Braking Points (9 page)

Chapter Seventeen

I sat on the sidewalk for five minutes until the Atlanta police arrived, called by a helpful pedestrian. Unfortunately, no one could identify the car, let alone the driver. Four-door, black or dark gray. One person said a Ford, one said a Honda. The driver was alone, but shadowed. No one caught a license plate.

The officer took down notes about the death threats I'd received in e-mail—promising to contact the Sheboygan County Sheriff for more information and start an investigation into them. But he wasn't hopeful about finding the car and driver from this attempt. “At least we've got it on record if anything else happens,” he said.

“Good Lord, let's hope not.” Holly batted her eyelashes at the dimpled, muscled detective who smiled back at her.

I hated to break up the blooming love connection, but my adrenaline rush had worn off, and I felt cold and shaky. Holly and I walked slowly—and carefully—back to our hotel. Instead of the planned dinner out, she ordered room service while I took a hot shower. She ate on the couch, her chicken parmesan on the low table in front of her. I sat cross-legged on the bed with my food tray.

“Holly? I might be paranoid, but was that an accident?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why is someone trying to kill me? It's bizarre to even say it. This doesn't happen in real life.” I held up my hands, reading her look and remembering my narrow escape from a killer the previous year in Connecticut. “The guy last year was crazy.”

“He's not the only crazy person in this big ole world—obviously, since someone killed Ellie.”

“But who? Why? A fan because Miles got hurt? A redneck because I used the word as an insult? A runner-up spokeswoman because I got the Beauté sponsorship?”

“Someone angry at your success in racing?”

“Felix.”

“I don't know.”

I shook my head. “I still can't wrap my mind around the idea.”

“Someone tried to kill you tonight. I'd say that makes it pretty clear Ellie died because someone doesn't like you. Stop with the denial and figure it out.”

I opened my mouth, but she went on before I could speak. “And don't get wrapped up in guilt. It's not your fault, it's the killer's fault. The only thing you can do is make sure he's caught.”

I shut my mouth and nodded. Accepted a few truths, straightened out my emotions. Holly ate her dinner while I worked it out.

“So we know someone's out to get me. One? Or more?”

“Good question.” She put her knife and fork down on the plate. “On one hand, of course they're related, because how many people are out to kill you? On the other, you did piss off seventy-five million NASCAR fans by taking out Miles, so they could be different perpetrators.”

“Not every NASCAR fan is a Miles Hanson fan.” She looked at me and I sighed. “Right, only seventy-four million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand are. No idea if we're talking one person or two. I'm going to assume one person, because the thought of multiple homicidal maniacs after me is terrifying. Which means it's someone who was at Siebkens last Sunday night and in downtown Atlanta tonight.”

She picked up her tray of empty dishes and headed to the door to set it in the hallway. “I didn't do it.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” I followed her with my tray.

“We need a list of names of people at both places, then we cross-reference them.”

“You'll help?”

“Of course.” She handed me the hotel-provided notepad and pen. “Start writing.”

Ten minutes later we'd come up with about fifty people we remembered seeing at Siebkens. We'd debated adding friends or people we only knew to have been outside the Tavern, not inside. In the end, we wrote every name down, including Stuart and Holly—at her insistence.

Then I started a new list for tonight in Atlanta, which was also long. I bunched pillows up against the headboard of my bed and settled back on them. “The problem is half of the ALMS paddock is already here for tomorrow's Series event. Everyone else could show up at any time to network.”

Holly lay across her bed on her stomach, propped up on her elbows. “Plus, half of US racing is based between Atlanta and Charlotte. We need to include the Series people who live here. They're only forty minutes away.”

I looked at the names and felt discouraged.

“Buck up, sugar,” Holly said. “This is still easier than asking everyone if they hate you enough to kill you.”

“I wish I could ask everyone in Miles' fan clubs.”

“Or the Ringer.”

“I'm staying away from him. I wonder—no, I'm not looking.”

“I checked while you were in the shower.” She shook her head at my hopeful expression. “He's got a transcript of your rant at Felix this evening.”

“What kind of sources does this guy have? He's got to be someone in racing.”

“That's the beauty of his process. It's all anonymous tips. Anyone can send anything in and maybe he'll cross-check with other tips or sources, or maybe he'll post it as unconfirmed rumor. Usually he's careful not to state it as fact, but as hearsay. Or he won't name the target specifically, but will describe him or her in a way that makes it clear who he's referring to.”

“How do I make him stop?”

“Prove him wrong. I sent the audio file of Felix provoking you—which wasn't on the Ringer's blog—to your PR team. They'll counter his nonsense.”

“Then what do I do with the people on both of these lists?” I looked at them side-by-side.

“Figure out who would benefit with you out of the way.”

“Some driver who might take my seat at Sandham Swift. Some woman who might take my spot as a Beauté spokeswoman.”

“Hmmm, those lovely, free products.”

“Easy, killer. Someone who…wants to date Stuart? Who thinks I get too much attention in the paddock?”

