Chapter 7
SEVEN
“So who exactly was in the room when the fight happened?” Demi asks, the end of a pen tapping against her full lower lip as she stares at me.
I close my eyes, picturing the room before naming everyone who was there when Roman pushed Tyler against a wall.
It’s two days after the clothing incident, and this morning, a blind item about a physical altercation between a former IndyCar driver and his ex-best friend hit the tabloids.
Since there weren’t many people there, we’re prioritizing those in that room in our investigation.
“Okay, so what do we have?”
“Right now, Tyler is high up there for me. He looked annoyed, but not necessarily surprised when Rome showed up without his shirt on. Maybe he hoped he would just skip it altogether, so he was frustrated when he showed up?” Demi nods before countering my idea, the way we always do.
The reason we work as partners is that we volley ideas back and forth, looking closely at loopholes and explanations the other might miss.
”Is there any chance Roman did it on purpose? Used it as part of his schtick as the bad boy trying to get attention?” Demi asks. I shake my head, knowing the answer in my gut.
“No. He was pissed. If he were putting on a show, he wouldn’t have had such a reaction once the cameras were off.”
“Okay, so, who actually took his things?” Demi accessed the camera pointed at the men’s locker room entrance and made a list of everyone who entered and exited while Roman was in there, but it was a long list, and no one appeared to leave with a stack of clothes that matched his.
“It could be a crime of convenience, or, like he joked about at the press event, completely unrelated. Someone just being an asshole. Where did they find his stuff, again?”
“In the laundry. It came out with everyone else’s things.”
“So they didn’t steal it with the intention of hiding or destroying his stuff, simply inconveniencing him.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Demi says, biting the top of her pen after a moment.
“What if the sabotage isn’t the company, but a single driver?
What if Roman specifically is the target, not Monster Smash as a whole?
” I mull over the theory, turning it over in my mind and assessing its validity, testing whether it fits into the story I’ve already made.
It does, and that familiar zing I get when we’re on the right path hits.
“If everyone knows he’s here to be on his best behavior so he can go back to Indy, who would want him to fail at that?
” Demi adds. After the press conference, I came back to the room to fill Demi in on what I learned, and we did some digging.
There, we found out that after a couple of years of partying and trouble, the team he raced with suspended him for the season when it came out that he’d slept with a sponsor’s wife.
It didn’t take much to realize the plan was to take a year here, reforming his image and being on his best behavior so he could return to Indy.
“Phil could fit that bill,” I say thoughtfully. “He might want Roman to stay as long as he can. He’s mentioned a few times how ticket sales are up since Rome has been here. There could be a financial motivation,” I say. Demi nods, scratching something into her notepad.
“Or someone wants him to suffer. Someone who doesn’t want him to go back to bigger and better,” she counters.
“Tyler,” I say confidently. “He seems really frustrated with Rome being back.” Demi nods and adds his name to our board.
“Are any other drivers annoyed by him?”
“Liam for sure. He has a lot to say about him being here, but he also has a lot to say about my being here. He’s a reserve, so I think he thought he would be riding full-time when the last driver dropped out, rather than bringing in someone new.
He could be pissed Rome was brought in, and wants to get him out.
He got to race a few times when Rome was on mandated rest after the crash.
” Demi nods, adding to her notes. “And Jordan, but honestly, I think he’s just an ass.
Oliver is friends with Tyler, and the three of them used to be tight, but he doesn’t seem as irritated by him. ”
“It could also…” she starts, then hesitates, and before she can even finish the sentence, I know what she’s going to say.
“It could be Rome,” I finish. She nods in agreement as a strange feeling churns in my gut, one I don’t want to look too closely at.
“He could be doing this to get press for himself, or to try to make his dad feel bad about suspending him. A pity campaign of sorts.” I tighten my jaw, avoiding the unfamiliar urge to argue the valid point.
“But we need more information before we can narrow the suspects at all.” Demi sits back with a sigh, looking at the list. This is the worst part of a case, where everyone seems like a suspect, and there’s no strong evidence to tie a misdeed to any one person.
“What do you think the next sabotage could be?” Demi asks, but I shrug.
“It’s hard to tell. There are so many moving parts, and it’s nearly impossible to keep an eye on the arenas with us on the road.
