Or, as Moore surmised, Peyton was only an ancillary target. Now that dear old dad had entered the arena, sonny boy was expendable. Her theory about Elise Carlson was starting to sound plausible. Time to run it past Patten.
Patten wasn’t in the mood. Red streaks flushed his neck, creeping up like mercury in an old-fashioned thermometer. He sucked a few breaths in through his nostrils, reminded Hagan that he was supposed to answer questions, not ask them.
“I am not in good humor. I counted on being in Section J by one o’clock to see the start of the F1 race. It’s my favorite part. Of course, that was before Peyton decided to get himself tortured in a race car. Before he died unexpectedly at the hospital. Before the coroner made me attend the autopsy. Before you started pissing me off.
“It seems the attending physician didn’t like Peyton’s coloring. The bruising looked suspicious. A hint of petechia hemorrhaging. Gave the coroner impetus for a speedy autopsy. Turns out our boy died of asphyxiation. Something like a pillow was placed over his face and pressed against it, cutting off his air. Not hard, just enough to stop him breathing. Given that he was weak, it wouldn’t have taken much strength. The alarm in his room had been turned low, the duty nurse doing rounds couldn’t hear it go off. By the time she popped in to check on him he was gone. Dead.”
The chief banged the desk for effect. The phone rang. The call was for Mick. Patten threw it at him.
When Mick said hello, Zimmer’s chortle came through the line. “Boy, you can’t stay out of trouble, can you? You’re supposed to be protecting Moore, not lounging in lockup. She doesn’t sound pleased.”
“Tell me about it.”
Instead, he told him about the second batch of fingerprints Mick had overnighted. He’d conned a friend in the State Police to run them ASAP. No hits on the matchbox: Derek Whitten was clean, at least in this country. On the lighter, the thumbprint belonged to Peyton Madison III. No crimes, but he’d done a token two-year stint with the National Guard. Got printed for that.
“The right index finger on the pen belongs to a Lisa Frankel, fifty-nine, formerly from Edison, New Jersey. Prints were on file because she marched at a Vietnam protest rally in her teens, got arrested for disturbing the peace. They stayed on file because she enlisted in the Israeli army. Queer thing for an American to do. Trained with them for four years, then come back to the States to study some more.”
The Israeli Army. Intense training that would last a lifetime, give you all the skills you’d need to stalk, shoot, bug, terrorize, murder your enemies, real or imagined. Lisa Frankel had trained with the Israelis. Lisa Frankel was now called Elise Carlson. Elise Carlson was somewhere in the stands with an old man she held responsible for her family’s misfortunes. Moore wasn’t so crazy after all.
Carlson could have arranged to meet Peyton at his motor home after the party, pretending she wanted to talk about their partnership. Unsuspecting, he would have invited her to linger for a drink or two. That would explain the lipstick on the cocktail napkin.
Then what? She decides to kill him, lures him to the pit area and into the car? Why?
Better question, how? Did she dare him to take the Lotus out for a midnight spin? Could Madison have been so soused he contemplated impressing his date by hurtling a million-dollar race car through the dark on an empty track?
Easier to believe he drank too much and passed out. Carlson tiptoed out, drove to the pits to disable or destroy the car, like she’d tried several times before. Madison might have woken up and wondered where she’d gone. Maybe he heard her through the baby monitor. He rushed down to the pits to protect the car and gets zapped by the lady in waiting.
The scenario worked for him.
Worked him into a panic. Moore was playing bloodhound, running after an Israeli-trained commando intent on revenge. Not a smart move. Carlson would not worry about collateral damage.
He handed the phone to the deputy, turned to the chief. “Patten, there’s something you should hear.”
“A confession? Goody. You want to admit doing Peyton, I’m eager to listen.” He sat, hand resting on his firearm. “Hell, if you’re going to rat out Moore that’s okay, too. No woman’s worth serious jail time. You give me provocation and I’ll drag her in.”
