Avoidable Contact (5 page)

Chapter Eight

3:10 P.M. | 23:00 HOURS REMAINING

I grabbed Tug's arm. “How is he?”

Holly was next to me in an instant. Tug glanced around, making sure only the three of us could hear him. “The first part of the surgery is done, to relieve pressure on his brain.” He typed something into his phone.

“The first part?” Holly repeated. “How many more will there be?”

Tug shook his head. “Not sure.”

“And he's—still…” I fumbled.

He looked at me. “He's still alive. They're not guaranteeing anything, but making it through the first surgery is a good sign.” He checked his phone again. “There will be other surgeries to fix his broken bones. They might need to induce a coma to give the brain more time to heal.”

Cars buzzed around the track as I tried to imagine Stuart lying still in a quiet, sterile hospital room, fighting for his life. The comparison was almost obscene. I covered my face with both hands and breathed deeply.

I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket, a message from Polly assuring me she'd send word and repeating the same news Tug had delivered.

Tug spoke again. “His parents are on their way down from Boston to be at the hospital—though it'll be a while before he can have any visitors, depending on how things go.”

What
am I doing here? I should be there. Shouldn't I?

Tug must have read the confusion on my face. “At this point, no one can see him. Then it will be family only. I can let you know if that changes.”

I felt numb. Elizabeth stood there with her arms at her sides, a look of mild curiosity on her face. That irritated me.

I drew in a breath, squaring my shoulders. “What can I do for you, Elizabeth? Tug?”

They glanced at each other, and Tug spoke, smiling. “Our point was to make sure you knew how to contact us and to make you aware of the current situation at the hospital. I'm glad we had up-to-the-minute news for you. I was able to call in Elizabeth to help me this weekend in Stuart's absence—since she worked for me at last year at Grand-Am, she's familiar with most of the players. She will also have all updates on Stuart, so if you can't find me for some reason, you can reach out to her.”

She handed me an old Grand-Am business card with a cell number circled and finally spoke. “We're touching base with each team to make sure they know who to contact if they need anything.”

The two of them work fast.
Stuart isn't—don't go there, Kate.

Holly smiled at Elizabeth. “How convenient you were able to take the last-minute call today.”

“Lucky for all of us,” Tug put in.

Holly made a “hmm” sound. “Everything going well so far?”

Elizabeth smiled, and I was surprised by the change in her appearance. She lit up. “We're keeping all the plates spinning. Solving the little problems, keeping everyone happy.”

Tug clasped his hands together. “Excellent. We'll—”

He was interrupted by two men charging toward us. Charging toward
me
. I flinched, moving behind Holly for protection—scant, as we were the same size—then saw everyone else smiling at them.

“A photo, please!” The two men waved cameras.

“It is Calamity Kate!”

“The boo-tiful Calamity Kate, with the makeup!”

Seriously? I'm not done with that yet?
In the middle of his hate-campaign, Racing's Ringer had bestowed the nickname on me. I couldn't argue the nickname wasn't appropriate at the time, but it didn't originate in humor or goodwill.

The men in front of me, however, found it hilarious. They were in their late-twenties, round-faced, beefy, and Russian. They'd have been the perfect caricatures of young Slavic thugs, except for their ear-to-ear grins, cameras, and boisterous good spirits. I still wasn't sure I'd want to meet them in a dark alley, but that had more to do with having spotted them with my cousins under the Arena tent.

“Please, a photo, so we send to our mother and sister,” the first one said.

“They reading about you and say why we never meet you,” added the second one. He had a squarer face and thinner hair. Otherwise, they were superficially the same: medium height, solid muscle, close-trimmed brown hair, brown eyes. Plus huge grins and bad teeth.

The first one spoke again. “I am Pyotr—spelled with y-o-t. This is Vladimir. We Twitter this.”

Of course they were and of course they would. I looked a question at Holly.

“Harmless. Mostly,” she murmured, as the brothers turned to Tug and Elizabeth and enthusiastically greeted them.

Tug took the opportunity to extricate himself. “Let me know if there's anything at all you need.”

I thanked him and returned Elizabeth's half smile and wave as they left.

Then I turned to the brothers. “How did your mother and sister hear about me?”

Vladimir kept smiling. “Our sister Sofia, she is racecar driver. Our mother is manager. Go with Sofia, in Russia. They read on Racing's Ringer.” He pronounced the Rs way back in his throat. It sounded more sinister that way.

Holly chuckled as she took their cameras and aimed them at the three of us, the look in her eye telling me I wouldn't live this down. The Ringer had a lot to answer for. Again.

A brown-haired guy wearing a friendly, open expression and a green Benchmark Racing polo shirt hustled down the walkway. He walked the same way teenage boys and Tom, our media guy, did: rolling up onto the balls of his feet at every step, as if he had springs under his heels.

Once the photos were done, he offered his hand to me. “Vinny Cruise, nice to meet you. I hope these two—” he hooked a thumb in the Russians' direction “—aren't taking too much of your time, after they gave me the slip.” He grinned, softening the accusation.