“Money? They always say follow the money.”

“No, I—oh. Something my father told me Monday.” I'd shared the secret of my father with only Holly, Zeke, and Stuart. “I'm in the family will, and some members of the family aren't happy. Plus they'll all be at a private party sponsored by the bank on Friday. He wants me to meet everyone.”

“That ought to be a hoot. How much money?”

“I didn't ask.”

“Maybe some evil relation wants to rub you out so they get more inheritance? Is the money being distributed soon?”

“Not until my father dies, I think. It seems farfetched.”

“Depends on the amount of money or the need. Maybe you should find out who isn't happy about you and where they've been the last week.”

I looked at the clock: 7:30. Before I lost my nerve, I dialed my father, who had five minutes to spare before leaving for an engagement. He was initially angry I'd be suspicious of family members I'd never met, but when I explained the attempts on my life, he named two cousins, William Reilly-Stinson and Holden Sherain—also offering to verify their whereabouts on the two evenings in question. As an afterthought, I asked him the value of my supposed inheritance.

Holly raised her eyebrows when I told her. “That'd buy you a few racecars.”

“I want to earn the racecars, not buy them. And talk about money with strings attached. Maybe I'll give it to the BCRF.”

She shot me a look that very clearly said, “Are you nuts?”

“Topic over. I need a break. Let's watch a movie.”

“Sure.” She picked up the guide. “Perfect. We'll watch
Die Hard
now, and then you'll get up in the morning and go play with guns.”

“Yippee kai yay.”

 

Road Atlanta

Braselton, Georgia

 

 

Chapter Eighteen

For our hunting trip the next morning, Mike, Jack, and I drove an hour out of Atlanta to meet six BW Goods executives, three winners of a “top hunter” contest the superstore sponsored, and two men with cameras. We walked around the woods of a private preserve for two hours, the hunters shooting at doves and me shooting at a tree stump, since I'd never fired a shotgun before and didn't have a hunting permit. Then we posed for photos with the wild boar the hunters bagged before we arrived. I tried not to dwell on how Benny the boar turned into my delicious bacon.

After a quick turnaround at my Atlanta hotel, where I showered the outdoors off, Holly and I headed north to the suburb of Suwanee, Holly driving while I checked in with the world. Racing's Ringer was at it again, beside himself with indignation over my doing what he'd berated me for lack of—stepping up, being a role model, and working for a greater cause. The hypocrite.

“The headline is ‘Convenient News From Kate Violent,'” I told Holly. “He says I'm doing this only for the money, suggests I cooked this up to combat his challenges, and congratulates himself on prompting my ‘better behavior.' Then he contradicts himself, claiming it's not better behavior because I can't truly be committed to the cause if I didn't do anything before now. Calls me ‘self-aggrandizing' to be ‘pulling this convenient stunt now when her public image is so tarnished, so in need of redemption.' He ends by concluding I have no class to be grandstanding this way. Me?”

“I'd like to redeem my fist in his face, I tell you that much.”

“He's got a post quoting an industry insider saying, ‘Just because she's better looking than most drivers doesn't mean she can drive. Sexy doesn't mean talent—usually the opposite. That's just how it is.' And then—”

Holly interrupted. “Was that last bit a quote?” At my nod, she went on. “It's Felix—his tic is saying ‘That's just how it is.'”

“That's what I need. Felix and the Ringer working together. Lastly, the Ringer makes fun of the beauty company—suggesting they scraped the bottom of the barrel by picking me for beauty.”

“That's flat out unacceptable.” She pounded the steering wheel with a fist.

“I can't take offense. It's what I thought.”

“Talk about no class. A gentleman would never insult a lady like that.”

“Maybe he's not from the South. He gets snippy about all the pink. ‘Will poor Mike and the pit crew be forced into pink firesuits? Will Sandham Swift bear the indignity of a pink car? Will we all have pink stuffed down our throats and be unable to object because objecting means we like cancer? And how will BW Goods, the other key Sandham Swift sponsor, cope? Will Kate V. try to start a new trend in pink cammo?'”

I was out of breath, torn between indignation and laughter.

“He's got a bug up his butt about this. And you.”

“The thought of the over-the-wall crew in pink suits and helmets is awesome. He sounds threatened. Defensive.” I paused. “Could the Ringer be Felix?”

“They have a similar bias against you. I'm not sure the language is the same. Felix sneers privately. The Ringer likes scoring points off you publicly.”

“But Felix is a journalist, used to spinning events a variety of ways. Have you ever heard rumors about the Ringer's identity?”

“Not a whisper.” Her grapevine had no peer. If she hadn't heard anything, there wasn't anything to be heard.

“Have you tweeted today, Kate? You have to tweet regularly.”

“@katereilly28: Join the #ALMS and Sandham Swift Racing at the Mall of Georgia this afternoon. Learn about racing, score giveaways, and meet drivers!”

After checking in to a hotel next to Highway 85 in Suwanee, Holly and I got back in my Jeep and headed eight miles further down the freeway to the Mall of Georgia, arriving half an hour before the official three o'clock start time.

