Driven to Murder

by Judith Skillings

  He slouched back, adding a few inches of distance, widening his field of focus. From what he could see, Evans ran a tight team. The men interacted smoothly, each knowing what was expected without being told. The chief frowned a lot at Moore, but it seemed to be out of habit rather than at anything she did or didn’t do. She looked professional swapping tools and trading places as she fiddled with the car. Waiting for Browning to bring it in from a trip around the track, however, she stood on the fringes. Not physically removed, but emotionally shut out.

  Chet Davis bent over to check front tire pressures. Wiry, around forty-five, he sported an oversized mustache equal parts brown and red. He didn’t say much; his face conveyed less. Every now and then, the mustache would twitch enough to convince casual observers that there was life behind it.

  Tom, of no last name, was a hip Black in his early thirties. His hair was a mass of springy kinks on top, one thin braid at the nape of his neck. He had a scar on his left cheek, souvenir of a bar fight with a broken bottle or jailhouse shiv. He was the most talkative of the group. Correction. He was the one who conversed most coherently. The kid, Johnnie Evans, never shut up. He was a nephew to the crew chief, which was obvious. The kid alternated between being obsequious and pouting to the point of surliness. Behavior only a near-relative can get away with. Typical horny teenager, he never missed a chance to rub against Moore.

  As if sensing his gaze, she looked up, squinting so hard into the sun that the irises were invisible behind her long lashes. A vertical crease, however, was prominent between her brows. He thought it was less deep than it had been in the months since she’d found the dead body of a rival in her shop, which happened about the same time he’d tracked her down to settle an old score. He hoped so. His interference then had made the situation worse. His reluctance to accept her innocence nearly got her killed. Right now, he wanted to see her smile. Wanted her to sense his presence in the stands and smile for him.

  He waited.

  She didn’t. She turned her back and disappeared under the tent.

  Eight

  Since he couldn’t spy on Moore, Mick moved the glasses down the row of competitors. All the teams were going through the same motions. Each cluster of mechanics was dressed to match the car. Each of the cars varied in shape and paint scheme; maybe they were all different models. Every one of them an invitation to a quick death at an early age.

  Halfway along the row, he stopped at the black and gold car that Moore said would be the Brabham. It belonged to and was driven by Derek Whitten. Through the glasses, Whitten looked as superficial as he had in the AutoWeek photo. A playboy engaged in noble pursuit of speed. About six feet tall, he wore wraparound reflective sunglasses and a custom-tailored race suit. His straw-colored hair was thick: too long and too evenly streaked. One temple was trying to recede; Rogaine was working on the other side. A tropical tan contrasted nicely with the almost-perfect white teeth. One incisor bent inward a bit, adding boyish appeal to the carefree image. Rolled-up sleeves revealed a clunky wristwatch that winked whenever the sun came out. It semaphored a message into the stands as Whitten waved to one of the crew and pointed in the direction of the infield. When the guy nodded, Whitten strolled off. Probably going to lunch; it was time.

  Mick lost sight of him between the Mercedes/West tent and a wagon selling official track merchandise. He inched the glasses along trying to spot him again. Got sidetracked when the glasses stalled on a Latina’s bare midriff, tattooed in bold script—probably Screw me, though it looked more like Schume. Maybe it was Portuguese for “Go team go.”

  Luckily, Whitten also stopped, though not to admire the tattoo. He was hugging the back side of a tent, talking to a big guy with short legs who looked like, and turned out to be, Evans.

  That might not mean much, if anything. Moore had complained about being the odd woman out. “The teams are an incestuous bunch, Mick. They travel to the same races, hang out with the same crowds, vacation on the same islands. Swap mechanics and pit crews back and forth. They’ve known each other for decades.”

  So, Evans and Whitten could be good pals. They might be conferring about the best vendor for a cold draft, or bitching about the distance to the press boxes. It was possible. Sure thing. Except that they worked on rival teams. One of which was being plagued by potentially dangerous mishaps, which might benefit the other.

  The men split, went in opposite directions.

