Red Flags (27 page)

Chapter Fifty-two

Careful, careful,
I cautioned every driver on track, and Mike most of all. There was one near miss at the rear of the prototype pack, right in front of our class leaders. Including Mike. But the driver who'd bobbled under braking dove into the runoff area and didn't cause a ripple effect through the field. Everyone got through cleanly, straggling into a single-file line by the fountain turn. With all the jostling for position, Mike snuck forward one spot into third, and we exchanged high fives in the Sandham Swift pits. Early days, but a good step.

In our Grand Touring or GT class—those being the sportscars—the lead BMW had gone out like a rabbit at the start and maintained a five or six second gap on the rest of the field. The other BMW, the two factory Corvettes, a Porsche, and Mike in our Corvette remained bunched up in second through seventh place for the whole of Mike's stint. As the commentators liked to say, you could throw a blanket over those five cars, they were so close together.

The tight racing and lack of yellows piled on the pressure for the single pit stop we'd make. Our strategy was to pit as soon as a full fuel load would get us to the end of the race, around sixty minutes in, regardless of where and when cautions fell. Most other teams would do the same, leading to a ten or fifteen minute window of time when pit lane would be a very busy place. Because the action on the track was so close, the pit stop was the best opportunity to pass your competitors. But only if you and your crew were flawless. One stop, one chance to get it right. Or to blow it.

I felt the pressure mounting as I climbed up on the pit wall a couple laps before Mike was due to hand the car over. I'd been calm and collected a few minutes prior, answering questions for our visiting grid girls. But nerves hit, as always, in the fifteen-minute period between pulling on my helmet and jumping down from the wall to get in the car.

I fidgeted. Talked myself through the pit stop procedure. Thought about pulling out onto the track, into Turn 1. Talked myself through the driver change again. And again.

Then Mike was puttering down the long pit lane toward us. He stopped. The crew sprang into action. I opened the driver's door for Mike. He already had his belts and cables undone and was unfastening the window net inside the car. He pulled himself out and hurried out of my way.

Seat insert in place. Right foot into opening. Grab the railings above the door, pull. Left leg in. Pull, slide, twist my head so my helmet cleared. Find the center seatbelt buckle, find the right lap belt, fasten. Our driver helper Bubs leans in the window, doing the same for my left lap belt. Find the right shoulder belt, buckle. Bubs fastens the left shoulder belt. Reach up, check both shoulder straps sit correctly. Tilt the steering wheel down. Bubs plugs in my helmet air hose and the radio/transponder cable. He fastens the window net while I tighten my shoulder straps.

Thump—Bubs closes the door.

“Radio check,” from Bruce in my ears.

Car shakes, still up in the air.
Problem on a tire?
Waiting on fuel. Car shakes again. My eyes on the crew member with the outstretched hand telling me to wait. Wait.

Push the radio button. “Copy.”

Wait. One of the factory Corvettes goes by. Wait. A Porsche goes by. Car jostled, fuel line out. Still waiting.
Let's go!

Finally tires done, air jack removed. A BMW goes by. Car bounces down on the tires, crew member waving me forward. Press the start button, the engine roars. Throttle to the floor, check pit lane limiter is on. I snugged up behind the BMW. Found my drink hose and stuffed it in the front of my helmet. Tightened my belts more.

On the display screen showing my rear camera feed, I saw another Porsche behind me. My right thumb hovered over the limiter button on the wheel as I approached the pit exit line. Closer. Now. Press the button. Foot on the floor as the Corvette leaps forward.

Bruce: “Single prototype coming on track, Kate. You're coming out in sixth. When you can, change the engine map to three.” I twisted the dial on the steering wheel to the correct number, changing the mixture of air and fuel, as well as the ignition timing, to give me optimum power and efficiency for my stint. I turned into the first corner, letting the faster prototype nip through ahead of me.

