Red Flags (11 page)

Chapter Twenty

I woke up late Friday morning and dragged myself to the hotel's super-deluxe gym, knowing I needed to work out my muscle stiffness. I felt the effects of spending most of a day in an unfamiliar car all over my body, but my neck and shoulders felt it the most, due to stabilizing the wheel and handling g-forces. I'd made a point over the last four months of working on my upper-body strength, particularly my neck, but I could tell I'd need to do even more.

Once I'd cleaned up, breakfasted, and caffeinated, I braced myself and called Nikki.

This time, there was no giggle, no dog, and no BS, though the breathy tone assured me it was the same woman. “Thank you for looking into Billy's death, Kate. I have three minutes before the camera crew arrives. What can I do for you?”

“Can you get a copy of the raw footage your crew shot on Media Day?”

“Of course. What else?”

“Who was Billy close to, besides Holden? And you?”

“He spent a lot of time with Coleman. I didn't hear about other friends. Maybe an acquaintance he'd go for drinks with after the gym, but that's all.” Her doorbell rang, and she disconnected with zero fanfare.

She's not as scatterbrained as I thought.
I considered what she'd told me. I wanted to know who liked Billy, if anyone had, but I wasn't willing to talk to Billy's best friend, Holden. I took a deep breath and dialed Coleman.

To my surprise, he picked up. “How can I help you, Kate?”

“In order to look into Billy's death, I need to understand who he was. Can you tell me about him? His interests? Talents?”

“I'm glad you're taking this seriously.” He paused, and I wondered if he was straightening his tie on the other end of the phone.

“Billy was young and green, but he had potential,” Coleman said. “He had an abundance of charm, and that would have served him well in life, once he found his niche. He was popular with women, but also enjoyed hanging out with the boys. He was deeply committed to taking care of unwanted animals, and he'd just begun volunteering his time with underprivileged children at a local community center.”

“It sounds like you knew him well.”

“Better over the last year. He needed firm guidance—and course correction after some the missteps you're aware of—but he had a good heart.” He sighed. “I understand your relationship with him wasn't very cordial, so that might be difficult for you to believe. He was insecure about his role in the world, and he projected attitude to compensate. If he'd had the chance to mature, he'd have grown out of it.”

Would he have grown out of being a sexual predator? Maybe anything's possible.
Hearing the regret in Coleman's voice, I felt another trace of sorrow at Billy's death. “You'll miss him?”

“I will.”

I sat in silence after ending the call, considering Billy's character. I'd seen the two-dimensional villain, as had plenty of other people. But he'd been a real person, with friends as well as enemies. Strengths as well as flaws. I might not miss him, but someone would.

I wasn't done with challenging family conversations for the day. Shortly before noon, I pulled to the curb in front of the Frame Savings headquarters building to pick my father up. He'd requested a second discussion, and I'd reluctantly agreed.

At Du-par's Restaurant in the Farmer's Market, we both ordered sandwiches and salads. My emotions were still raw from his admission that he hadn't stood up to his family for me, and I waited for him to speak.

“I felt we didn't finish our conversation two days ago, since we never talked about the money or where we go from here,” he began. “This may be uncomfortable, but I want us to be open and honest with each other.”

“That's what I want also.”

“Did your grandmother tell you about the money, if it was offered or asked for?”

“Nothing. Did your family say?”

He frowned. “Considering it was my brother Edward, any comments aren't repeatable.”

“I'm sure it was something about payment for services rendered by my mother.” I studied him. “I can't believe you're calm about that.”

“I know it's a lie. There's no doubt you're my daughter.” He took a breath. “I won't deny it makes me mad, but that's one of many frustrations I have with my brother these days. I'm trying to pick my battles.”

I wasn't as ready to swallow the insult, but I left it alone. “Especially this week.”

“Yes. I wish I were in a better position to help him. At least Coleman is able to.”

“You know Coleman well?”

“We've been friends since college—he even knew your mother. After college, we stayed close, and he married my sister and joined the bank. For a long time, we were as close as brothers. More so.”

“Not now?”

“He's closer to Edward these days, perhaps because their sons are friends. Were. I haven't felt the same connection or comfort level with Coleman, or Edward, in a long time.”

“What changed?”

“I'm not sure. Coleman started spending more time here on the West Coast, though his family was still back east. I feel Frame Savings hasn't gotten his complete attention for some time now due to his pursuit of outside interests or hobbies.”

I raised my eyebrows at him, and he frowned. “I don't feel comfortable with the choices he's making of late. For instance, he sometimes makes his networking opportunities and connections a higher priority than the bank.”

