Braking Points (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

We were back at the racetrack the next morning by eight. In contrast to the workmanlike atmosphere of the past two days, by Friday we felt a buzz in the air. We were close enough to the main event to taste it. The weather was cool and overcast, in contrast to the sunny skies of Thursday, but the experts forecast no rain. I hoped they were right.

I sipped a cup of coffee and leaned against a pole supporting our garage awning. The 29 car's crew had a rear brake assembly in pieces on the shop floor and our brake whiz, Alex Hanley, was in the thick of the rebuilding effort. The crew of our 28 car polished already gleaming bodywork.

“Kate?” I turned to see an SGTV cameraman and Juliana, looking frazzled. “Could we have a quick word?” she asked.

I set down my cup and crossed to her. “Sure. How are you feeling today?”

“I'm fine. Damn him!” She fumbled through a sheaf of papers.

Not her typical behavior.

“Hold on, Bernie.” That was to her cameraman. Crouching down, she dropped the papers on the ground and flipped through them to extract a single sheet. Then she straightened, planted her foot on the pile, smoothed her hair back, and with one deep breath, transformed into the polished belle I knew.

“What's going on, Jules?”

Now she was all business. “Can't find Felix, doing it without him. Topics: how your car feels for the race and the idea of racing with all the European imports who've come over for the event. Ready?”

Typical stuff. I nodded and straightened my shoulders.

Two minutes later, she had her sound bites. “Our car's responding well to our testing and adjustments so far, and we're optimistic for the race—but you know there's a lot of racing to do, and anything can happen,” and “I'm excited to race with the drivers and teams who've come over from Europe to compete with us. Not knowing their styles and habits will make it harder to predict how they'll move, but it's great for the Series and fans to see new competition and faces.”

I squatted to help her assemble her documents, and she put a hand on my forearm, speaking in a low tone. “I heard you and Felix had words. I'm sorry if what I told you made it worse.”

“Don't worry about it. I'm tired of his crap, and I let him know I wouldn't stand for it anymore. Something he said made it sound like he's after you, too—like it could have been him trying to run us both down.”

“Trust me, I'm watching my back. You do the same. But the Ringer's got your argument last night.”

“That figures.” As she left, I stepped back into our paddock and pulled out my cell phone to fess up to my PR team. Lily and Matt were as annoyed with me as people I was paying could get. It didn't help they were only on their first cups of coffee.

Lily was the most exasperated. “Ix-nay on the antrum-tay, all right?”

“Now, Lily,” Matt soothed, “Kate's letting off a little steam. Though we'd prefer you pick a more private forum, Kate. Somewhere the Ringer's tentacles don't reach.”

“Tough to know where that is. Look, I reached my limit of verbal abuse from him—member of the media or not. He's got serious issues with women, and I refuse to be the focal point for them. But I'm sorry for saying so in public.”

Lily's voice rang down the line. “You need to rise above! Smile graciously, and decline to comment. Go all Oprah on their petty-minded asses!”

Petty-minded…never mind. “Oprah?”

“Oprah, the Queen of England, whoever. Ignore the name-calling and do your thing. Be confident, true to yourself—like Oprah. Don't give the riff-raff the power to tear you down.”

“Rise above.” It worked as a pep talk.

“And keep your mouth shut—no, you can't do that. Don't say anything about threats or the Ringer or being under attack. Smile and say you're grateful for the support of your loyal fans.”

“And keep referring media inquiries to us when appropriate,” added Matt. “Not the quick quotes or car-related stuff, but anything more than that, we'll field first.”

I nodded, though they couldn't see me. “Thank you for everything you're doing. I'll try not to make your jobs harder again.”

As much as yelling at Felix might have been a mistake, I continued to feel better about my situation. More in control of my life, which made it easier to turn off the rest of my brain and focus on the car.

