Kiss the Bricks Page 15

  “I can do a truce. Maybe even friends.” I tried the idea on for size and my gut didn’t argue. “But I have my own conditions.”

  “Let’s hear them.” He gave up waiting for a toast and drank some of his coffee.

  “Promise me you won’t publish anything we tell you without asking us first. That’s the big one.”

  He put a hand to his heart. “You pain me.”

  “Suck it up,” Holly advised him. “Friends don’t rat out friends.”

  “True.” Scott grinned. “But can I ask if I can publish? Convince you to let me?”

  “You can try.”

  I wish you luck with that.

  He nodded. “Fair enough. Is that it?”

  “Sometimes I’m going to want background information or your insight.” I chose my words carefully, but he was no dummy.

  He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of information does Sleuth Kate need this time? I knew you couldn’t have hung up your deerstalker.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Do we have a deal? Or will I throw this in your face?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “I don’t expose the biggest secret in racing and tell everyone who you are.”

  He laughed and picked up his cup. “You make a compelling argument. A toast to our truce. And friendship.”

  We bumped cardboard—Holly and I more warily than him—and drank.

  Holly narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ve mellowed, Mr. Brooklyn.”

  He nodded. “I stopped worrying people would uncover my secret—and got comfortable with the idea you wouldn’t expose me. I started to enjoy it more. Plus I’m happy in general.”

  “I’m glad for you.” I even meant it.

  “Thanks.” His eyes were warm as they met mine. “I’m glad to see your career doing so well. Great first practice session this year—woke everyone right up.”

  “Have you gotten your pit lane assignments yet?” Holly asked. The three pit reporters would split coverage of cars on pit lane, each responsible for a mostly contiguous group of five to twelve pit spaces, depending on the amount of work required to cover the likely stories coming out of the teams.

  He nodded. “I’ll be covering your pits, Kate, so I expect you to put on a show and give me a story I can get on the air with.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He leaned forward and lowered his tone. “Now we’re friends, and I’m operating under the seal of the confessional, what do you want to know?” I hesitated, and he added, “You asked for help in your message. I assume you’re investigating PJ’s untimely death thirty years ago and you want background from me. How’m I doing so far?”

  Holly sighed. “On the money.”

  I glanced around and saw the people nearest to us working on computers with earbuds in their ears. No one paying attention. I tried one last time to find duplicity in Scott’s face. None. I forced myself to relax. To trust.

  “Basic information. What do you know about the reporter, Kevin Hagan?”

  He raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his seat. “Hmmm, Hagan.”

  “Don’t read anything into this.” I got tense. Defensive.

  “No interpretation until you say so,” Scott reminded me, covering my free hand with his. “Trust. Friends, remember?”

  “Sorry.” I sipped my latte.

  “Trust and secrecy is a two-way street.” Scott pointed his empty cup at each of us. “You won’t disclose me as your source, right?”

  “Cross our hearts.” Holly scribbled in her notepad.

  Scott nodded. “Kevin Hagan. Celebrated as one of motorsports great journalists, but those in the trenches with him think he’s a hack. A blowhard.”

  “Not that good?” Holly asked.

  “Others are better. But he’s got the aura, the buzz, and the awards from decades ago. And he never lets anyone forget it.” He thought for a moment and answered the questions we hadn’t gotten to. “Was he around then? Absolutely. Did he profit from PJ’s death? Totally. Could he have killed her for his own benefit?”

  “Well?” I prompted, after he’d been quiet for thirty seconds.

  “If he could have predicted her death would help his career, I wouldn’t put it past him. But was it a sure outcome? I’d say it’s hard to tell. Who else?”

  “Chuck Gaffey, Gaffey Insurance,” I said.

  “He founded his company before PJ’s era and, after some shaky early years, kept the business steadily booming throughout his career. Retired and turned the reins over to his son, Josh, five-plus years ago. Hard to say if he benefitted from PJ’s death or not. I’d have to look to see when his business expanded.”