I introduced myself and Holly, assuring him all was well. I remembered seeing Vinny that morning while I was talking to Stuart. My stomach clenched.
Stuart's hanging in there, Kate, keep it together.

“We do not bother these lovely ladies,” Pyotr protested. “We only take photos to send home.”

Vinny laughed. “More photos. But you shouldn't miss your car's next pit stop, which will be very soon.”

“
Hola, Vicente
,” a passing driver called out. “Don't you know your space is at the other end of pit lane?”

Vinny grinned and did the part-handshake, part-embrace, all-back-slapping thing guys did. “Hey,
amigo
. I'm only here for a visit.” He turned to the rest of us. “Have you all met Raul?”

I hadn't met Raul, but I'd seen him. I figured him for late twenties, with the standard driver's height and build. Not much else was ordinary. His lush, black hair curled onto his collar, and his black eyes held laughter and secrets. Add to that an expressive, friendly face and dimples, and Raul Salas was hard to miss. Honestly, he made me a little shivery inside, especially when he took my hand and looked into my eyes to tell me how delighted he was to meet me.

You have no business feeling shivery with a race to run and a boyfriend in the hospital, Kate.

I pulled myself together and gently retrieved my hand. “Nice to meet you, too, Raul. Who are you driving with?”

“Redemption Racing, also at the other end of pit lane. I'm down here to see a friend in a Porsche team.” He smiled, and the dimples made my insides flutter. “I look forward to chatting more in the future.”

I made a noncommittal response and Mr. Temptation took himself off down the walkway.

Pyotr and Vladimir stepped forward to give me loud, smacking kisses on both cheeks. “We see you in pits, Kate Calamity! But please, you try not to hit our car.” They left, laughing uproariously as they loped up the walkway.

Vinny followed, chuckling and waving good-bye. I had a vision of a terrier trying to keep two bull moose in line.

I turned to Holly. “Filthy rich team owners and their minder?”

She dabbed at her eyes from laughing so hard. “Vinny's the guy running that team, but you pegged the brothers.”

After a tire cart went past us, loaded with worn, gunked-up rubber fresh off a racecar, Holly and I crossed back to our tent to watch the monitors. Mike was maintaining second in class—though the two factory Corvettes crept ever closer. The race was still green into the second hour.

A crew member pointed me to the pit wall, and I walked around the front side of the command center to find Scott Brooklyn waiting. I paused, then approached him. I got close enough no one else could hear. “Am I talking to the SGTV pit reporter or…?”

“I'm on the clock for SGTV. But what I do off the clock with what I hear on the clock?” He shrugged.

“I'm warning you, I'm not a fan today. What do you want?” I shouldn't have been so abrupt or unfriendly with a member of the television crew that covered the race, but Scott and I had history. I didn't completely trust him. I hoped he knew better than to try to cause me trouble.

A hurt look flickered across his face. “Regardless, I'm here because the word's out about Stuart's accident. The bosses want me to ask if you'd talk about it on camera.”

“No.” I barely let him finish.

“I don't blame you. I told them you'd say that.” He saw the look on my face. “Really. They told me to ask, so I asked. You said no. End of story.”

I turned to go.

“But Kate?”

He had a smirk on his face when I looked back.

“If you do want to say anything—on camera or anonymously—let me know.” He winked. “I'm your guy.”

I rolled my eyes and returned to stand next to Holly at the monitors. My cell phone buzzed in my pocket again, and my breath hitched.
More news from surgery, already?

I was unprepared for what I saw when I looked at my phone. My knees dissolved, and I collapsed onto a nearby chair.

A text message from Stuart.

Chapter Nine

3:25 P.M. | 22:45 HOURS REMAINING

Holly plucked the phone from my numb hands. Her jaw dropped. “For heaven's sake.” She tapped the screen and read the message. “Someone's got his phone. It's not Stuart. Someone else.”

I read the message.
I'm a friend of Stuart's. I need to tell you what happened, and I need your help.

Are you kidding me?
I typed in response.
Who are you and why do you have his phone?

A minute later.
Friend. Reporter. I saw Stuart get hit. His phone landed near me. I took it and ran.

I gasped and typed back.
You RAN?? You didn't call for help or go help him? How dare you?

Hang on.

I stared at the phone, waiting for more and shaking with anger.

Another message.
I called for help, so did a bunch of others. People were helping him. I ran because I didn't want to be another target.

What do you mean
…
My typing was interrupted by a fresh response.

I ran because someone tried to kill me last night. Like they tried to kill Stuart this morning. It wasn't an accident.

Holly sat down next to me, and I handed her the phone. She shook her head. “I hope he told this to the cops.”

I took the phone back and typed that message.

Whoever was on the other end replied.
Not yet. I will, but I need to finish my article first. Other people saw what happened better than I did. I might know some of why, but I need to put it all together first. I'll talk to the cops tomorrow.

My thumbs flew.
I'm telling them, if you won't. What's so important it's worth not catching the person who did this?
I grew more furious with every response from the jackass on the other end.

Tell them. I'll talk to them tomorrow. One day won't make a difference. Especially when I expose the fraud and illegal activities going on in Richard Arena's businesses.