I headed into the motorhome, changed into my driving suit, and sat down on a sofa with the official list of race competitors. I knew the ALMS regulars: who drove what car and how each driver behaved in his car. But for Petit, regular teams added third drivers I was unfamiliar with, plus a dozen cars I'd never raced against were piloted by trios I'd never seen. Jack wanted us to pool information about the behavior of competitors, so I used the list to match driver names and car numbers with a mental picture of the car on the track.

Jack reinforced the need for observation and collaboration twenty minutes later when he gathered us on the sofas. “Time for some recon work this morning, boys and girl. Leon, you're comfortable in the car?”

“Right as rain.”

Jack nodded. “You three,” he pointed to Leon, Mike, and me. “Everyone watching the feeds, paying close attention to the others in class. How they look, where they're fast or slow.”

At our nods, Jack pointed to Seth, Lars, and Paolo. “Your car setup's close, and hopefully we've licked the understeer issue we've been working on. Your first priority is setup. All of you, any information on drivers in other classes to watch out for, give room, or whatever, we'll take it. We'll compare notes after.” He checked his watch. “Practice starts in fifteen, so let's get over to the pits. And keep it clean. Don't hit shit.”

Jack decreed each of us driving the 28 car would get fifteen minutes of track time, give or take, during the hour-long practice session. I'd go first again. The six drivers trooped to the pits together, and I got busy putting my earplugs in and securing them with a square of red tape over my ear. As had become my habit, I checked all straps on my helmet and HANS—still solid—then put them on. I grabbed my gloves, and I was ready to go.

The car still felt fantastic. Fast, balanced, and a whole lot of fun to drive. My laps were a joyride, a chance to find my balance for the day in the car and on the track. Then a blue-and-white-striped European prototype went up the hill into Turn 2 behind me.

Coming out of Turn 4, heading for the Esses, the driver from Benchmark Racing popped up on my left side and swept around me as we went through the downhill right-hander. But I needed to use all of the track to carry my speed, including the outside line he was on. My choices were hit him or brake hard and go for a ride. I chose curtain number two, which sent my car fishtailing and bouncing over curbing—undertray slamming onto the raised ridges—then speeding down the hill on the grass and up over the curbing again onto the track at Turn 5. By the time I got four wheels under control and on pavement, the other guy was through Turn 6.

From the moment of near-impact, I cursed his name, team, country of origin, and the boat they'd all come in on. Silently. Because I strained to hear the sounds of the car over the noise of my pounding heart. Something was off. But not horribly. Yet.

“How's the car, Kate?” Bruce's voice was calm on the radio.

“Something's wrong. A little. Coming in.” I heard traces of panic in my own voice. I keyed the mic again. “What the hell was that guy thinking? This is
practice!”

“Stay calm, Kate. Jack's gonna find out. Roger you coming in.”

I finished the lap at half to two-thirds speed, focusing on how the car felt in a straight line, under braking and acceleration, in right and left turns. Relaying that to the team.

“Racing change,” Bruce reminded me, as I headed up the final hill, hugging the right side of the track as preparation for entering pit lane.

I was angry my practice time was cut in half by an arrogant jerk who didn't know the track and mad also I'd forgotten the plan for a full-speed driver change. I reached back to unhook my air conditioning hose and radio cable and yanked on my drink tube as I cruised down the hill.

I continued muttering obscenities about the other driver as I stopped the car and hauled myself out. Leon jumped in after me, finishing the driver change in acceptable time. Then he sat there waiting as the crew examined the car. I watched with Jack and Mike from the pit wall, my seat insert still in hand, helmet still on.

After an agonizingly long couple of minutes, I saw the lead over-the-wall mechanic key his radio and speak. The speed of the crew slowed. Jack nodded.

“What?” I shouted through my helmet as I tossed my seat insert down on a chair. I hurriedly unbuckled my chin strap and yanked helmet, HANS, and balaclava off.

Jack held up a hand to calm me. “We're taking it back to the paddock.”

I bolted from the pits before he could say another word, planning to kick some visiting-driver butt.