“That a fact, chief?” Mick counted to three, exhaled. “I hope you know where she is.”
Patten flicked his fingers at a deputy to come forward with the information. In return he got a shrug, followed by the admission that Moore wasn’t at the house.
“Didn’t think she’d stay at home, Chief. A ball and chain couldn’t stop her from heading full speed into the fray.” Mick leaned forward on the bunk. “Do you really think she’s involved?”
“Damn straight.”
“Then I can understand why you’d want to talk to her. Now. Before she slips out of your jurisdiction.”
“Is that what she’s planning? Leaving town?” Patten kicked the cell door wider, advanced on Mick. “You know where she is, you better tell me quick.”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll take you to her. But if you want to see that race start, we’d better hurry.”
Forty-one
Rebecca glanced left as she trotted for the mouth of the tunnel. For either the Indy 500 or the Brickyard 400 the southeast vista would have been sold out; it was choice seating overlooking turn two. The Formula One race, however, used the road course cutting through the interior of the oval. The seats in the southeast vista were too far removed. Tickets for that section hadn’t been offered for the race. The stands would be empty.
Was Carlson counting on that—being alone with Madison, no witnesses?
If she were intent on killing him, she must be planning a plausible accident. Today security would be too tight to smuggle in a rifle. Not that she’d want a long-distance shot. Payback for her family’s ruin would demand a murder up close and personal. She’d waited a lifetime to see the fear of death in his eyes.
What then—an unexpected heart attack like his son? The elderly man climbs to the upper stands to watch the race. Depressed by the death of his only child, the exertion proves too much. His heart gives way, he overbalances and plummets to his death?
It was conceivable and easy to arrange.
Rebecca curled her fingers into fists. Part of her wanted to believe that Elise Carlson was what she seemed: an intelligent, urbane businesswoman; a widow in search of an amusing pastime. It was possible that she was simply being gracious by removing the grieving father from the pit area where he was distracting the crew. It just wasn’t likely.
She sprinted under the track for the second time in ten minutes. Her footsteps echoed. No cars were entering or exiting the tunnel. Only one other person: a Ferrari crew member returning with a case of oil. She pushed herself up the incline.
Emerging into the sunlight, she turned left and picked up speed. Stand G was just yards ahead. Beyond that curved the southeast vista. Sweat ran down her spine, her breathing grew labored. She tried to find a rhythm, but her mind was too conflicted to concentrate on pumping her legs.
It was impossible for her not to feel sympathy for Elise Carlson. As Lisa Frankel she’d been an infant when her mother was liberated from the concentration camp; she couldn’t have remembered the ordeal. Sophie Frankel, however, had never forgotten the horror she’d endured. Her rage had poisoned her daughter against the Kauffman family, whom she held responsible. Lisa Frankel may have changed her name and obliterated the camp tattoo, but she had never had a prayer of escaping.
As she approached the southeast vista, Rebecca slowed, shielded her eyes, peered up at the section high above. The corner bank was twice as deep as stand G, higher by more than thirty feet. Higher still was the crow’s nest—twelve feet above the last row of the stands, suspended over empty air. On this part of the track, it wasn’t a tree-house platform on a pole. It was a distinct section spanning the vista, containing two additional rows of bleachers used by team spotters and the media. Each section was
accessed by a short stairway. There were metal railings along the back side, one at waist height, a second midback. Chain-link mesh covered the railings and extended above. It would prevent someone from going over backwards. At the end of the rows, however, there were only two bars, the top one hip height. On poles high above flew the flags of racing: yellow, white, red, black, blue, green and the black-and-white checkered.
Two dark figures were visible, huddled close together on the uppermost row. They could have been good friends shielding each other from the wind. Business partners assessing their investment on the track. Carlson stood as tall as the elder Madison, the man who might have been her father had Hitler not set out to annihilate the Jews. What was the comment she’d made to Peyton at the party? “How paternalistic. At least, I imagine you speak like a father. I never knew mine.” Had that thought consumed her over the years? Had she wondered what life would have been like if she’d been born into a respected German family, instead of to a bitter, scarred prisoner of war? She leaned into Madison, spoke into his ear, trying to be heard over the drone of the race cars. One hand cupped his elbow. Madison nodded, his face intent on the race.