Through Turns 2 and 3, I got a feel for the car. Tweaked the brake bias. Stayed in line with the prototype ahead and the Porsche behind. Catching up to the BMW in Turn 8 when he wiggled on his cold tires. Staying in a train with the same cars lap after lap.

Once I found my rhythm, I called back to the pits. “I'm P6? What happened?”

“Sorry, Kate. Problem with the wheel nut on the left rear, took some extra time.”

“Wheels okay now?”

“Wheels, tires, everything fine now. Crew feels terrible. Do what you can. The BMW in front of you is P5.”

“Copy.”
Nothing like starting in a hole.
I shoved that thought and sympathy for the crew out of my head and focused on the car in front of me.

As my tires warmed up, I adjusted the traction control with the dial on the wheel, tuning in a little more grip, a little less slipping of the tires than Mike liked to run. Lap after lap, I studied the car ahead, alert for weaknesses in the car's handling or the driver's skill in different parts of the circuit. I didn't find any.

But I kept on the car ahead. Anything could happen, which became clear only twenty minutes into my stint.

I was in Turn 5 when Bruce radioed. “Yellow, Kate. Double yellow. Full course. Prototype on the front straight. Lots of debris. Leader is in Turn 8.” A pause. “Safety car will pick up the leader in Turn 10 and lead the field down pit lane.”

“Copy, must be a mess.” I slowed.

Two turns later, Bruce called again. “Red flag, Kate. Now red. They're going to stop the field at the end of pit lane.”

Dammit.
With every minute under red or yellow, my window of opportunity to gain positions closed further. “Going to be long?”

“Don't think so. No repairs, just a huge debris field, and they don't want you running through it.”

Bruce was right. We sat only five minutes in pit lane, then circulated under yellow to allow for pit stops.

But by the time we went back to green, only twenty minutes remained in the race. I was frustrated, mired back in sixth, wanting more. I had one idea, a pass I'd seen done by experts but never attempted myself. I'd have only one chance to surprise the driver ahead, and if I screwed up, I might give up a position. It was a longshot, but I didn't have much to lose.

I stalked the BMW in front of me, planning my attack, and suddenly it wiggled under braking for Turn 8. Instead of turning right, it went straight into the runoff area. Now I was fifth. I wanted fourth, to finish where Mike had started the race. I set out after the Porsche ahead.

Two laps later, I started my move, staying well left on the back straight and pulling in tightly to the apex of the right-handed Turn 9, signaling I wanted to pass on the inside there. Two laps, three laps, the same maneuver. Close up behind the orange and yellow Porsche, almost bumping him. Smooth transition, driving straight from the exit of 9 into Turn 10, taking a tight line on the double left-handed apex.

Keep the car as far left on the track as possible out of 10. Braking. Downshift. Looking to Turn 11. Knowing better than to sneak inside the Porsche here. Single-file corner. First gear, full steering wheel lock. Turning right. Car barely fits to make the turn.

Too slow! Too slow!
I ignore the recurring thought. Focus on unwinding the wheel, feeding the throttle on. Careful over the bumps, careful on the throttle so I don't tap the wall.

Wheels finally straight. Upshift to second. Throttle on the floor. Take a breath, relax my shoulders. Upshift to third. Porsche pulls away a tiny bit. Fourth. Fifth. Road bends right, the camber adding to the feeling of speed. Focus. Staying flat through the bend. Shift to sixth. Touching 157 mph before getting on the brakes. Catching up with the Porsche there, right on his bumper to funnel through Turn 1.

Swing left for Turn 2, line up for 3, the fountain. Up on the curb next to the flowers. Careful line on exit. Right-hand turn through 4. Right into 5, onto the high, rough curbing, over the crest of the turn. Move left out of the turn, use every inch of track, careful the camber doesn't toss me into the wall. Wheels straight, throttle down. Upshift to fourth. Fifth.

The prototype behind me takes a tighter line, passing me through Turn 6. Coming out of the turn, I move all the way to the right wall, against the tires. Up the rise, move all the way left, prepping for Turn 8. Downslope, braking into 8.
Get the apex right, Kate. Square off the corner
. Wide entry, braking into the turn to help the car rotate through it. Apex. Throttle.