“Judging by his son's behavior, I don't think much of his parenting.”

“That's part of it. I'm not sure where he and Edward went wrong with Holden and Billy.” He waited a beat. “But perhaps neither of us should make parenting judgments?”

Fair point, James.

“Speaking of family,” my father began, “I want to ask you to consider something.”

This can't be good.
“All right.”

“This summer there will be a Reilly family reunion, and I'd like you to attend. It appears there's no conflict with a race.”

“We just had a conversation dancing around the fact your brother thinks my mother was a whore.” I looked around, realizing how loud I was, even in the din of the restaurant. “Now you want me to be part of the family?”

“Regardless who likes it or not, you are part of the Reilly family. Part of my family. As I'm the head of the family and organizing the reunion, I would like you to be there.”

I opened my mouth to speak, unsure if I'd go with calm and considered or outright rude. I thought better of both. “I'll think about it. That's all I can do right now.”

He waited until we were in the car to raise the other topic that made me angry. “I hope you're not actually investigating Billy's murder.”

“I hope you're not actually telling me what to do.”

“We've been through this. I'm not. But you have to allow me to be concerned for you.”

Do I? Do I
have
to do anything for you?
I forced my body to relax, loosening my fingers on the wheel.

“You have so much in the works: two sponsors and a transition to a new series. Do you have time to investigate? You can't tell me you
want
to talk to people about Billy.”

He had me there. “No, but I'm concerned about the reputation of racing and the preservation of the Long Beach race. I don't want the rest of the world thinking we're a hotbed of crime.”

“Why? Why you?”

“Because I can and I care.” I looked at him while we were stopped at a light. “This is my career. My
life
. I care that people respect the industry. I'm not saying I'm going to find his killer. But if I can help the police—and people involved with both racing and Frame Savings think I can—then I will.” I paused. “Speaking of which, do you know of anyone at the bank or in the family with a grudge against Billy?”

He stared at me in surprise. I shrugged, and we rode the remaining blocks in silence.

Finally, as I pulled to the loading zone in front of the Frame Savings building, my father spoke again. “Please consider both of my requests.”

I turned off the car, using the extra moments to reach through my anger for a nod.

He put a hand on mine. “I hope you understand why I ask. I'm concerned about you, and I want you to get to know the rest of the family.”

“I said I'll consider it.” I bit off the words.

He might have wanted to say more, but he left it. “Thank you. And thank you for joining me again. I'll see you at the events over the next few days.” He patted my hand in lieu of a hug and got out of the car, then turned and waved as he was halfway across the plaza to the main entrance doors.

“Sorry, James,” I muttered. “Not going to happen. I'm still going to ask questions about Billy. And you'll see me at the big, happy Reilly family reunion when hell freezes over.”

Chapter Twenty-one

I sat at the curb for a few minutes, calming down. I'd started the meal in a decent place with my father emotionally. But by the end, I was back to being frustrated with his demands and assumptions. He always asked for more than I could give. Not for the first time I thought my life would be less complicated if I hadn't encountered him as an adult.

I idly watched the people in the small plaza in front of the bank headquarters. Two large planters with wide edges, perfect for sitting on, flanked a central walkway. It was one o'clock, and half a dozen people sat alone or in small groups finishing lunch, smoking, or reading. Still others entered and exited the building, walking with purpose. I couldn't categorize the bank's patrons or employees in any way, they were all sizes, shapes, genders, and ethnicities. Like Los Angeles.

One woman caught my attention because she walked more hesitantly than most and carried a bag that looked like a folded blue tarp under her arm. She walked to the middle of the plaza, paused, and went to a planter to sit down. Then she popped back up, moved to the center again, and sat down on the ground.

I looked around, wondering how a normal L.A. resident reacted to this kind of behavior. No one seemed to notice. Two people leaving the bank walked around the new obstacle, never missing a beat of their cell phone conversations.

I studied the woman. She was petite, dressed in khakis, tennis shoes, and a long-sleeved, knit top. Her short, brown hair wasn't unkempt, and she didn't look homeless.

She set out a small sign, a triangle of cardboard that proclaimed, “Shame on Frame Savings.” A protest?
I wondered if that happened a lot here. But she'd timed her statement poorly for maximum attention, given the number of people leaving the plaza to return to their desks. She pulled more objects out of her bag and set them in front of her. She seemed to be shaking, but I didn't understand why, since the temperature was in the high seventies with no wind.

I glanced in my mirrors, unwilling to leave before seeing how this scene played out. I looked back at her and took five seconds to understand what I saw.