Jack caught up to me two steps later and held me there, though I struggled briefly. “Kate, it's not major, but there's no need to rush. We'll take our time and get it right again.”

I turned to see Leon climbing out of the car, and a wave of guilt and anger hit me. Leon and Mike wouldn't get any laps in this practice session.
Had I wrecked us again? No, this was absolutely the other guy's fault.

“Fine,” I bit out. “But someone needs to have
major
words with the jackass who caused it.” I was on the balls of my feet, still considering a trip down pit lane.

Jack straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. His glare pinned me in place more effectively than his hands had. “Cool it.”

“It was his fault.”

“Trust me, I delivered the message. Cool off. Don't get yourself in trouble.”

I struggled with my anger. I took some deep breaths. “Fine. You're sure you—” I saw the expression on his face. “You gave them hell. Good.”

“Come on, let's get back to the paddock.”

“Who was it anyway?”

“Dominic Lascuola, Benchmark Racing.”

Chapter Thirty-two

Though Jack and Bruce assured me the fix was minor, our crew took the precaution of tearing back and rebuilding the suspension on the car, in case something that wasn't obvious had been damaged. I fumed silently, watching them work. Wondering if Dominic Lascuola had made a mistake. If he'd been following Felix's advice to take me out. Or trying to advance his sister's interests.

“@katereilly28: Frustrating to watch team working on a car damaged by other team's stupid move. Can't drive our GTs like your LMPs!!!!! #idiotmove”

Shortly after the practice session ended for the rest of the cars in the ALMS, the drivers, crew chiefs, and Tom gathered again in the motorhome for a team meeting. Leon and Mike waved off my apologies for their lack of morning practice time.

“It's the fault of that stupid git Dominic.” Leon made his point with a finger jabbed in the direction of the Benchmark team paddock.

Paolo shook his head. “He is not so bad, really. I think he just put his foot in the sea and take too big a bite.”

I met Seth Donohue's blank look with one of my own. Then I saw comprehension, and Seth translated. “Dipped his toe in the water, but bit off more than he could chew.”

I hoped Paolo was right, that Dominic had made a simple mistake through being new to the track and the Series. Time would tell.

Jack banged the door shut behind him and clomped up the stairs, sitting at the front edge of the driver's seat turned to face the center of the room. He leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his hands together.

“Autograph session at 12:30, qualifying at 3:15. That'll be Kate and Lars.”

I was surprised. I'd only qualified once that year, at Mid-Ohio, the race prior to my accident at Road America. Plus I'd wrecked the car the last time I drove it in the heat of battle. Maybe this was Jack's way of building confidence. I nodded at him. “Great.”

“That session is twenty-five minutes, long enough to take a couple laps to test setup—especially the 28 car now—make an adjustment, and still qualify. We'll need to be quick. But again, start position doesn't help much for a ten-hour race.”

Mike raised a hand. “Assuming the car's steady, she goes all out?”

Jack shrugged. “Sure, give 'em whatever you've got.”

Excitement fizzed in my chest.

“If the car's still great,” Mike said, “they'll claim we were sandbagging.”

“Aye, and we were,” Leon put in.

Jack grinned at him. “Damn right. Now, let's talk about the other cars and drivers out there. What have you learned?”

For the next fifteen minutes we shared observations on the driving style and tendencies of other cars we'd encountered—though I let my eye-rolling speak for me when it came to Dominic Lascuola in his prototype. After that, Jack went through our code words: innocuous phrases we'd use over the radio to tell our teams something we didn't want others to understand. For instance, “make sure you're drinking plenty of water” meant “ease up a little and save some fuel,” and “nice and smooth” meant “slow down.”

Jack finished the meeting by making sure we knew where to be and when, and we left the motorhome to the sound of the track announcer calling a GT3 support race. I saw two familiar faces among the fans at our rope line, and I crossed to them.

“Colton Butler and Jimmy O'Brien.” The photographers had adhered to the bargain we made outside the hospital on Monday by not slamming me in print—unlike the other journalists who'd been there. I was grateful they'd gotten over their anger and helped me out. Time for some payback. “You guys want in?” I unhooked the rope and escorted them over to the cars.

