Red Flags (25 page)

Chapter Forty-eight

This time, I wanted to crawl in a hole. I wanted to unbuckle my belts, climb out of the car, and disappear. A millisecond later, I was mad and ready to stop screwing around.

I clapped both hands to the side of my helmet, then nodded at the crew.

Tristan spoke to me again. “Tell me if there's an issue with the car. Otherwise, be sure you're giving it more throttle.”

“My fault.”

I started it up again, and I focused intently on pressing my foot more firmly down on the throttle. This time, I launched out of the pit box and down pit lane with decorum and control.

First hurdle down. Keep moving forward.

The first four laps I swallowed my embarrassment—telling myself I didn't care how terrible I looked to the rest of the paddock—and went slowly, staying well out of everyone else's way. I wasn't as slow as pace car speed, but I did move at “what's wrong with that car?” speed. It couldn't be helped. I needed to get comfortable, and I gave myself four laps for the basics.

The next six laps I spent increasing my speed as I got more familiar with the nimble, balanced handling of the car, which was worlds different from the Corvette. As in the Corvette, in the Lights car I braked well into the turn to transfer weight forward and help turn the car, pushing that traction circle I'd cautioned Maddie about. But in the open-wheel car, I also carried much more speed into a corner, through it, and out again. Its engine felt like a rocket behind me.

Logically, I knew the Lights car's turbocharged, four-cylinder power plant didn't produce as much horsepower as my Corvette's V8, but the chassis weighed so much less, I felt like I was flying. Less weight also meant I had more aerodynamic grip, so I felt more stuck to the ground. But I was tossed around more by the track's bumps and slippery surface.

I started working on refining my approach to corners, braking later and lighter to carry more speed. Pushing to find the edge in the trickier corners: how much of the curb could I use in Turn 5, how bumpy it was when I did it right, and how fast I could take Turn 8 and stay off the wall. How stable did I need the rear of the car coming out of Turn 10 to be set up correctly for the hairpin, and how slow was Turn 11.

The biggest surprise didn't even come in a turn. It came on Shoreline Boulevard, the three-quarter-mile front straight. I'd forgotten my first time down the “straight” in the Corvette, how the arc and banking of the turn messed with my mind and made me want to lift. How the first time I was flat out through there, I'd done it because Mike assured me I could, not because I was convinced. After doing it once, doing it again was easy.

Then I got into the Lights car that had more grip and a greater sensation of speed. It took three laps to find the courage to hold the throttle flat to the floor in top gear down the front straight. I'd never relax through there, in any car.

Tristan finally broke into my thoughts. “How're you feeling, Kate?”

I unspooled the wheel and put the throttle down out of Turn 8. Shifted up through the gears on the back straight. Called back to the pits. “Getting better.”

“Let's take a couple more laps, no more than four. Then come in.”

“Copy that.”

For three more laps, I worked on being smoother, faster. Then I pitted. While one of the crew checked the car over, Tristan spoke to me from the pit box.

“You're looking more comfortable.”

I pushed the radio button. “Feeling better. I'm still not sure I'm getting enough speed down Shoreline, or through the one-two-three complex.”

“There's a gusty wind on the front straight, which may be affecting you.”

“Not used to feeling wind here. Track's also bumpier in this car.”

“We started with maximum downforce, so you'd feel secure while you got comfortable. I think we'll dial that back a little bit. Maybe a little more later, see how you do. See if that helps your speed on the front straight.”

“Copy that, thanks.” A mechanic made the quick turns of a wrench, and I pressed the starter again. Leaving was the next test.

“Pit lane clear, Kate. Go ahead.” The crew member in front of me waved me out.

I let out a breath, focused, and pulled smoothly away this time.
Good. Enough with the rookie crap. Let's go put a decent time on the board.

By the end of the hour-long practice session, I'd redeemed myself for my shaky start. My best lap speed and time put me in last place of the fourteen cars, but I wasn't far off the field, and there was another practice session the next morning before qualifying. My goal was to be in the top half of the field, and while I wasn't yet where I wanted to be, I knew I'd keep improving with every lap. I'd done enough in this hour.

Alexa and Tristan agreed, if their smiles as I climbed out of the car were any indication.

Alexa patted me on the back, sweaty firesuit and all. “You had me worried at first.”

I stripped off my wet balaclava and peeled my earplugs out of my ears. “Sorry.”

“Don't apologize, just don't do it again.”

Tristan laughed and handed me a towel. “Get used to that phrase. It's her trademark.”

“I can live with it.” I wiped off my face and bent forward at the waist, running my fingers through my hair to loosen it where it was matted to my head. I stood up again, and thanked Alexa for the cold bottle of water she handed me.

“Shall we go debrief in the air conditioning?” Tristan gestured back toward the sports arena and the paddock.

I looked up pit lane where I could see the celebrity cars staging. I turned back to Tristan and Alexa, unsure how they'd take my request. “Can you give me about twenty minutes? I need to reassure someone before qualifying. Unless it's a problem, in which case, I'll text instead.”