  I stared at him. “How do you know this? You weren’t around the paddock then.”

  “Actually, I was. Dad was a lead mechanic and I was starting out in karting, so I tagged along whenever possible. I was there that year, a precocious eight-year-old kid. I even met PJ. ” He stared across the room, serious for once. “She was sweet to me.”

  “I didn’t realize,” I said.

  “That’s why I’m glad to help you. With lips zipped.” He nodded. “I’ll look up Hagan and Gaffey in my files at home.”

  “You’ve got files?”

  He laughed. “You wouldn’t believe the data I’ve got compiled.”

  “Well, shit, sugar,” Holly slapped her hand on the table. “Sounds like you got some sharin’ to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  After leaving the Ringer and dropping Holly at her car, I swung into action, making three phone calls for interviews, stopping at the local Beauté headquarters, and meeting two other Indy 500 drivers for a couple local appearances. I wrapped up the afternoon with a visit to a local television station that sponsored and broadcast the 500 Festival Parade. Held the day before the race every year, the event had the normal complement of bands and floats, but it also offered something other city parades didn’t—the full field of Indy 500 drivers.

  I was at the station to promote the race and parade, as well as to reveal live, on air, the names of three heroines in the cancer fight who’d receive a VIP experience at the Indy 500—plus one winner who got the bonus of riding in the Festival Parade with me.

  As balloons and confetti dropped in the studio, and the anchors wished me well in the race, butterflies started up in my stomach. Two days to last practice, three to the parade, and four until the Indianapolis 500!

  I had one remaining event for the day, a team party held at the Beermeier Racing shop in the town of Speedway, near the track. While I drove myself, Holly, and Gramps there, we caught each other up on the day’s activities and investigations.

  “Racing’s Ringer has archives of information on people in the racing world?” Gramps asked. “Isn’t that creepy?”

  From the passenger seat, Holly swiveled around to look at him. “The Ringer reports news, of a sort. I guess he has to be prepared for anything.”

  “He’s going to share information?” Gramps sounded skeptical.

  “That’s what he said,” I put in. “Now we’re all friends.”

  “You trust him?” Gramps’ voice went up an octave.

  “So far.” I frowned and met Holly’s eyes. “I’m still not convinced.”

  “Your gut trusts him, but your head gets in the way.” She turned back to Gramps. “He’s going to send us background info on the people we asked about—he didn’t say he had something on everyone. But he figured he could dig up something useful.”

  “Tell Gramps what he said about the people today,” I told her.

  Holly dug for her notebook. She filled him in on Hagan and Gaffey, then flipped the page. “The Ringer says Dean Herrera, the memorabilia guy—who I also met today—besides sporting the most prominent ears in racing, is a complete douchecanoe.”

  We heard sputtering from the bac
kseat, and I glanced in the mirror to see Gramps trying to repeat the word.

  I laughed. “Translation—he’s a slimy jerk.”

  Holly kept reading. “No one in the industry likes Herrera, but he’s been around so long and he’s gotten to be so good at marketing—he jumped on social media way before everyone else—that he’s not going away. He’s known to be underhanded in deals, pushy when it comes to other vendors and even athletes.”

  “Did the Ringer say anything about forgery?” Gramps asked.

  “He didn’t bring it up,” I replied, “but we asked. He recalled rumors now and again. Nothing ever proven.”

  “What do you do if you prove it?” Gramps asked. “Take it to the cops?”

  I thought about it. “If he’s selling fraudulent goods online, that makes it FBI.”

  “Sounds like you should call Ryan,” Holly told me.

  “I’ll add it to my list. Tell Gramps what the Ringer said about Tom Barclay.”

  “Another charmer.” Holly’s tone was heavily sarcastic.

  I was confused. “I don’t remember the Ringer saying that.”