  Through the glasses Mick followed Evan’s beefy shoulders back to the Lotus pit. No sign of Moore. Peyton, however, was lounging on the concrete wall. In his silk tweed jacket and dark glasses, he was posing as the man at the helm. Smooth olive complexion, marred by stingy lips and a weak chin. Moore had pegged him: A pampered rich man’s son with nothing going for him, but in possession of everything he could want. Or was he? His type was rarely satisfied. They’d been introduced that morning—thirty seconds of exposure was more than enough to figure him out.

  It was time to take a break from spying. If a sniper was lurking in the stands, he was well hidden.

  Mick stood, rotated his neck. The metal benches clanged with each step as he clomped down the stands. He’d take one more leisurely trip around the perimeter of the infield then call it day at the races. Maybe Moore could break away for a quick bite.

  Six rows down, he noticed another spectator glued to binoculars—a tall figure standing in the shadow of the VIP suites: red baseball cap, silver sports jacket, jeans, black sneakers. Could easily have been a fan come to study the historic cars as they qualified. Only the fan wasn’t watching the track, or the pits. The fan’s glasses were aimed laterally along the stands, pointing in his direction.

  Pausing, Mick raised his own binoculars and stared back. The image that filled the lens was nondescript. Shapeless clothing. Reflective sunglasses and the binoculars obscured the face. Baseball cap was pulled down, hiding the hair; jacket collar was turned up to meet it. A narrow strip of Caucasian skin showed along the jaw line. From the angle of the glasses he decided that the voyeur wasn’t interested in him. He was focused in the distance, lower down. Turning slowly, Mick panned the stands behind him.

  Fifty feet away, maybe ten yards below, a pint-sized form was wedged, belly down, in the foot well between bleachers. Faded jeans, bleached-black hooded sweatshirt. Same attire as last night’s intruder. Arms extended, he gripped a digital camera equipped with a telephoto lens.

  Mick let go of the glasses, sidled quickly between the bleachers aiming for the closest aisle.

  When he was still twenty yards away, the photographer felt him coming. Without looking back, he popped up and ran, sprinted to the aisle, clambered down the flight of steps, hit the pavement at the bottom and fled under the stands.

  Mick took the shortcut: hopped up on a bench, clanged to the end of the row. One hand on the railing, he vaulted over the side, dropped twelve feet onto the path. The pygmy was just rounding the corner into the light.

  Binoculars banging, Mick tore after the fleeing figure. He caught a break when the kid clipped the edge of a cart selling Dove bars, stumbled for a heartbeat before regaining his balance.

  Mick lunged, snagged the pointy hood of the sweatshirt with his fingertips. Lost it again as his prey sprinted forward. The limp fabric slipped out of his hand, flopped onto skinny shoulders revealing tight corn rows fastened with black and white polka-dot barrettes.

  Barrettes. What the—

  “A little young to be your girlfriend, I think.”

  Mick whipped around. The fan with the field glasses stood a scant yard behind him, catching her breath. Beneath the unisex clothing, she was a feminine, middle-aged woman: poised, curious, seemingly open. Head cocked, she waited for an explanation.

  He wasn’t sure she deserved one, even if he had enough breath to spit one out. He sucked in air and mumbled, “Disobedient daughter.”

  She laughed.

  He turned away and set out at a jog. The woman didn’t follow.

  There was no sign of
the girl; he didn’t expect there would be. She ran like a prairie wind and could fit through small cracks. A girl. A wraithlike, petite African American girl. He shook his head, consoled himself with the fact that the kid hadn’t been carrying a gun, just a camera. So, maybe it really was a case of long-distance hero worship and she had nothing to do with the shooting. Maybe she wanted to be a mechanic when she grew up and was taking pointers by studying Moore through a camera lens. Whatever. The kid had been put on notice that someone was watching out for Moore.

  Maybe more than one somebody. He stopped.

  Stupid. Some detective he was. He should have quizzed the fan with the field glasses. For all he knew, the woman was an undercover security guard who’d been tailing the kid all week and could tell him if she was a theat or merely a pest. The woman hadn’t look like a rent-a-cop though. She’d grinned like an amused tutor when he took off to pursue a cold trail.