Tristan frowned. “Who's qualifying now?”

“Celebrities,” Alexa told him. “She's been coaching Maddie Theabo.”

“She's nervous,” I added. “I wanted to give her a pep talk before she qualifies. But if that's an issue, I'll skip it and come back with you now.” These kinds of talks got delayed all the time, but I didn't know them well enough to know if they'd mind.

Tristan retained his frown for a moment, then looked sheepish. “How about I take you up there on the scooter, and you can introduce me?”

Alexa laughed, and I turned a concerned face to her. She waved a hand. “Take your time. Find me in the IndyCar paddock when you're ready to talk.”

Maddie was relieved at my arrival, and she was pleased to meet Tristan. After introductions, I pulled Maddie aside.

“How did you feel about practice this morning?”

She wiggled a hand in the air. “Better by the end.”

“You looked great. You even handled yourself when others freaked out around you.”

“I kept hearing you. ‘One thing at a time.' I stayed out of my own head and focused.”

I grinned. “Now you know what I do every time I'm on track. Go do exactly the same thing now. Don't think about it as qualifying, focus on driving the track as smoothly and cleanly as you can. The speed will take care of itself.”

“I'm beginning to think I can do that.” She saw my expression and nodded. “Scratch that. I
know
I can do it.”

“That's better.” I gave her a hug. “I may not see you after, but I'll be watching how you do, and I'll check in with you or Penny.” I put my face right in front of hers. “You got this.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Thirty minutes later, she proved it, qualifying third in her category. I sent a text message congratulating her and telling her to get a good night's rest.

By then I'd debriefed with Tristan, Alexa, and the rest of the team, and I'd changed out of my damp racing suit into dry street clothes. Pickle offered to take charge of my firesuit, promising to hang it to dry overnight. Since the first on-track activity I'd have the next day was Lights practice, I left my helmet with him also. Then I hurried over to the SCC paddock, to find the team rolling our Corvette into the huge line of cars and carts waiting at the break in the wall. The minute IndyCar teams cleared the track from practice, the barrier would swing open, allowing our vehicles access to the track and pit lane.

Mike was suited up for qualifying and sitting shotgun in the team golf cart. I grabbed a bottle of juice, a banana, and a bag of cookies and hopped onto the rear seat next to Tom Albright, our media guy.

“Busy, busy Kate.”

“No kidding. Sorry I've only run past you so far this weekend.”

“Such is the life of the famous driver-slash-detective. How's that going?”

“Which?”

“The detecting. How's the family doing after Billy's death?”

I shrugged. “You know I'm not close to them. I haven't a clue who killed Billy. I've found people who weren't happy with him, but I can't tell if they did it. Or maybe I can't believe they could.”

“Maybe you need to ask Lucy Rose, Lily, or Violet.”

“Who?”

Chapter Forty-nine

“I'm not sure who Lucy Rose, Lily, and Violet are,” Tom replied. “A month ago, at Sebring, I heard Billy threatening someone. It was nighttime, and there was one of those momentary breaks when all the cars are on the other end of the track and it's suddenly, weirdly, quiet. I heard Billy's voice, sort of low and hissing. Angry. Saying, ‘I'll make sure everyone knows about Lucy Rose, Lily, and Violet'…I remember the names since they're all flowers. Anyway, he'd make sure everyone knew about the three women, he said, ‘and you'll never see anything but a cell.'”

“Who was he talking to?”

“I never saw the person. Didn't even hear the voice.”

“At Sebring.”
Who'd been at Sebring that Billy could have been threatening? And who were the three women?
“Was Don Kessberg at Sebring?”

Tom's eyebrows shot up. “You think Don killed Billy?”

“How about not saying that out loud?” I glared at him. “I'm trying to figure out who it
could
be, given what I know about motives.”

“Sorry,” Tom muttered, almost inaudibly. “He was there. Race organizers attend other races on the schedule.”

It could have been Don…who else?
Tara wouldn't have traveled across the country with her sister in crisis, no matter how much she blamed Billy and Coleman for it. But Coleman had been there, and he had a mistress named Lucille. That had to be Lucy Rose. I'd bet he had two daughters also.

I was delighted to have a solid clue. In the next instant, I felt sad for my father. Things could hardly get worse for his family.

Our cart started forward with a jerk as the mass of cars and equipment poured out onto the track. I pushed thoughts of crime from my head and leaned forward next to Mike's ear.

“I expect you to be spectacular out there,” I told him.

“If that's what you want.” He sighed. “It simply takes so much out of me.”

“You'll have almost twenty-four hours to recover.” The next day, race day, we weren't on track until pre-race ceremonies. No morning warmup, no additional practice. A long day of waiting until our four p.m. green flag.

I patted Mike on the head and turned around to keep an eye on the crew towing our gorgeous, black Corvette C7.R. I hoped the car had what it took to fend off the BMWs, which had been fastest in practice.