The three-hour community event the ALMS was hosting took place in a square, cordoned-off section of parking lot, right in front of the open-air section of the mall, next to the Barnes & Noble store. Around the perimeter were tables under pop-up tents for the ALMS, key partners and sponsors—such as Michelin, Pirelli, Porsche, and Kreisel Timepieces—and a dozen regular ALMS competitors. At least half the teams, including Sandham Swift, had extra-wide tents housing a racecar along with crew and drivers. Two pop-ups in the center sheltered information tables and three Series-logoed street cars—a Porsche, a Corvette, and a track-package Mazda—used for taking VIP guests around the track before races.

Holly's team, Western Racing, wasn't involved in the event, so she wandered off to talk to other people, while I went straight to our setup. On one side of the large tent, Jack typed furiously into his phone and Mike helped Tom set out the team “hero” cards: summary information and full-color photos of cars and drivers, printed on eight-by-ten cardstock. At the other side, two crew members from the 29 car chatted with its drivers, Lars Pierson and Seth Donohue, while a third, cigarette dangling from his mouth, sprayed cleaner on the Corvette, rubbing away fingerprints and dust with a soft cloth.

A Series marketing person trotted over with a schedule of the afternoon's events and a request from Stuart that I find him for a quick word. The nerves jumping around in my stomach told me I was still conflicted about him—my feelings, his past, my friend. For a millisecond I considered avoidance as a strategy. That wasn't fair to anyone.

I walked to the Series tent slowly, studying the afternoon's schedule along the way. Activities were planned every twenty minutes, including pit stop demonstrations and tech talks about a driver's racing gear and tire technology. Sandham Swift was listed under “Other Giveaways” because Beauté would hand out information, makeup samples, and signup forms for the 5K next weekend.

Stuart met me a few steps away from his tent. “Kate, hi.” He put a hand on my shoulder and ran it down my arm to the elbow.

I went still, flushing at the thought of our night together. I was uncomfortable being at my job and thinking about sex. “We're going to have to talk about how we handle this during races.” I stepped back, causing his hand to fall. Enough of my life was fodder for public commentary. I didn't need to broadcast my romantic leanings also.

He stepped closer, but didn't touch me, and spoke in a quiet tone. “I wanted to see how you're doing. And ask if we could meet tomorrow night for coffee or dessert after a dinner I have to attend.”

“I'm doing all right, I guess.” I paused.
Did I want to see him? Of course I did, but I was afraid of making a mistake. Of being hurt.
“Sure, coffee's fine.”

“Is this not what you want?” He didn't mean the beverage.

I paused, gathering my thoughts, trying to find the words. Aware every successive moment made the answer more “no” than “yes.”

I opened my mouth, not sure what would come out. “Yes. I do. But I'm not ready to deal with a relationship.”

“You want to date other people?” His voice sounded choked.

“What? Of course not. There's no one else. I like being with you. But…I've got a lot going on right now. I'm trying to build my career. I don't know if I have the time or the energy for a relationship.”

“You shouldn't have to work at this, Kate. It should just be.” His eyes searched my face. “We'll take it as it comes.”

“OK.” Part of the knot in my chest unraveled, but the rest of it was still there, uncomfortable. I eyed him. “If we're being honest here?”

“I hope we are.”

“The thing with Ellie and you. That really rattled me.”

Stuart raised an eyebrow. “Her death or the fact we were engaged?”

“Both.” I closed my eyes for a moment. “I'm still in shock over her death, and the idea I was the target? I can't think about it or guilt will overwhelm me. Then learning you'd known her. Been in love with her. It's hard to deal with.”

“You've had relationships before also. High profile ones.”

Everyone always knew about Sam.
“One. I don't expect you to have had no past. But I knew her. At least, I thought I did.” I bit my lip, needing to get the next words out. “I thought I knew you, too.”

“You do know me.”

“Maybe? This—and with someone I knew—takes adjusting to. Making it fit the rest of the picture. I need time to get used to it.”

He looked frustrated. “We'll start with coffee tomorrow.”

I nodded and left, hoping to get my emotions straight before I saw him again.

Partway back to my team's tent, I ran into Felix, who stopped and put his hands on his hips, the chrome on his ALMS race-winner's watch catching the light. “If it isn't Princess Pink.”

I waited silently, my arms crossed over my chest.

“What's the matter, Princess? The racing world too tough for you?”

I gritted my teeth. “No. It's irritating some people have bad manners, but it's nothing I can't handle.
You
are nothing I can't handle.”

His face flushed, and he stepped closer. “You don't belong here and you don't deserve to be here. I have no problem making that clear.”

I looked around for someone who might be a witness, and he understood.

“No one will believe you,” he gloated. “I'm the nice guy, remember? Say something, and you'll look like the whiny bitch you are.” He leaned closer, his smile a combination of satisfaction and meanness. “But I'm not the only one after you.”

He whistled as he sauntered away.