Red can. Pouring liquid on herself. What? What?! Gasoline?

I glanced around to see who else was watching. As unbelievable as it seemed, no one stopped to ask her what she was doing. No security guard from inside the bank building ran out to investigate. I was jittery with adrenaline and indecision.

That's when it hit me.
I'm in L.A. Someone's filming this, right?
I relaxed and craned my neck for cameras, crew, and those mid-size white box trucks I'd learned signified a nearby shoot, certain I'd spot them in clever hiding places. Nothing. No one.

I glanced back at the woman. She carefully capped the red gas can and set it aside, on top of the folded blue bag. I saw her shoulders shaking more violently, and I thought she was probably cold now she was wet.
Gasoline?
Gas would mean this was real. I still voted—desperately hoped—for made-for-television or -film. Or a prank. Anything other than the logical conclusion of a protest sign and a dousing with flammable liquid.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned around, frantically looking for a director to yell “Cut!” or anyone else observing the situation.
It's the middle of the day in a financial district, how can no one notice this?!
The logical part of my brain knew I was the only one to witness the whole chain of events. Any single action might be explainable and something a busy passer-by didn't want to deal with. Except maybe the gas can.

I turned back to the woman. She was hunched forward, curled around herself. Fumbling with something. She made a sliding motion with her right wrist.
Like trying to light a match.

I didn't think. I yanked the keys from the ignition as I leapt from the car and scrambled through the plaza.
Don't light. Let me be ruining a scene. Please don't set yourself on fire.

Neither of the matches she tried ignited. I reached her and slapped the wooden box out of her hand, sending it skidding toward one of the concrete planters. My eyes stung from the fumes.

She sobbed, her body jerking back and forth from the force of it. “Why? Why?” she wailed. “Let me…” The rest was lost in the cry of a newcomer to the scene.

“Jenny!” A distraught woman stumbled through the courtyard and threw herself on the gas-soaked woman.

I took a step back, not ready to leave, but happy to be away from the smell. I saw what must be the new arrival's car stopped behind mine, her driver's door hanging open into traffic. I looked back at the women, both on the ground now, both crying. I carefully picked up the two matches that hadn't lit from the pool of gasoline, carried them to the planter, and set them on the lip, above the box on the ground. My knees shook, and I sat down.

I heard sirens. Within moments, an ambulance, a fire truck, and two police cars surrounded my car at the curb, all with lights flashing.

I watched the action: frantic while the paramedics determined the woman wasn't injured, and calmer as they assessed her and figured out what they were dealing with. I told my story to two different police officers and pointed to the matches on the ground near my feet. At one point, I fetched my purse and a bottle of water from my car, locking it while I was there. I studied the woman who'd rushed in, wondering why she seemed familiar. When I trusted my legs to hold me, I approached her.

She turned to me with a stunned expression, and I remembered where I'd seen her. “You were at Media Day for the Long Beach race. With the pink scarf.”

She clutched the pendant of the necklace she wore. “I don't…”

“Never mind.” I gestured to the gas-soaked woman. “She's a friend?”

Her shuddering breath told me she was barely holding herself together. “My sister.”

No wonder she was a wreck. “I'm so sorry. Can I do anything to help?” They felt like stupid questions, but had to ask. “I'm Kate Reilly.”

“Tara Raffield.” Neither of us made any move to shake hands. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at me. “Why do you care?”

I reminded myself Tara had almost seen her sister go up in flames. “I dropped someone off, and I saw—I couldn't let her…” I stopped, not wanting to say the words. Not wanting to think them either.

Tara closed her eyes.

“Sorry again.” I dug a card out of my purse and handed it to her. “Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help. I don't like to see anyone in distress.”

One paramedic stripped Jenny to her underwear while another held up a blanket to shield her. A third held a plastic bag open to receive Jenny's clothes. All three men were remarkably nonplussed by the smell, though even the residue of the gas on Tara made my eyes water.

Tara started to move away. “I've got to go with the ambulance.”

I put a hand on her arm. “Can I check in with you sometime and see how she's doing? I don't mean to intrude, but I'd like to know.”

Tara glared at me. “I still don't understand why you care.”

“It scared me. I'd like to know she gets better.”
Since I just saved her life.

This time Tara sneered. “This is a first. Someone from the corrupt Reilly family actually giving a damn? I find it hard to believe.”

I was stunned into silence.

“That's right,” she taunted. “I know exactly who you are. Your family and this miserable excuse for a banking institution can stay the hell away from me and my sister.”

She stalked to the ambulance and climbed in.