Red Flags (3 page)

Chapter Four

Ryan's eyes lit with amusement. “First, I'm asking if you're currently in a relationship.”

FBI-man, asking me out?
I looked around, expecting cameras to be capturing the moment. Instead, they followed Nikki exiting the building.

“Kate?”

I turned back to Ryan. “No current relationship. Stuart…isn't in a good place now.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I've worked with victims of similar accidents, and I know they can be tough to recover from emotionally.”

I nodded, unwilling to go into the details of Stuart kicking me out of his life, telling me he wouldn't watch me waste my time on him. Not when he might be in a wheelchair the rest of his life and doubted I truly loved him. No argument I'd made had gotten through, and in the end, I'd left him alone. I kept tabs on his progress, but it still hurt.

“How about dinner?” Ryan's voice broke my thoughts. “Sometime in the next week, away from the racetrack.”

Was I interested? He was smart, friendly, attractive, and a little dangerous. Of course I was. “I'd like that.”

We exchanged cell phone numbers and made a tentative plan for Friday night. We'd gotten to the awkward goodbye stage when Tom Albright, the media guy and general assistant for my team, Sandham Swift Racing, trotted up the stairs from the basement media room.

“All wrapped up, Kate?” Tom turned to Ryan with a puzzled expression. “I know we've met, but I don't remember your name.”

“Ryan Johnston. I was with Arena Motorsports at Daytona last year.”

Tom's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “That's right.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Are you still with the FBI? Are you undercover again?” Tom looked back and forth in the hallway. He wasn't subtle.

Ryan smiled. “I'm still with the Bureau, but I'm not undercover anymore. That was a special circumstance.” He glanced at me. “I need to be off, but I'll see you soon.”

Tom looked between me and Ryan's retreating back, but I ignored the question in his eyes. “Back to the hotel?”

At his nod, I led the way up outdoor stairs to the top-level plaza of the Long Beach Performing Arts Center. I tried to shake off the weirdness of the last couple hours: seeing Billy dead, experiencing Elizabeth's emotion, meeting Nikki, and being asked out on a date by an FBI agent. I felt a looming sadness about the glimpse I'd had of violent death—though I was angry about feeling anything at all for Billy, given the way he'd treated me. It was easier to focus on Ryan asking me out. Or on Tom at my side.

“How was the media response today?” I'd done the driving, and he'd done the talking, filling my passengers in on the specs of the racing series, the track, and the upcoming race weekend.

“Fantastic. Lots of excitement. You gave them all a great ride, and we should get some good press.”

“It was a fun change of pace taking easy laps in a street car and giving the journalists a treat.”

“The GPLB press person, Erica, mentioned she had an idea to pitch you to a couple reporters doing longer pieces. And I had a photographer wanting a quote to go with a photo essay. I gave him your info.”

Near the fountain in the plaza we passed a woman with reddish-brown hair sitting on the lip of a planter. I'd noticed her earlier around the racing activity because of the pink-patterned scarf tied loosely around her neck.

“Hey, great scarf. I have the same one,” I called to her as we passed. It was sold by one of the major breast cancer research organizations to raise funds, and I often wore mine to complement the pink shirts for my sponsor Beauté and the Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

The woman started and mumbled something I couldn't hear.

Tom slipped his phone into a pocket. “Sent you the reporter's info. Let me know if you need help with anything.”

“Not that you'll be here.”

“Nope, going home to Indiana. You're the one staying in La-La Land. I expect to return and find all the New Mexico drummed out of you. You'll be carrying a tiny dog around in a designer purse and doing lunch with people. Also having your people make calls for you.”

“Do people really carry dogs in handbags?”

“You've got a week, Kate, and you're staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. That's enough time for a dog
and
a movie deal. To make a splash in the ‘scene.'” He made air quotes.

“I have sponsor obligations and the IndyCar test in Fontana. Beyond that, I'm hoping for downtime.” I frowned, considering my schedule. “I wonder if Billy's death will impact any of the Frame Savings activities.”

“Billy's—what? Your cousin Billy? Was that the dead body? I knew it!” He stopped me in the middle of the plaza. “I knew there couldn't be a body at a race without you being involved. Did you talk to the cops? Did you talk to the reporters? You saw the local TV vans doing standups, right? Are you going to find his killer?”

“No. No business of mine. No big deal.”

“Dead body. Cousin of yours. Hello?”

“Yes, my cousin Billy is dead, and no, I didn't find him. They called me over to identify him. So I…” I had to stop and swallow the lump in my throat. “I saw him.”

“Are you going to try to figure out who killed him? You don't even like him.”

“Absolutely not. No reason for me to get involved. In fact, if it wasn't cold and heartless, I'd say good riddance.” I looked around to be sure no one, especially the press, was listening. “Of course, I'm too nice to say that. Out loud.”

“But your record
is
still intact for getting involved with every dead body that shows up around a racetrack.” Tom started walking again.

“Unfair.” I caught up with him and pushed the button to cross Ocean Boulevard. Come race weekend, that thoroughfare, as well as every restaurant and hotel on it, would be buzzing with celebrities and race activity. I didn't expect much excitement that evening.