  “He didn’t. That’s my assessment after meeting with him.” She flipped another page in her notebook. “What the Ringer said was this: Good guy. Been the go-to sports psychologist for racing drivers for at least twenty-five years. Covers all sports, but specializes in racing. He was degreed and about to start his general consulting practice when PJ—apparently—killed herself. That event gave him the idea for starting his business. He’s been the pioneer in destigmatizing the idea of ‘getting help.’”

  “The Ringer likes him,” I added.

  “Why don’t you, Holly?” Gramps asked.

  She hesitated. “He’s full of himself. Knows all the answers and can do no wrong. Everything stems from him—no one is as smart as he is.”

  I thought back to meeting him. “You could tell so quickly?”

  “When we spoke today, everything was about what he’d done, with not a word about his staff. His walls were covered with photos of him with clients—all men. He called everyone who worked for him ‘kids’—worse, all females were ‘girls’ or ‘gals.’”

  “I hate ‘girls,’ but I hate ‘gals’ more. Mind you,” I caught Gramps’ eye in the mirror, “if you’re over seventy years old, you get a pass. But there’s no excuse for anyone younger to think it’s okay.”

  “Noted,” Gramps said, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead.

  Holly twisted around to pat Gramps’ knee. “You always get a pass, sugar.” She almost toppled over as I exited the freeway, and she faced front again. “My impression is Barclay’s outwardly charming and smooth, delighted to be the big man in his business, and happy to have new clients. My gut feeling is narcissist.”

  She studied her notebook again. “That’s all the Ringer had to say, except the obvious—the big beneficiaries of PJ’s death were Ron Arvin, plus the replacement driver and Standish-Conroy, the sponsors on the car.”

  “Maybe we can talk to Ron tonight,” Gramps suggested.

  Holly nodded. “I’ll tackle any of our other sources or suspects who’re there.”

  I stopped at a light on Crawfordsville Road. “Except tonight’s about having fun and celebrating. Let’s not make it all investigation all night, deal?”

  “Deal,” they both echoed.

  We entered the Beermeier Racing building through the lobby where a woman I didn’t recognize checked names against a list. She marked off Gramps and Holly’s names and waved us through, wishing me luck this weekend.

  “I guess my fame precedes me,” I commented as we stepped into the race shop. It was a large, open, warehouse-like space, two stories tall, the floor usually packed wall-to-wall with racecars and tools. Tonight it was full of temporary tables laden with food and beverages, as well as hundreds of team members, sponsors, and guests.

  “If it’s not fame, it could be the ginormous poster.” Holly pointed to a more-than-life-size image of me standing next to my car that hung high on one wall. Two others, for Mick and Kenny’s cars, adorned other walls.

  “Festive.”

  Gramps clapped his hands together. “I’m getting a beer. Ladies?”

  Holly spoke for both of us. “The man’s a genius. Lead the way.”

  After we each got our hands on a beer—the one I was allowing myself that week—I left them to their own devices while I fulfilled my obligation as a Beermeier Racing driver. I worked my way through the room, chatting with sponsor after sponsor, partner after partner. As I spoke with representatives of one of the team’s major backers, the biggest furniture company in the Midwest, the official photographer caught up with me and asked if I’d pose with the group. Then she wanted me posed with the people next to us, which turned out to be the team from Frame Savings—also known as my father and his family. After the flashes temporarily blinded us and the photographer moved on, we were able to chat.

  As he usually did, my half brother, Eddie, overwhelmed me with a bear hug. “Huge congratulations on qualifying, Kate.”

  “A great job.” My half sister, Lara, moved in for a quick squeeze.

  “My turn.” My father’s wife, Amelia, pretended to push her daughter out of the way and hugged me also. Then she looked me square in the eye and nodded toward my father.

  “He’s worried for you,” she said. I knew she was talking about the information from my grandmother, not the race.

  My father stepped forward for his own hug and as I moved back, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned.

  Here it is.