” That’s what Demi is finding toughest about this case.
Normally, we can hack into the surveillance system somewhere, but in a situation like this, we’re not in the same place long enough for her to figure out the system and fully utilize it.
“We need more cameras I can access,” she says, reading my thoughts.
“The ones on your truck are active, but nothing has happened in the arena since we got here. I think adding mics and a camera in his transportation trailer would be smart, in case someone tries something outside the arena. Maybe in all of them, in case we’re wrong about the focus being on Rome.
” I nod, agreeing. “All of the trucks should be in the trailers, ready to head out tomorrow.” There’s a sparkle in her eye I recognize, but don’t necessarily like.
She stands and moves to the suitcase with all her extra equipment.
“So what, we’re just going to break into the trailers?” I ask, standing and following her. Demi looks over her shoulder at me, grabbing a bulging bag as if she’s already planned this and I’m just finding out now.
“I’m going to break in. You’re the lookout.”
That’s how, an hour and a half later, I’m standing in the parking lot where all of the trailers are, trying to look natural while keeping an eye out. Demi is inside Rome’s, wiring a hidden microphone and camera into the trailer’s interior.
“Can you just hurry up?” I ask into the Bluetooth earbuds connected to my phone.
“You can’t rush perfection,” she says, a lilting, happy tone in her voice, but my gut sinks when I spot a head of floppy, dark hair coming around a corner.
“No, no, no,” I murmur to myself.
“Exactly. I’m glad you’re on my side,” Demi says, oblivious to my panic.
“He’s coming,” I say through gritted teeth, peering around the corner.
“Who is?” Demi asks.
“Rome! He’s coming this way. He’s…” I squint, a bit confused. “He’s in his race suit.”
“Why is he here?”
“I don’t know, Demi! But he is. You have to get out.”
“I can’t get out. I’m almost done.”
“I don’t think you understand; he is coming. If you’re still in there, our cover will be totally blown.”
“Then you’d better make sure he doesn’t come in here, Lana.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” There’s a taunting smile in her voice when she shares her next words.
“I’m sure you can think of something.”
Panic courses through me, but in a moment, it transforms into something different, something familiar, turning the adrenaline into determination.
I’ve always loved this part, the thrill of the endorphins, the way my mind clears, the excitement of wondering if I can manage it.
I’ve only felt this particular thrill in two aspects of my life: one was as a kid, when I’d race with my brothers on a dirt bike, and the other is when I’m undercover, challenging myself to see if I can pull something off, to sell someone on this manufactured version of myself.
By the time I’m turning the corner toward Roman, head down, pretending I’m looking at my phone and not paying attention, I’m not nervous. I’m just excited. And when I time it perfectly to run into him—literally—I have to force back a grin.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” his deep voice says, hands on my hips to steady me. Because I played it a bit too well, didn’t calculate how hard his body would be, and nearly fell to my ass. The hand not holding my phone comes up to rest on his chest, and I try not to think about how good it feels.
“Shit, sorry,” I say.
“Must have been something really interesting on there,” he says, a cocky grin on his lips. I lift an eyebrow before stepping back.
“Actually—I, um,” I stutter, trying to sound natural, but for some reason, with him staring at me with that handsome smile, I can’t.
It’s like I’ve lost all semblance of being cool, calm, and collected, and instead I blurt out the first idiotic thing that comes to mind.
“I was actually looking for you.” His eyebrow lifts and his head tilts.
“Well, you found me, sweetheart.” My jaw tightens, and I glare at him, forgetting momentarily that I’m supposed to be distracting him, not arguing with him.
“Don’t call me that.”
He just grins at me in that annoying, cocky, hot way.
“No baby, no princess, no sweetheart. What can I call you?” he asks.
“My name,” I say through gritted teeth, then take in a breath, trying to center myself.
Why does he make me feel so off kilter? “Anyway, I was…” I scan the area, trying to think of something to say, some explanation for why I would have been looking for him, and when a truck for a familiar chain restaurant passes, I jump on it.
“I was helping out craft services. They wanted to know what kind of fruit everyone wants in their fruit salad for breakfast.” Idiot, idiot, idiot!
An elite undercover investigator, and the best I can think of is freaking fruit salad?
“Fruit?”