Tom raised an eyebrow as we approached, and I spoke in his ear. “The good guys at the hospital Monday. I owe them.”

“Fair enough.” Tom introduced himself, and, once he discovered they didn't usually cover racing, helped me give them the full tour of the garage, complete with car specifications, Series structure, and race weekend schedule. They took tons of photos. I dragged Mike and Leon out of the transport trailer to join me for group shots with the car.

It was unusual for me or the team to lavish attention on two photographers with not much racing background and no ties to big-name media. But Butler and O'Brien had resisted the rush to judgment about me. They'd been kind.
If I have to rebuild my reputation one journalist at a time,
so be it. I did it once, I can do it again.

I walked them to the paddock lane a few minutes later and thanked them again for their interest.

O'Brien, the taller, once-redhead, was about to follow his shorter pal into the crowd when he snapped his fingers. “Almost forgot.” He dug a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me, his contact information printed on one side, a phone number handwritten on the other. “That's the number called us about your hospital visit. Good luck.”

They were gone before I could thank him. I hurried to a quieter spot at the back of the garage and dialed the number on my cell phone. I didn't stop to question if calling was a good idea, but five rings gave me enough time to panic.

Voicemail: “Hi, you've reached Felix Simon of SGTV. Leave me a message, and I'll call you back.”

By the end of the beep, I was at full boil. “You set me up! I can't believe you. Don't ever bother me again, you son of a bitch, or you'll live to regret it.” I jabbed at the off button on my phone and resisted the urge to throw it across the garage.

I held my breath and marched into the office of the transport trailer, making Tom the only witness to my fit of couch-kicking and swearing. Only when I'd calmed down and collapsed into a chair did he speak.

“Can I help with something, Kate?”

“Rearrange Felix Simon's face?”

“Uh oh.”

“He called reporters with my name saying I wanted publicity for my visit to the cancer ward—to get me in trouble with everyone. All because he doesn't think women ought to be in racing.”

“But he's such a nice guy.”

“That's what everyone says. But I can prove he set me up for Monday. I bet he's behind everything else, too.”

“I wonder why he'd do that. Maybe he's worried for his job because he's got a new, young partner? But to take that out on you?”

“From what Juliana said, he doesn't like any woman in racing.”

“Then her being his partner must really make him mad.”

“I hadn't thought about that.” I looked at him in surprise. “I wonder how rough he's been on her?”

I tested the idea of Felix behind everything that had gone wrong for me lately. I knew he'd planted stories with the Ringer—or was the Ringer. I couldn't lay blame for NASCAR fans hating me at his door, but I was convinced he'd stoked the flames.

He'd been on the spot in Atlanta and could easily have tried to run me down. And done the same to Jules here at the track. Could he have killed Ellie while trying to stop me from racing? If so, any female around might be in danger, as Tom suggested. Should I warn Juliana there could be other attempts? Warn Colby?

“With an imagination like this, I should write for soap operas,” I muttered.

“Aunt Tee's got lunch outside. You coming?”

I waved Tom on and made quick calls to the Wisconsin sheriff and the Atlanta police officer we'd spoken to, relating my suspicions about Felix. Both men agreed to add the information to their files and follow up, but I realized how little detail or proof I was offering. I hung up convinced they didn't believe me. I remembered that last year in Connecticut Detective Jolley hadn't believed me either. Must be a cop thing.

I sat still for a time, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Trying to center myself and let go of the tension and anger I'd been feeling. But the heavy sensation in the pit of my stomach didn't go away, and I began to regret leaving that message for Felix. Not because I yelled at him—that felt as liberating as when I'd done so the night before. But I wondered if I'd put him on alert, by making it clear I knew what he was doing.

Even if the police didn't think so, I was convinced Felix was behind the negative campaign against me—if not also Ellie's death. I just needed to prove it.