  “Gramps.” Though I’d prepared for the moment, tension still coiled in my gut.

  Gramps stood very still, his eyes darting between my face and my father behind me. He swallowed. “Sorry to interrupt. You’ve got a special guest who’s just arrived.”

  I nodded, not really hearing his words. Thinking more about needing to make introductions.

  Then my guest, who had his back to me as he talked with another partygoer—neither of whom I’d seen behind Gramps, given my focus on family drama—turned around and smiled. A familiar, comforting smile. One I’d missed more than I realized.

  “What are you doing here?” I didn’t think about anyone else. I went straight into my boyfriend’s open arms.

  Ryan Johnston had been an FBI agent for eight years and my boyfriend for two. It hadn’t been easy arranging times and places to be together in those years, given he was based in Los Angeles and I was in Indianapolis, when I wasn’t traveling around the U.S. for races and sponsor obligations. But we’d grown slowly closer, as friends and lovers. I rested my head on his chest, inhaled his familiar scent—a mix of woodsy citrus and Ryan—and let the relief of his calm, intelligent presence wash over me. The feel of the muscles in his chest and arms as they tightened around me triggered a visceral response.

  How long since we’ve seen each other? Too long.

  Then I remembered the group standing behind me. I straightened and met Ryan’s eyes. “Ready for this?”

  “Always.” He smiled and took my hand.

  I turned around and towed him two steps forward, to the people who hadn’t spoken, but who at least hadn’t run in opposite directions. “James and Amelia, you’ve met Ryan, but Eddie and Lara, you haven’t. Ryan Johnston. My half-siblings.”

  Ryan stepped forward to shake hands with all of them, while I turned to Gramps and put an arm around his shoulders. I took a deep breath.

  “Gramps, this is James Reilly, his wife Amelia, and their kids, Eddie and Lara.” Gramps was stiff, but I plowed ahead. “My grandfather, Horace.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Everyone froze for a single second. My father retreated behind the blank, aloof façade I thought of as his “banker face.” He and my grandfather both had to be thinking about the past, and I wondered what images flashed through thei
r minds.

  Before either man spoke, Amelia stepped forward, her face radiating warmth as she took both of Gramps’ hands in hers. “I am so glad to meet the infamous Gramps. Kate speaks so lovingly of you, and she has so many stories of her wonderful childhood with you and your wife.” She bit her lip, then plunged ahead. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous telling you what a beautiful woman you’ve raised. Thank you for that.”

  I felt Gramps relax and knew he’d been moved by her words. He nodded and thanked her with a gruff voice.

  Eddie and Lara stepped forward together, both with friendly, uncomplicated smiles on their faces. Eddie winked at me before he spoke. “We’re so glad to meet the most important man in Kate’s life.” He glanced at Ryan. “Sorry, bro.”

  “True statement,” Ryan replied.

  My father still hadn’t moved. He finally nodded once, a curt, shallow movement. “Horace.”

  Gramps echoed the movement and expressionless tone. “James.” Then Gramps turned to me, took my arm off his shoulder, and kissed my cheek. “It’s okay, Katie.”

  Then he turned around, took a step forward, and offered my father his hand. Neither man spoke, but they did shake, and I felt some of the tension leave the group.

  Gramps stepped back and nodded generally at the group. He turned to me, and I could see distress brewing under his veneer of calm.

  “I’m sorry—” I started.

  “You have never done anything wrong, Katie. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t either.” He glanced around, taking in the Reilly family, who were now chatting with Ryan. “I knew this would happen this weekend—even before you asked—and now it has. We’ll all deal with it later. For now, I’m getting another beer.”

  I nodded, hating his pain, but not sure what to say to make it better.

  He chucked me under the chin and managed a real smile. “I’ll be fine. You keep enjoying the party. Make sure you’ve talked with all of your sponsors and team, and catch up with Ryan. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Gramps.” I let him go, staring after him.