We entered the Renaissance Hotel's long, shallow lobby from the side and stepped directly into chaos—the reality-show chaos that was already a familiar sight. I'd seen the two cameras and clipboard-man down at the track. The stylist, hairdresser, makeup artist, yapping Yorkshire terrier, and harried-looking man in the black GPLB polo shirt were new. But even with all the voices, activity, and dog-barking, Nikki Gray was in her element. Or she was too clueless to notice.

I leaned close to Tom. “You met her yet?”

He shook his head, wide-eyed as Nikki put her dog down on the ground among all the legs and feet. Predictably, the dog ran around, causing the hairdresser, stylist, and the other man—he'd dropped his clipboard—to chase after it.

“Nikki Gray. Filming a reality show. Not sure why she's here, except she was apparently seeing Billy.”

“So she's got bad taste. And a dog.”

I smiled at him. “It's not in a purse.”

“I saw her earlier with Billy, looking angry with him. Or maybe disgusted. I also saw her with Don Kessberg—that's the GPLB guy there, the head of the Grand Prix Association. She didn't have as much of her entourage at the time. But she and Don were arguing. That's when I saw Billy. He was the same as always.”

“Supercilious, arrogant.” I stopped, feeling guilty for maligning the dead.

“Exactly. Nikki was annoyed with Billy, and Don was mad at them both.” Tom considered. “Don seemed frustrated with Nikki, but furious with Billy. Like he wanted to wring Billy's neck. It was quite the drama.”

“I get the feeling it's usually a drama around her. But is it real or for the cameras? And Billy's neck wasn't wrung. His head was caved in.”

Tom and I looked at each other.

“Oops.” I made a zipped lips motion.

The hairdresser scooped the dog up, cooing to it.

Nikki raised her voice. “You're not going to tell me to stay away.” She stood in front of Don Kessberg, hands on her hips. “I have every right to be here. It's not my fault what happened.”

That's when Detective Barnes walked in.

Chapter Five

Tom and I settled back against a low planter to watch the action, and I identified Detective Barnes and one of the uniformed officers from the scene of the crime.

“Ms. Gray?” The detective required only his presence and those words to quell the noise and activity buzzing around Nikki. Even the dog stopped yapping.

Nikki turned away from Don Kessberg. “Yes? Officer?”

“Detective,” Barnes corrected. “We'd like a few words with you. Alone.”

“You all, take a couple minutes.” She fluttered her hands at the entourage.

When the cameramen zoomed in, Barnes fixed an unamused eye on them. “Go away.”

Clipboard man tried to protest. “We're filming—”

“No.” Barnes saw me and raised an eyebrow before focusing on Nikki.

She turned to Kessberg. “Donnie, can you wait, so we can work this out?”

Barnes looked at the GPLB boss also. “Don Kessberg? You'll need to wait. I'd like to speak with you.”

Barnes led Nikki and the uniformed officer past a cordon into the closed restaurant area next to the lobby. I was ready to leave when Don crossed to us.

“Kate Reilly?” He extended a hand. “Don Kessberg, president of the race organization. I didn't get to meet you earlier, but I greatly appreciate your efforts today. I heard the journalists had a great time.”

I introduced Tom. “We were glad to help. The members of the press all seemed happy. I hope they generate some good stories and race attendance.”

Don gestured to the police. “You heard what happened? Why they're here?”

“It's a shame.”

“Right, of course it is.” His inflection teetered between sadness, regret, and sarcasm.

I shrugged. “Time for me to be off. Don, nice to meet you. Tom, see you in a week.”

Half an hour later I was headed north on one of the many Los Angeles freeways, but not at any real pace. I eyed the sheer mass of humanity around me. As many as six lanes each way, half of them unmoving. I wondered where everyone was going.

The scene was perfect. The sun was setting to my left, painting the sky in shades of blue, pink, and gold, and the air temperature hovered around seventy degrees. In the lanes around me were more Porsches, Ferraris, BMWs, and Mercedes than I'd ever seen outside of a racetrack. Not to mention Bentleys, Aston Martins, Teslas, and a couple Maseratis and Lamborghinis. Plus a few Corvette C7s, the new Stingray model my racecar was built from. I enjoyed the view all the way to Beverly Hills.

I checked in to the iconic Beverly Hills Hotel, trying not to gawk like a tourist at the pale pink stucco exterior, green and white striped ceilings, and quiet marble elegance. Every furnishing was plush and tuned for visitor comfort. After sampling the complimentary toiletries in my bathroom, I had time to eat dinner, see, and be seen in the Polo Lounge before standing in front of the hotel at the appointed time for my ride to the movie-star party. I felt almost famous.

A black Lincoln Town Car pulled up, and I prepared myself. Instead of picking me up, it disgorged a man in a tuxedo and a woman in a short, fringed and sequined dress. A second Town Car arrived, empty, and I got ready for action, but a man in a meticulously tailored suit strode past me and greeted the driver.