It was too much.
What does exposing that team have to do with finding a hit-and-run driver?
I typed.
Are you saying Arena did this to Stuart? And why are you messaging me?

“Seriously,” I muttered. “Why me? Why now, when I've got to drive soon?”

Someone in that organization had to have been responsible, he responded. You because I hear you're the only trustworthy person in the paddock. Plus you're dating Stuart. You deserve to know this was attempted murder, not an accident. You can help me get the bastards responsible.

I blinked and typed.
Who are you?

His explanation continued.
I need your help seeing who's there at the race with the team. Connections between Arena and other organizations or companies. Someone in the Arena team thinks Stuart knows something. I want to figure out what that is and prove who tried to kill him. I can't get close. They know me. Afraid they'll try to kill me also. Again.

My head spun, and I typed back.
This is a joke, right? You're pranking me?

No prank, for real. Turning off now, will text later.

I texted again.
TELL ME YOUR NAME OR I WON'T HELP YOU.
I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”

I stared at the monitors for a few minutes, not really seeing the cars, trying to process the text conversation.

Colby walked over and stood in front of the bank of screens. She was suited up, helmet on, and ready for her turn behind the wheel. The on-deck driver was supposed to be in the pits as soon as the previous driver got in the car, so there was always a backup in case the person in the car had a problem. Past the midway point of a sixty-minute stint, we could be called on to get in the car at any moment. When we were on-deck, we were suited up in our fire-retardant head socks, or balaclavas, and helmets by thirty minutes into the other driver's stint.

A variety of questions crowded into my brain. I turned to Holly. “Do we tell the police about this?”

“He doesn't care.”

“But without a name or any proof, why would they believe us? ‘Hello, Mr. Police Officer, someone who says he's a reporter—who stole the phone of a hit-and-run victim—says that fine, upstanding businessman over there is a crook.'”

“CYA, sugar. Cover you-know-what. Tell the cops. Better they think you're crazy than you get in trouble later for withholding information. I'll contact Detective Latham and see if we can talk to him before your stint.”

I pondered while she typed the message. I spoke again when she looked up. “Help me figure out what I need to ask this guy.”

She opened a notepad app on her phone. “Fire away.”

“What happened last night when he says someone tried to kill him? Who told him I'm the only trustworthy one here? What does he mean he wants my help seeing who's here with that team? Am I supposed to give him names of who I see in their tent? I don't know people. Besides, how does helping him with his article find the person who hurt Stuart.”

I paused to let her catch up. “Most of all, I want to know how he's connected to Stuart. And why he cares.”

“That's the big question.”

“What makes him sure it wasn't an accident? Why does he think he'd be next? How did he see it happen? How did he know to contact me from Stuart's phone? How did he know we were dating?”

She looked up. “Basically, tell us why we should help him.”

Colby jerked into motion, moving toward the front of the pit space and pulling on her gloves. I spotted the problem on the monitors: a Viper nosed into the tire wall at Turn 6. As I watched, the car rolled backward a few feet, then rocked forward and stopped. Thirty seconds later, when it became clear the Viper couldn't get going on its own, the race went yellow—our first full-course caution. Our crew scrambled to ready more tires and prep fuel lines.

Two laps later, as the racecars were finally collected into a line behind the safety car, Holly nudged me. “Detective Latham can't get to the pits right now, but he wants to know what's going on—now he's calling.” She answered her phone and mouthed “I'll tell him” at me.

I nodded my thanks and stepped around the central pit cart to have a direct view of the 28 car's pit box. Prototypes went past us, exiting pit lane after their stops. The lollipop waved, ready for our car. I focused on Colby, standing on the low pit wall next to Bubs, our driver-change assistant. I imagined breathing with her. I rehearsed the driver change sequence in my mind, as I knew she did.

Mike pulled the 28 car in and quickly climbed out. Colby was buckled up within ten seconds, and twenty-some seconds later, she was on her way. The crew gave each other high-fives and started cleaning up. I was diverted out to the walkway by a wave from Holly. She grimaced and handed me the phone.

“Detective Latham?” I asked.

“Ms. Reilly, you need to listen to me,” he bellowed. “
Do not engage.
Do you hear me? Do not engage with this person messaging you. Is that understood?”

“I understand you, Detective. We will contact you the moment we hear anything back from him—if we do. Okay?”

“That's not quite—”

The noise from a Porsche exiting a nearby pit space obliterated whatever else Latham was going to say.

“We'll be careful,” I promised. “And we'll contact you immediately. Now I have to deal with my car.” I shook my head and handed the phone back to Holly.
He thinks I need protection from text messages?

I crossed back to our tent, heading to the pit cart. I was one step below Mike as he climbed up the side to report to Jack and Bruce Kunze, our car chief for the 28 Corvette.

“How is it out there?” Bruce asked him.

Mike shook his head. “The traffic never ends—always something, someone, somewhere. It's a nightmare—but I tell you, I bet the fans love it.”

“Let's hope it doesn't turn into the wrong kind of show,” Jack muttered.