Avoidable Contact (22 page)

Chapter Forty-two

9:00 A.M. | 5:10 HOURS REMAINING

Three hours later I woke with a start, a question for Calhoun clear in my mind. Outside, the buzz of racecars circling the track was well into its eighteenth hour.

I found my phone plugged into its charger on the bedside table, where Holly must have put it after setting the alarm, and I typed the question to the reporter.
What did you think Stuart would tell you about Arena?

I knew Stuart wouldn't have told Calhoun anything. But I wondered what Calhoun thought he'd learn about Arena's racing endeavors that were relevant to his article—especially given the reports that Arena kept his racing team clean.

The motorhome was completely empty. Colby should be a few minutes away from getting into the Corvette for a double-stint. The only evidence of Holly was a note to text her when I woke up and to meet her in the pits.

I took a lightning-fast shower, more to feel awake and refreshed than because I needed to be clean. I knew I'd gotten enough sleep to perform well in the car today, but I wasn't exactly rested. I suited up in a clean set of Nomex undergarments and a fresh firesuit, added my sunglasses against the glare of daylight, and headed to Linda's for breakfast.

En route, I received twin text messages from Tug and Polly, both telling me Stuart was out of surgery and listed in critical condition. Polly added,
He's stable so far, Kate, but he's in a coma. They fixed everything they could. Now it's up to him when he wakes up. I'll keep you posted.

I heard the words she hadn't said: “If he wakes up.” I closed my eyes and prayed hard for Stuart to come out of the coma. He'd made it this far. I chose to keep believing he'd survive. I took a few deep breaths and kept walking.

Once inside the food tent, I drank my first cup of coffee while standing at the pot, then filled my cup again and scooped up more egg casserole.

While I ate, I scrolled back through the message stream from Calhoun. He'd started by sending highlights of Richard Arena's life history. Arena grew up poor in one of the bad parts of Long Beach, California, the oldest of five. Father killed in a drive-by shooting when he was nine, then his mother remarried. His stepfather was sent to jail when he was eighteen, and Arena himself followed a couple years later, but only for nine months on an embezzlement charge.

That seemed to have turned Arena around,
wrote Calhoun.
He's never been seriously in trouble with the law again. And one thing he's a stickler for: he never carries a gun. No one can even say if he knows how to shoot one, though all suspect he doesn't need to, with hired muscle around.

Calhoun outlined a progression of Arena's growing business empire that tallied with what Zeke had told us, starting out with local Laundromats, then buying more individual sites, tying them together into a chain, opening associated services with them—everything from nail salons to car washes to electronics stores. He then added security patrol service to the businesses and expanded to other cities across the Southwest and then the South. Split out the security services into its own patrol and residential systems company. Much later, he added the company that imported olive oil and the racing team.

Calhoun's last words about Arena's background information weren't reassuring.
There's no single, definite connection to the Mob, but there are at least seven tenuous, possible connections. One source wouldn't name names but mentioned a moneymaker and money launderer who the Mob bosses called “the Midas of home security.” I've got no doubt he has friends in the family.

As I scooped up a pile of fruit salad and a blueberry muffin, I considered the idea of Arena—a poor boy from Southern California—becoming a money man for the mafia. I expected it could only be done by the kind of ruthless businessman Arena was reputed to be.
Does the Mob only stick to Italians, or is that only in the movies? For that matter, could the Mob be the Russians, not the Italians?
Maybe the Kuliks were involved with Arena. I'd seen them with Arena and Monica enough.

I sighed and broke open the muffin. I could speculate in circles for hours.

“May I?” I looked up to see the hatchet man himself, Ryan Johnston, pointing to the seat across the table from me.

“Be my guest.” I tried to hide my surprise. Linda's provided long rows of open-seating tables, and there were plenty of unoccupied open seats. I wondered what Ryan wanted.

He cleared his throat. “You're heading back to the pits now, correct?”

“That's right. How's everything for your cars?”

“Mixed.” He sipped his coffee. “As could be expected.”

Alibis, Kate.
“You have so many sponsors your team must have to do a ton of hospitality work.”

He nodded, chewing, so I went on. “Did you have pre-race stuff planned for your guests or only activities once the race started?”

“All morning also. Of course, some of our sponsors are also drivers, so they had obligations, but their guests would participate. For instance your—” he caught my involuntary tensing and changed course. “For instance, our main Frame Savings representative is also driving, but his son and nephew participated in the full slate of morning activities.”

“You get them all doing everything together? That's impressive.”