Five Town Cars later, I'd stopped reacting, and I began Tweeting about not being in Albuquerque anymore. A throat cleared in front of me. “Ms. Kate Reilly?”

I looked up to see a slim Asian man in his early twenties. He installed me in the rear seat of a Mercedes S-class sedan—black, of course—and drove me up into the hills. We passed house after perfectly landscaped and illuminated house marching up the canyons, Mediterranean architecture next to colonial next to modern. Some homes extended over air, propped up by giant stilts.

The views were tremendous, I discovered when I arrived at the party. That house occupied a big, flat spot on one of the Hollywood hills, saving all outdoor space for the pool and the panorama in the back yard. Standing out there at the edge of the drop-off, I could see Santa Monica and a dark blot I presumed was the Pacific Ocean on the right, all the way across the city basin to downtown L.A. on the left. All glittering with lights. It left me breathless.

“Kate, you made it!” I turned away from the pool and the view as Maddie approached, barefoot in the grass. She gave me a quick hug. “And you look great.”

I'd hoped plain, black fitted trousers and a silver sequined tank, with a worn leather jacket for warmth, would blend in. I gestured at the city lights. “This is amazing.”

“I know. I've got a similar view, and my favorite thing to do is sit with coffee or a glass of wine and enjoy.” We were quiet a moment, and then she hooked an arm through mine. “Come on inside, I want to introduce you to some people. Lucas is eager to meet you.”

“Lucas” meant Lucas Tolani, Maddie's co-star in the film she was currently shooting. He was also the current “hottest,” “most beautiful,” or “most desirable bachelor,” depending on which entertainment magazine you read. I swallowed. “Why would he want to meet me?”

“I've raved about you.” She smiled. “Lucas is great. Don't let the press scare you. Plus, I think he's in talks to play a racecar driver. He probably wants to pick your brain.”

I relaxed. I understood being a source.

I followed Maddie's lead through the crowd, realizing as I met people that politics and power-plays were the same the world over, whether your industry was racing or film. It was easy to tell when someone Maddie greeted wanted something from her and when they were friends. Suddenly, Lucas was next to me.

Maddie patted him on the shoulder. “Lucas, introduce yourself and look after Kate for a minute. I need to chat with someone.” She winked at me and crossed the room to a small cluster of people in ragged but expensive clothing.

Having been around racing for eighteen years, I was used to famous people. I was also used to well-honed, fit bodies and good looks. Lucas Tolani was all that and more. Charisma radiated off of him, an easy, friendly charm that warmed his audience and made them smile. Plus he had green eyes, an engaging grin, and thick, wavy dark brown hair. He was flat out, drop-dead gorgeous. I tried to remember to breathe.

Lucas held my hand in both of his. “I'm thrilled to meet the woman who led her class at the 24 Hours of Daytona this year.”

“You're a racing fan?” I blurted out. I never expected anyone I met outside of the racing world to know about anything but NASCAR or, occasionally, Formula 1. The idea that someone not only knew sportscar racing but was aware of me? Surprising. The fact that Lucas freaking Tolani did—or knew enough to pretend he did? Unbelievable.

He laughed, displaying perfect, white teeth, the kind Hollywood cornered the market on. “I learned about racing when I did a movie with Neil.” He nodded to a group of people in a far corner of the large, stark-white living room, and I recognized Neil Welch, a successful TV actor–turned–sportscar racer.

The owner of the world's sexiest smile still hadn't released my hand. “Your story is fascinating, Kate. I always like seeing how the underdog will perform. If they'll rise to the occasion and prove the world wrong. I love watching people do that, you among them.”

I glanced around the room at the polish and fame and tried to smile. “Keep an eye on me here. I'm out of my element.”

Lucas leaned closer. “The secret is none of us fits in. You learn to ignore it. How do you deal with it in the racing world?”

I thought of feeling both at home and isolated. “I don't let anyone tell me what I can't do.”

“What a great approach.”

I felt my cheeks burn. “I keep meaning to ask Maddie about the movie you're making together. What's it about?”

“Big picture, it's about how people react to pressure, to warning signs, or to obstacles in their path. How people are rarely what they seem. And how, all too often, we don't even know ourselves and what we're capable of.” He paused. “Specifically, I'm a man who steals someone else's identity and becomes that person, convincing others the real person is the identity thief. Maddie is an investigator trying to uncover the truth.” A suited man got Lucas' attention from across the room, and Lucas gave him a “one minute” sign, apologizing to me for needing to go conduct some business.

I jumped in. “I'm sorry for monopolizing you.”

He quirked the side of his mouth up in a half smile. “I'm the one guilty of that. The question is, can I do it again? Are you free for dinner soon?”

I managed to give him a smooth acceptance and my cell number. When he left me and crossed the room, I found the nearest bathroom, locked the door, and freaked out for five minutes. The most sought-after, lusted-after, dreamed-about man in the world asked me out on a date. Maybe it was research for an upcoming role. Maybe the date wouldn't actually happen. I savored the moment, regardless.