  Mick rolled up his shirtsleeves, scanned the crowd as he continued walking. At a white and red food wagon, he bought a fat hot sausage sandwich with fried onions and sauerkraut and a five-dollar beer to wash it down with. He passed on the thirty-two-ounce souvenir plastic cup for two dollars more. He ate sitting on a patch of grass not far from turn ten. Clusters of people were strolling by in both directions, jabbering in a variety of foreign languages, including various American dialects. The kid could have attached herself to any of them, evaporated into the crowd like an ant in a colony.

  He upped his beer, taking a deep swallow. When he set it down, he spied a familiar figure lolling behind the emergency medical center—Derek Whitten. Again. The guy certainly spent a lot of time away from his pits. He didn’t look like he needed medical attention, more like an ad for Rolex. Blond in a black driving suit leaning against a light building.

  Whitten checked his watch twice in the same minute, then looked up as a middle-aged man in a gray suit jacket scurried over. The visitor had the air of an insurance adjuster who’d eaten too many meals on the expense account, none of which he’d enjoyed because he had to justify them to his accountant. He’d gone bald from rubbing his hand over his brow just thinking about it.

  Whitten peeled away from the wall and extended his hand, then listened in arm-folded silence. The man gesticulated smoothly, as if laying out numbers on a spread sheet. Maybe the guy was an insurance salesman trying to justify Whitten’s premiums. He seemed mildly interested.

  When it was his turn, Whitten picked at an offending bit of dirt under one nail, began spinning a tale. The pasty-faced stranger got whiter, rocked back on his heels, looked around as if the Indians were closing in. Whitten patted the guy on the arm in a reassuring manner.

  Mick waited for them to split up before standing and pitching the beer cup in the trash.

  Not really tailing the bald man, he meandered along in the same direction. Which meant he left the track without telling Moore. She was probably too busy tinkering with the race car to care, though she’d be miffed that he hadn’t stayed to see her boy do his stuff. She’d get over it.

  Despite Delacroix’s concern, Mick didn’t think Moore was in imminent danger. By leaving now, he could cruise down Georgetown Road and locate a shipping store. He’d transfer the prints from the borrowed tools and overnight them to Zimmer to search for a match. Then go back to the house. After a balmy day in the full sun, he felt a nap coming on. Maybe he’d stretch out in a lounge chair on the patio. That way, he’d be on hand if the petite paparazzo reappeared.

  Hanging back about twenty feet, Mick kept pace with the man in the gray suit—past the garage area, the pagoda, the media center, the tower suites. They were just entering the tunnel at gate seven when the woman from the stands slipped into the crowd alongside the man he was following. Mick almost stumbled when they stopped walking. She bent her head close to hear over the din echoing in the tunnel, nodded encouragingly. Then took his elbow, spurred him on past a couple with too many kids, too young to be inflicted on the public.

  Mick hugged the inside path, letting them get well ahead. It had been a foolish oversight to leave his stash of toothpicks in the glove box of the Jeep. He needed something to chew on.

  In the last hour he’d seen Moore’s crew chief in deep discussion with the rival team owner. Then the rival team owner had exchanged input with a nerd in a gray suit, who was something other than a race afficionado. The suit, in turn, reported to the woman with the binoculars who’d been spying on him and/or the little Black girl who, presumably, had been taking pictures of Moore. It was indeed an incestuous group.

  What were they involved in? And was it all connected?

  Up ahead, the couple he was following sidestepped to huddle near the perimeter fence. Mick lingered in the shadow of the stands. Bought an ice cream from a girl decked out in parka and hat even though it must have been close to seventy. He’d taken the first bite when they moved out and crossed the street. At the corner of the parking lot, they split.

  The man disappeared down a road running between blue industrial buildings. The woman entered a parking lot and unlocked the driver’s door of a white-paneled van. Ford, at least five years old, totally nondescript.

  She got in and shut the door but didn’t start the engine. She was looking down at something in her lap. Could have been consulting a map, reading a book, writing in her diary.