The Porsche ahead of me was better out of the turns, but the prototype had gotten in front of it and balked it slightly. This time, I didn't lose ground in the drag race off the corner down the back straight.
This is it!

Move right down the back straight, again signaling a pass on the inside. The Porsche ahead moves over to take the line, which isn't blocking if he doesn't move again in front of me. Drafting down the back straight, holding to the right. Upshifting through the gears to sixth. Holding.
Now!

At the last moment before braking, I pulled left, creating a second lane around the outside of the Porsche making the right-hand turn.
Don't flinch, there's room.
Brake as late as possible. Turning, willing there to be grip on the outside of the turn. Turning. Pulling even. Next to the Porsche at the apex. Turning. Track wider on exit. Focus only on the apex for the next turn, seeing my car there with no Porsche in front of me.

I held the line on the left side of the track out of Turn 9, straight into the left-hand carousel of Turn 10. The Porsche tried to stay with me as I inched ahead through 9 and into 10. But he couldn't keep up around the outside of 10 and had to fall in behind me to navigate the single-lane hairpin.

Slow, slow, slow through the hairpin. Our cars concertina into each other as we downshift to first gear and go single-file through the turn. The Porsche buzzes in my rear-view.
Don't try to pass me, buddy, it'll never work.
The turn required discipline to accept the slow-speed turn with patience, without trying to pass, and to launch out of it carefully, not getting on the throttle too quickly and unsettling the back of the car.

Porsche in my mirror.
Don't panic, don't jump on the throttle. Don't give away the hard-earned position.
Accelerating down the straight. Take a breath. Focus through the kink in the straight. Start/finish line. No flags.

Ten minutes later, I took the checkered flag in fourth with mixed emotions. No podium, but no broken car parts. On the plus side, I'd be the toast of the paddock, earning kudos from my team and others, impressed I'd pulled off the pass. I was, too. But we'd missed the podium. While everyone behind me in the order would have gladly traded places, I wanted podiums.

And wins. I hated to lose.

I drove the car directly into the paddock from the track and pressed the button to quiet the engine. I smelled hot car and fuel and felt my heartbeat slow from its galloping race pace. I sighed. All the effort and money to be an also-ran. That was racing.

A crew member opened my door, and I unbuckled. I pulled myself out, done with my sulking and ready to tell the world I was happy to collect points for the season championship.

Chapter Fifty-three

I could easily have collapsed into bed when I got back to my hotel room that evening, but the day wasn't over for me yet. One of the SCC sponsors was hosting a cocktail party that evening, and nearly everyone associated with the Series was invited. My team owner and my new, big sponsor required my attendance, so instead of curling up in pajamas, I put on team gear, khakis, and lip gloss.

Holly and I walked down Ocean Boulevard to the Sky Room, a restaurant on top of a fifteen-story building from the 1920s. The art deco décor was stunning, but the focal point was the three-hundred-sixty-degree views of the City of Long Beach and the racetrack.

I'd heard about the restaurant during past visits, especially the life-size statue of Humphrey Bogart in the women's restroom, but I'd never been inside. I went immediately to the windows, while Holly went to the bar. She joined me a couple minutes later and handed me a glass of juice.

“You can't hide on the edges of the party all night.” She sipped her pink, blended drink.

I turned around to face the crowd. “I could try.”

“What's going on? You don't usually mind these things.”

“Tired from today. A race still to run tomorrow. Don't want to deal with people.”

She nodded toward the entrance. “Like them.”

Coleman and Holden Sherain walked in, looking like they owned the place, and my father joined them a moment later. In a flash, Elizabeth wove her way through the crowd to reach Holden's side. She tucked her arm in his and led him away. Annoyance flashed across Coleman's face, before he smoothed his features and touched a hand to his tie. He and my father moved toward the bar.