In the end, though Mike did all he could—and he was excellent, delivering a time half a second faster than either of us had managed in practice—we qualified fourth behind both BMWs and one of the factory Corvettes, which had also found speed. The top six cars were only separated by two tenths of a second, which told us the racing would be close and tight the next day.

By the time we were done, the crowd had thinned considerably. Drifting cars would practice and qualify after an hour and a half break for dinner, but most of the day's race attendees had gone home. The IndyCar paddock was buttoned up for the night, and the SCC teams moved at a measured pace, putting cars away and closing up shop. Only one or two teams dug into repairs or fixes—we heard mention of a gearbox rebuild as we passed one team. The rest of us hung up our tools and headed off for dinner. The next day would be long, since everyone would arrive first thing in the morning to tweak and polish, if not disassemble and reassemble, their racecars.

I was free for the night. Unusually free, in that we had no team obligation for dinner. I looked forward to a hot bath and room service. Holly added another item to that list: re-watching the footage of Media Day from Nikki's cameras.

We settled into my room, burgers and salads on trays in front of us, eyes on my computer screen.

Half an hour in, I did a double-take and jumped the footage back a few seconds. “That voice. That's Don talking, right?”

“Sounds like it.”

We kept watching and kept hearing Don's voice, talking to Nikki, off screen. We also caught glimpses of Coleman in the background, even one time interacting with Elizabeth, looking annoyed, and brushing her off. Billy was in and out of the cameras' view, though surprisingly he didn't stick by Nikki's side for long, and he left sometime in the hour before he was killed. Elizabeth and Erica also appeared and disappeared throughout the day.

When I saw myself walking toward the parking structure in the background of a shot, I stopped the video player. “Don stayed with Nikki the whole time. I didn't see that before.”

Holly wagged a finger. “That's why you can't watch on fast-forward.”

“I'm relieved he couldn't have killed Billy, and I'm not sure I believed in my gut it was him. He was convenient, and he had assault in his background. Plus he could have been the mystery person at Sebring.” I filled Holly in on the threats Tom had overheard and who I thought the female flower names belonged to. I snapped my fingers. “I'll get Ryan to verify it.”

I pulled out my phone and sent him a text message asking if Coleman and Lucille had two daughters named Lily and Violet.

He replied that he'd see what he could find out, but I'd have to tell him why I wanted to know when he saw me at the race. He wished me luck.

“I take it you like the FBI boy?” Holly asked.

“He's helping with information.”

“You think I don't know that look on your face?” She snorted.

I gave up. “I do like him. He's nice and interesting. Smart.”

“Sexy.”

“That, too.”

“But sexy in a different way than Lucas.”

“Lucas hits you over the head. Ryan is a sleeper. He sneaks up on you.”

“Is Ryan also interested?”

“He says he's coming this weekend.”

“You might have to make a choice, sugar.”

“You don't have to sound so satisfied about it.” I stood up and gathered our meal debris to set out in the hallway. “And I'm not doing, thinking, or choosing anything until after tomorrow's over. I've got enough to deal with.”

By seven-thirty the next morning, we were headed over to the track for one of the biggest days of my racing career. First on my packed agenda that Saturday was a second Indy Lights practice, where I again made improvements, lapping twelfth quickest of the fourteen in the field. After that, I hustled to the Sandham Swift tent, arriving as Jack, Bruce, and Mike sat down in the office of the main hauler. We had twenty minutes before the SCC Series drivers meeting with the race director, and Jack used them to remind us of our strategy and our responsibilities.

Since this race was only an hour and forty minutes long, compared to our typical two hour and forty-five minute “sprint” races, there wasn't much to say beyond the plan to stop once for the driver change, fuel, and tires. And to stay out of trouble. Plus the ever popular, “Run your own race” and “Don't hit shit” dictums.

The SCC race director echoed Jack's sentiments, at least in terms of contact, reminding us the track was narrow and the concrete walls unforgiving. We all knew how too many cautions could doom a race: one of the first times sportscars had run here in recent years, the race featured more minutes under caution than under green, which made no one happy. As the race director made that point again and transitioned into procedures for the race start and all restarts, I checked my phone for the time.

Not only was I missing the Indy Lights autograph session, for which I'd had to get special dispensation from that race director, but the celebrity race was about to start. I had twenty minutes to see Maddie before she took the green. Holly was there in my place, and I texted her, asking her to tell Maddie I'd be there soon and to remember what I taught her.

Holly sent back an acknowledgement, but no details, and I tried not to fidget. Finally, we were released, and I dashed out of the room. Two steps later, I slammed into Lucas Tolani. He barely caught me before I fell flat on my face.

“Falling for me, Kate?” He murmured, kissing my cheek.

Great, another public spectacle.
I pushed my embarrassment aside and focused on his all-access credential. “Let's go.”

“But where—?”

“No time. Move.” I grabbed his hand and headed for the door.