makes baseball fascinating.”
Mick never did get the point. He hadn’t watched a game in years. But the day they buried Patrick Hagan with full police honors, he’d wrapped the cardboard-covered notebooks in tissue paper and packed them away in an old suitcase. They were in his mother’s attic, next to the carton with his Erector Set.
The loudspeaker announced an open half-hour practice session. Mick shifted on his haunches and leaned forward, scanning for the Lotus pits. When Moore’s face leapt into view, he felt a little like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. He’d always empathized with Hitchcock’s laid-up photographer. It gave him a charge to watch others when they didn’t know it, for reasons that they didn’t suspect. Hence his fondness for undercover work.
He could easily imagine some kid haunting the stands, taking telephoto snapshots of Moore. She might not be as glamourous as Grace Kelly—no ensembles designed by Edith Head—but she was worth staring at. It sounded like something he would have done as an adolescent. Or would do as an adult. She was driving him crazy, and spying on her was a turn-on. What he should be doing was viewing her objectively—like a witness he was protecting.
Driven to Murder Page 4