“At least Edward isn't with them.” I pointed Holly to the farthest end of the room, where we joined Jack and Tom Albright chatting with a mix of media, Series staff, and sponsors.

I managed to stay away from the Sherains, father and son, for nearly two hours. But a third trip to the buffet table proved my undoing. That's when I fumbled a meatball onto my shirt and decided to sneak around the bar the long way to reach the bathroom. I had my head down, dabbing at the brown stain—on my white shirt, of course—when I heard familiar voices among the hubbub of the bar area. I stopped in my tracks, halfway down the narrow aisle.

“You're calling me an idiot?” Holden, sullen and resentful.

“If anyone has the right, I do,” Coleman shot back. “Your stupid cousin, he'd have ruined everything. And you listened to him. Be grateful I got everything back on track for both of us. I cleaned this up for us. For
you.
You hear me? Don't screw this up again.”

They saw me. I involuntarily fell back a step.

Holden surged forward, his fists clenched. “I am so
sick
of you.”

I glanced around, hoping he was speaking to someone else. Hoping for backup. The party was a few yards behind me, but no one looked our way. I figured I could outrun any physical violence, so I stood my ground.

“I've done nothing to you, Holden.” I put my hands on my hips, wishing the stain on my shirt didn't undercut my authority so much.

He took another step, menacing. “You're always
there
. Go away. Get out of our lives.”

Coleman moved forward, all traces of pleasant sponsor executive gone. “How would it all be different if you weren't here, Kate? Interesting thought, Son.”

What the hell? Are they talking about bumping me off?
I wanted to retreat so badly I could taste it, but I stayed put. “I'm not leaving. You can't get rid of me.”

Coleman only raised his eyebrows and smiled. My breath caught in my throat.

Holden's face went red. “You are a leech. A worthless, blood-sucking freeloader. What do you do for anyone? You're a pair of tits in a firesuit, and you think that makes you special. You're a novelty item.”

Coleman made no move to stop Holden's rant. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and watched the show.

I was stunned at the bile spilling from Holden's mouth, still surprised anyone could be that cruel.

“You're a public relations trick, not a real driver, which means you're as useless on the track as you are in the rest of your life.” He leaned forward and down, to get in my face. “Useless. Worthless. Unwanted. Same as when you were a baby and your own father didn't want you. Get it? If you had any integrity at all, you'd stop wasting everyone's time and go away. Permanently.”

My resolve to ignore the other members of my father's family went out the window with the feel of Holden's hot, alcohol-soaked breath on my face. I felt sick. And mad. Really mad.

I spoke in the same low, angry tone Holden had used. “Enough! You have no right to talk to me like that. No right to comment on my driving or my career. None!” I wrinkled my nose at him, heaping on the scorn. “And look who's calling who worthless. You couldn't even cheat effectively, let alone drive.”

Coleman clamped a hand on Holden's shoulder, stopping his son from lunging at me.

I was loud now, angry and reckless. “That's right. Have Daddy hold you back, take care of you. How about being your own man? Oh that's right, you can't be. Like Billy couldn't. Your daddy had to fix things for you both.” I turned to Coleman. “Isn't that what you said? You ‘cleaned things up'? Things Billy was ruining? How'd you do it, Coleman? Did you kill him?”

Holden looked stunned, but Coleman remained impassive. I sensed movement behind me, but I was beyond caring. My suspicions had coalesced into certainty when I'd heard Coleman's words. I knew he was the killer.

“Kate, is everything all right?” my father asked.

I glanced around to see him, Elizabeth, Tug Brehan, Don Kessberg, and others crammed into the narrow aisle behind me.

I turned back to Coleman and Holden. “Fine. Now that I've figured out Coleman killed Billy.”

Someone behind me gasped, and my father exclaimed “What?”

Coleman hadn't moved a muscle.