Rebecca ran to the center aisle, up the access stairs. She began climbing the metal steps between the stands two at a time. Stumbled when a knot of spectators off to the west jumped to their feet, waving their fists, yelling. She was missing the last laps of what must had been an exciting race. She hoped Ian was doing well.
She sprinted to the base of the stairs accessing the highest section, where Carlson and Madison stood. Carlson was urging the old man nearer the edge, pointing to the blur of cars as they swept down the straight toward the final turn heading for the finish line. His eyes followed her outstretched hand, his feet shuffled sideways, closer to the action. Closer to empty air.
Rebecca clamored up the final set of stairs, pounded toward them. Without stopping, unsure if they could hear, she yelled, “Heinrich. Lisa.”
The couple froze.
Precariously close to the open end of the platform, they turned as one unit in her direction. Their faces were blank, astonishment yet to register.
She yelled again, repeated their names. “Heinrich. Lisa.”
She ran along a bleacher, shrinking the distance to them, unsure what she was going to do other than try to stop—
A roar went up from the crowd. A wave of vivid living color moved in the background. Distracted, Madison glanced at the giant video screen, to see the winning car.
Gripping his arm, Carlson locked eyes with Rebecca. She shrugged. “You’ve ruined my surprise.”
A flicker of sorrow registered before she transferred her grip to the railing and slammed her body into the old man, propelling him over the edge.
Forty-two
Mick tugged on his seatbelt and sat back, hoping to survive the ride to the track. Patten had absorbed the story; now he was a man on a mission, talking to himself in short bursts. When forced to stop for a red light, he turned to include Mick. “Hagan, you could be a few bricks shy of a load, same as your girlfriend. Then again, you may be on to something. If you are, I get to outshine the State boys, which has been my constant dream for twenty years. Pass me the red light. We’re taking the back roads.”
They approached the track from the west, through an industrial neighborhood cordoned off to allow only pedestrian traffic. Slowing the cruiser at the intersection with Georgetown Road, Patten blipped the siren to get the attention of the officer monitoring foot traffic. One bark and the youngster snapped into action, moved the barricades aside. Patten nodded thanks and let the siren blare in earnest.
As they negotiated the corner, Mick spotted a white Corvette on a grassy rise near the visitors’ center. A yellow-shirted security guard was bent over talking to the top of a black head with corn rows and barrettes. A tiny arm gesticulated wildly in the direction of the main gate.
Jasmine. What was she doing—
Of course. Now that she’d met her hero, the kid was sticking like chewing gum to the bottom of her sneaker. Moore may have charged to the track in search of a killer, but even in the sports car she couldn’t have accelerated fast enough to leave Jasmine behind. He wondered how she’d convinced the tyke to remain in the car. And how long she’d stay put. He said a silent prayer that the worst would be over before she could locate Moore. Assuming he could locate Moore before she did.
The cruiser bucked ahead a few inches. Ignoring the siren, fans clogged the road and sidewalks, carrying banners, buying food, sunglasses and ear plugs, trying to get to their seats before the F1 cars took to the track.
Mick turned sideways, eyes glued on the girl. He wished the security guard would strap her in; he’d provide the Super Glue. Already she was squirming up the back, frantic to get away, head swiveling around in search of someone more understanding.
When she spotted his face gawking out of the police car window, she screamed, sticky fingers pointing in his direction. He glowered, motioned for her to stay there. Like most dogs he’d tried to train, she nodded bright-eyed, but clearly had no intention of obeying once his back was turned.