“All of them were with our hospitality leader from nine in the morning to the green flag.” He looked me steadily in the eye, as if he knew the information I was trying to get out of him. “The drivers, on the other hand, were on their own until the mandatory driver's meeting at eleven-thirty.”

That meant Billy and Holden couldn't have run Stuart down—but Uncle Eddie might have had time. If he had a reason.

Who else had alibis? The cops told me Richard Arena and Monica did.

Ryan stood up and retrieved a blueberry muffin. He gestured to the half-muffin remaining on my plate as he sat down. “That looked good.”

I broke off another piece. “Someone told me you were the media guy for your team, is that right?”

“Whatever Richard needs, really. Some media work.” He nibbled on his muffin. “Yesterday it was negotiations with the Series—Tug and I were hashing details out right up until the autograph session.” He stopped picking at his food and looked at me. “In fact, Stuart Telarday left us together for the offsite meeting where he was hurt. Such a shame.”

I caught my breath.
That meant Tug couldn't have done it. Nor could Ryan. Elizabeth could have, since she was called to the track after the accident.

Ryan looked at his watch, jolting me out of my thoughts. It was time for me to be on my way also. We both stood up.

To my surprise, he held out a hand. “It was nice to chat. I hope the rest of your race is smooth.”

I shook, but warily. I knew what I'd gotten out of the conversation, but I didn't know what he'd found interesting or useful. I'd given away my connection to Ed Grant and the cousins, but I didn't think that was news to him.

Unless he could tell I was after alibies for the time of Stuart's attack?

I didn't have time to figure it out. I needed to find how the 28 Corvette was doing—and how soon I could get in it again.

Chapter Forty-three

9:30 A.M. | 4:40 HOURS REMAINING

Five minutes later I was in the transport trailer, talking to Aunt Tee, catching up on what had happened in the race while I'd slept through the dawn.

Miles had a brush with a curb that started to make the right front tire go down, but he'd gotten to the pits before it did any damage to the car or before losing more laps. The 28 car was one lap down to the four cars remaining on the lead lap and one lap up on the two cars behind us, with Mike currently behind the wheel. We were all encouraged by how well the car continued to run—also that we'd stayed out of trouble so far. But no one was counting any chickens.

Colby was due to get in the car in fifteen minutes, so I picked up a radio and headed that direction, with a short detour on the way through the Fan Zone. I climbed the stairs to the Fan Deck on top of the garage building and joined scores of race fans peering down on the activity below, looking out over the infield, and catching sight of the racecars zooming around the banked curves at both ends of the track.

The Daytona Speedway was a city unto itself. It had a carnival, a family fun zone, a food area, a lake with boats on it, and multiple camping areas, including a quiet zone, a rowdy area, and a gated community for the teams. As Holly had put it, the only thing missing from Speedway-world was a bowling alley. Campers lined the track in the infield, most of them sporting rooftop observation decks from which fans watched the action. I knew most fans would have been awake many hours already—if they'd ever slept—and would be huddled for warmth around their fires or stationed atop their rigs, clutching coffee or beer, and following the action.

In the silence between cars on the front stretch, I heard shouts and the revving of an engine below me. I looked down to the paddock lane to see crew and fans scatter—the latter doing so less adeptly than team members—as a prototype rolled toward the garage. I recognized the silver machine with white and red stripes I'd followed during the long caution the night before, one of the three cars battling for the overall race lead at the time. Team members in silver and red firesuits arrived on a run from the pits, followed shortly thereafter by media representatives. Within seconds, a crowd five deep had formed around the opening to the car's garage space.

I turned my back to the railing and looked across the infield, across the lake, to the back straight. Took deep breaths of crisp air scented delicately with fuel, rubber, and hot oil. I was sorry I'd missed the sunrise over the track, a magical time for drivers and teams after the long, cold night before. But even three hours after sunrise, I felt a sense of rebirth. A sense of a fresh start. Sure, cars and teams looked worn and bedraggled, but in the way of warriors who'd fought long and hard and knew their work wasn't yet done. I wished Stuart were here to experience the moment with me.

Time to get back to work.

My phone buzzed with a message as I went down the stairs nearest the pit lane. I deleted the new piece of spam email, but in doing so, I discovered an email that had arrived overnight from Calhoun. A long one, with a draft of his article attached. He'd sent the article to his editor, but he also wanted me and Holly to see what we'd been helping him with. He'd somehow anticipated my question about Stuart, writing,
I hoped Stuart could tell me something about the company or team backing Arena's race entry. Looking for a money chain from one corporation to another. Maybe also who the sponsor companies are. Backing corporations, not only what's on the car. I didn't get anything from him.