“That's right,” I went on. “Billy was causing problems for Coleman at the bank—with his poor management and sexual harassment—and in the business community. What's wrong, Coleman? Was he going to expose your shady business connections? Or your multiple affairs with subordinates in the workplace? Or maybe he was going to introduce everyone to Lucy Rose, Lily, and Violet.” For everyone else, I added, “His second wife and children.”

Coleman reacted with a flicker of confusion. Holden looked from his father to someone over my shoulder, a question in his eyes.

My father stepped forward, between me and his brother-in-law. “I'm not sure I understand. Is there an explanation for this, Coleman?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “The explanation is he pressured me to look into who killed Billy when the answer was him all along.”

My father turned incredulous eyes from me to Coleman. “Coleman? I don't—what she said?”

Coleman relaxed and smiled, which immediately made me nervous. He shot his cuffs and tightened the knot of his tie. “You're wrong. I should sue you for slander.”

“Not all of it. Not the second family.” I couldn't be.

“I don't know those names.” He shrugged. “I'll gloss over the rest for the moment, but James, we will talk later about the appropriate venue for this kind of discussion.”

I started to sweat.

“I'll tell you this, Kate.” Coleman's expression was icy. “I hope you're a better driver than investigator, because you're wrong. Totally, completely wrong.”

To my horror, my father nodded.

I tried again. “You were there at the track that day. You were mad at Billy. Weren't you?” Reports of overheard arguments whirled in my head. “You were mad at Elizabeth. But you were also mad at Billy.”

I could feel Coleman growing stronger as I crumbled.

My father moved to me and put his hand on my arm. “I can almost guarantee it wasn't Coleman. I was on a conference call with him most of the time he was at the track that afternoon.”

Don Kessberg spoke up from behind me. “I saw him leave, and Billy was still alive.”

I gasped for air. I was embarrassed, horrified.
How did I get it wrong? Was I wrong about everything? No, he's still an asshole. Still unethical. But maybe not a murderer.
I looked at the faces around me and saw shock, confusion, and pity.

I bolted.

I was unable to comprehend the magnitude of the mistake I'd made as I stumbled out of the elevator into the brightly lit night. I stopped on the street, bewildered at the crowd of people spilling out of restaurants and bars, shouting at each other across the street. The noise of the rock band performing on the plaza stage next door hurt my ears. The smell of beer and cigarette smoke turned my stomach.

I slumped down on a low wall between buildings and leaned over, holding my head with my hands. I was still in shock. My brain refused to settle on anything coherent.

I latched onto one thought: I might have ruined my career. At the very least, I'd finally ruined my sponsorship deal with Frame Savings, which probably meant kissing the Indy 500 goodbye. And the move to IndyCar. Beauté's funding would get me partway there, but I'd have to hustle to make it work. I wasn't confident I could make up the difference.

A different future stretched ahead of me, and I knew I'd have to adjust my expectations. Give up on the dreams I'd started reaching for. I was furious with Don and Nikki for forcing me into the investigation and with Coleman for being an asshole. With Billy for dying. Mostly, I accepted, I was angry at myself for messing everything up.

Part of me was also relieved to no longer have to interact with the rest of my father's family.
Silver linings.

I sat up straighter and the scene replayed itself in my head. I tried not to cringe. Coleman hadn't reacted with guilt, unless he was a great actor. And apparently the three flower names—Lucy Rose, Lily, and Violet—had nothing to do with him. I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text to Ryan asking what he or the FBI knew about them.

People will find out I falsely accused Coleman. I can't face telling Ryan…a real investigator? I'll look like an idiot. A failure.

I pushed those thoughts away to deal with later, when I didn't feel so raw. I typed the names into Google on my phone, more to keep my mind off my embarrassment than because I thought I'd find results. I scrolled through page one. There, at the bottom: “The Tragic Childhood of Lucy Rose.” I clicked on the link and the article loaded, detailing the story of a foster child suspected in the deaths of her mother and a foster sister.

I expanded the photo that accompanied the article in disbelief. I was looking at a young Elizabeth Rogers.

I raised my head from my phone in shock and looked up into Elizabeth's eyes.