Patten jerked the wheel to avoid a drunk singing something in Spanish, then gunned the car maybe twenty feet. Mick swiveled around to get his bearings. He grabbed at Patten’s arm, gestured in the opposite direction. “The old car pits are off Sixteenth.”
The only place Mick could think to start was with the crew. He assumed that Moore would have gone there first. One of them would know where she’d run off to after that. Where Carlson and Madison supposedly were watching the race.
The chief shook his head. He mumbled something as a roar went up from the crowd, signaling the end of the historic car race. The loudspeaker droned out the finishing order as the winners were heading to victory lane. Mick wasn’t listening. He waited impatiently for the chief to repeat what he’d said.
Patten didn’t waste his breath yelling, he pointed up.
Mick followed his finger. It was aimed at the Pagoda, one of the most famous symbols of the Brickyard. The first tower had been torn down in 1956, the newest pagoda completed in 2000. It was fabricated from metal and glass instead of wood, thirteen stories, 153 feet high. Every few floors, an open-air platform extended out to both sides. From the front, the widest spans were on the bottom. Each subsequent one was less wide. No fancy upward tips decorating the ends, but it gave you the feel of the traditional Japanese structure. According to Moore, pagodas usually had an odd number of floors and were built over a sacred relic. In this case, the sacred object was the strip of bricks from the original race track marking the start/finish line.
Patten’s strategy made sense. On race day, the Pagoda was given over to media types and special guests. From the highest levels they would get a bird’s-eye view of the stands. If Moore and Carlson were out in the open, they’d be able to see them.
On the flip side, if they weren’t exposed, valuable time would be lost. Carlson and her new partner could be snug in the VIP suites, watching the race on the video screens, champagne fizzing over the edge of flutes as they toasted to future victories. Very civilized. Very private.
Patten tromped on the accelerator as they entered the tunnel under stand C. The siren blasted off the concrete walls. Pedestrians covered their ears, stared as the patrol car sped past. Patten hooked a right behind the Tower Suites, pulled up as close to the Pagoda as he could get, abandoned the cruiser at the curb.
Mick was out and running. Patten was a scant yard behind him when they reached the security checkpoint for the media center. The plump redheaded guard wasn’t about to let them in without credentials. Patten waved his badge and swore he’d be responsible for Hagan while inside, it was an emergency.
Duty-bound, the guard continued to argue.
Mick studied the flow of camera-toting journalists and groupies entering and exiting. To get in, they scanned a plastic-coated ID across the face of an electronic reader then pushed through the turnstile. When one skinny kid paused,
calling out to his friend on the inside to hand over a pass, Mick snatched it. Still attached by a chain to the guy’s neck, he swiped it across the reader, pushed at the metal bar and was in. He dropped the pass, patted the bug-eyed stranger’s chest and took off sprinting.
Pounding up the emergency stairs, he reached the second level and kept going.
Moore had said the platforms were on odd-numbered levels, some mystical significance. He pumped his legs, clutched at the railing to propel himself faster.
He bypassed the third floor without slowing—wasn’t high enough.
At level seven, he pushed through the stairwell door, paused, hunting for an access to outside. He spotted it. A couple in matching linen blazers blocked his way. He shoved between them and opened the door.
Cool air, the smell of exhaust and the roar of engines blasted in his face. He fished for his police badge, scanned the bodies leaning on the railings. In the south corner a burly, bearded guy was fiddling with one of three cameras slung around his neck, all with long lenses. Mick slammed his police badge against the photographer’s nose, pointed at his equipment while mouthing, “Telephoto.”
Maybe the guy heard him, maybe not. He backed away, clutching his equipment. Torn, debating maybe he should snap a picture in case he was facing a terrorist. He had a point, but there wasn’t time to discuss it.
Mick grabbed the cameraman’s right arm, bent it behind him, used it to turn him away from the start/finish line. Reaching around his shoulder, he took hold of one of the cameras. He raised it to eye level, fiddled with buttons until he could see through the lens. Starting with the VIP suites, he slowly panned the vacant stands moving west.
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