“No surprise there,” I muttered.

What Calhoun did have was a list of what looked like nine company names, starting with Arena Motorsports and including three others I recognized as sponsors of various Arena cars. The three sponsor companies belonged to two different parent companies I'd never heard of. Both of those belonged to a single corporation: Belmont Enterprises. Another one I'd never heard of.

Calhoun's brief explanation at the end was clear.
This is what I hoped Stuart could verify or confirm. Info and connections I've constructed from various sources. Proves money laundering.

Then a final surprise:
I've finished my article, so I'll come to the track to talk to the cops. Looking forward to meeting you, Kate. Thanks for the help.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Looking forward to meeting you, too, Calhoun,” I muttered, typing that reply. I wanted to meet this guy face-to-face.

A text message came in, the notification appearing on my screen over the email. It was Latham, asking if I had anything new and where I'd be for the next hour.

Holly should have passed on the stuff from last night, background on you-know-who,
I typed back.
Also got an email from him with his article and a list of companies possibly involved in money laundering.

Latham responded with his email address and a warning:
Easily a motive for murder. We'll come find you soon.

I told him I'd for sure be in my own pits in twenty minutes, then asked if they'd figured out yet who attacked Stuart.

Not yet. Getting closer,
was his reply.

I had to be content with that. I started toward Sandham Swift, but a text message from Holly diverted me to the Redemption Racing pits instead. I poked my head in the double-wide setup a few spaces above the Arena tent. Holly stood with two men and waved me over.

“Kate, meet Joe Smith.” She gestured to a short, dark guy who didn't look the late-twenties Holly estimated. Nor did he look rich and famous enough to need anonymity. He did look smart and confident. We shook hands.

Holly went on. “And Jason Carnegie, who runs Redemption.” I shifted and extended my hand to a man only a few years older than me. In contrast to Joe Smith—or whatever his real name was—Jason had the open face and easy grin of a businessman. Or a salesman.

Jason shook my hand. “Kate, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Carnegie? Related to the Carnegie of CPG?” I asked.

“CPG is Daniel, my older brother,” he said easily. “Welcome to Redemption. Our
casa es su casa
. Make yourself at home.”

I thanked him and looked at Holly. I wasn't sure what her plan was.

“I was talking with Joe and Jason about some of the difficult interactions we've had with the Arena team at this race. I knew they've had their issues in the past. The big question is,” Holly said, looking from one man to the other. “If there's anything in particular we should know in dealing with them. Frankly, any leverage we can use if they try to pull rank or size or intimidate us?”

Jason looked at Joe Smith and spoke carefully. “I would recommend being careful trusting them.”

When neither one said anything more, I offered, “We're having problems with some of the people on that team. Specifically, Ed Grant, who started to get violent. Only one person under that tent seemed to care. The rest acted like I deserved it. We didn't know if that was a pattern of behavior. If there's anything to be done about it.”

Give to get, Gramps always said, and it worked this time.

Joe Smith shook his head. “In my experience, there's nothing to be done. On that team, more than anywhere, only money talks. They think money solves everything—lack of experience, lack of respect, you name it. Pay for what you need.”

“That contradicts something else we'd heard,” Holly put in. “That Arena keeps his race team operating on the up-and-up. Won't allow any bending of the rules or cheating.”

Jason agreed. “Everything that team does is well within the rules—for all the good it does him. Most people understand there's money and there are the intangibles. Some groups of people won't ever work together well, no matter how much you pay for salaries, training, or equipment. Other groups of people can come together with sub-par tools and little practice, yet create magic.”

“Believe me,” Joe said. “That team doesn't understand the magic. They try to bulldoze their way forward with money.” He shrugged. “In the end, I couldn't operate that way. I could play that game, but that's not how I want to go about racing. Plus, I don't want to be around the kind of people he's bringing into the team. Like Grant.”

“I get that,” I muttered.

“I'll tell you a secret of theirs,” Joe offered. “They're connected to Benchmark Racing—partners or something.”

Holly echoed my thoughts. “So?”

Joe grinned. “I know, right? They treat every useless bit of information like a trade secret.” He gave a sharp laugh. “Like who some of their less-than-savory guests are for a race weekend. Some of them look like stereotypical mobsters—no idea if that's what they are. But between the drivers and the guests, I wanted no part of the team.”

I could see why he'd gotten out fast.

Jason returned a wave from one of his crew on the pit box, then turned back to us. “Thing is, Arena's ‘don't cheat' reputation took a beating overnight. You hear about the spotter scandal?”