  Mick ambled on past street vendors selling everything from ear plugs to signed automotive art originals. He slowed at an Indy Girl trailer and checked out the skimpy tops. He was contemplating a midriff-baring yellow sweatshirt for Moore when the white van pulled out of the lot. It turned onto Georgetown Road, rolled by him, then went right at the light on Twenty-fifth Street. Halfway down, it pulled over and sat idling on the shoulder of the road not far from gate ten.

  The driver’s head was down again when Mick walked by on the opposite side of Twenty-fifth. He turned north on Hulman, resisted the urge to look back to see if she had raised her eyes and was watching him.

  For whom was she waiting?

  Could it be the kid? Both females had been checking out the infield through lenses. It was possible they were in cahoots. If so, then maybe she hadn’t been chasing the girl, rather protecting the tot from him, following him to make sure he didn’t catch the girl with the camera.

  Nine

  With the prints shipped to Zimmer, Mick walked back to the empty house. He’d seen six or seven white vans on his travels. Most had men slumped over the steering wheels, swearing at red lights, looking forward to punching out for the day. None of them driven by his friend from the stands.

  Once inside, he headed toward the patio to check for a photograph under the plant pot. The answering machine beeped as he passed, as if his footsteps had triggered it. A voice started to leave a message. Peter Hayes. Mick snatched up the receiver, waited for the machine to figure out that it could stop recording, shouted Hayes’s name.

  Hayes jumped in first. “Hagan? What are you doing there? You’re the last person I’d have figured for a race fan. I can’t imagine Becca invited you. Or maybe I can. She’s known for her deplorable judgment regarding men.”

  “Makes you want to weep, does it?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. But speaking to a real voice, even yours, is enough to make me swoon.

  For his part, Mick was mollified that Moore had contacted the reporter as promised.

  Hayes hummed. “Where to start? Tell Bec I unearthed a mother lode on a Peyton Madison II. Kept tripping over him. Assumed he must be the father. Some kind of petrochemical bigwig and amateur philanthropist. Son is less lofty, which means less press. Most of his mentions are fairly recent and have to do with his trying to worm his way into the professional race scene.

  “I e-mailed a handful of articles, plus a dozen bibliographic citations to Becca’s computer. Life magazine ran a human interest story on Madison in March 1974. I didn’t bother scanning it. They do have public libraries in Indiana, don’t they?”

  “Can’t swear to it. You
know cops can’t read.”

  Hayes snorted. “Too bad. Becca was asking about the son, but you might be interested in Daddy. Intriguing cuss, mainly because he came out of nowhere.”

  Reading from his notes, Hayes said PMII first surfaced in the media in the mid-1960s. At that time, he was thirty-eight, head of PLM Chemicals, which was relocating from New Jersey to South Carolina. Company had one success after another: ground-breaking patents led to government contracts and the like. Madison took it public in the early 1980s. Now, at seventy-eight or-nine he still goes to the office five days a week. Not so for the profligate son, who was listed as the only child of a second marriage and titular head of the Madison empire.

  “Nothing on the old man’s early years. No birth, schooling, parents. Nothing on his first marriage. No birth or death records for the wife; no society column mentions. Nada. Have Bec call me if it’s vital. Figured it wasn’t, since she only asked about junior. See you.”

  “Don’t hang up. If you haven’t already, see what you can ferret out on the son’s financial standing, any bad habits or unacceptable playmates.”

  “Other than Rebecca, you mean? Will do. Just call me your pet ferret.”

  Hayes laughed and clicked off. Mick had no chance for a smart comeback, which was too bad since he liked sparring with the reporter. Hyperactive in V-necked sweaters and flimsy glasses, Hayes was a thorough researcher and a quick wit, an old friend of Moore’s from her days on the newspaper.

  Images of Moore flitting around DC, notepad in hand, deadline looming amused him as he headed for the patio again. He wished he’d known her then, when she was cockier and liked herself better. Before she’d learned that being right could make someone else dead wrong.

  He had one foot in the kitchen when the doorbell rang.