“Maybe you did have. Once. It’s a moot point now, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” McMahon said, turning to face him, “I suppose it is. Look, I know you’re hurting, Victor. Well, so am I, so let’s keep this brief. Are you willing to help me?”
“I don’t — yes, of course I am. If I can.”
“All right, what can you tell me about these races?”
“The races? Not much. It was just a hobby, really. Chris enjoyed driving and the press coverage was good for the cause.”
“What about prize money?”
“There isn’t any, only some ghastly trophies, and occasional expense money. Small change. Nothing worth, ah,” he swallowed, “nothing worth killing someone for, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Maybe not, but whoever did this chose to do it in a race, maybe hoping it’d pass for an accident, maybe for some whacked-out reason of his own. Either way, I’m going to focus on the race. I don’t have the time or resources to look anywhere else. Did Chris have any enemies involved in racing?”
“Too many to count. They’re all over-the-hill macho types playing out their little fantasies in antique cars. Most of them hated the idea of a gay driver being the big winner. It upset their sense of propriety.”
“I can see where it might, but can you narrow it down a bit, Victor? I need a place to start.”
“Maybe you could begin with the VRVC board. They tried to force him out, you know.”
“What’s the VV — whatever?”
“VRVC. The Vintage Racing Vehicle Conference. It’s the governing body that arranges the meets, sets standards, that sort of thing.”
“And you say they tried to force him out? How?”
“I’m not really clear on the details, but after Chris won the championship last year, the board changed some of the rules, something about equipment, to disqualify his Morgan from further competition. It didn’t work, though. He just borrowed another car and kept right on winning.”
“You mean he wasn’t driving his own car yesterday?”
“No, he was driving the other one, a red Morgan SuperSport.”
“I don’t understand,” Andy said, frowning. “If both cars were Morgans, why was one eligible if the other wasn’t?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about cars. I doubt it matters.”
“Where did he get this other car?”
“From a member of the movement. Chris did a humorous piece in the paper about what the board was trying to do. A gentleman from Dallas, a Mr. Avery Radmore, read it and called to offer him the use of the red SuperSport. Gratis.”
“Quite a gesture,” Andy observed.
“Yes, I suppose it was.”
“All right, the board tried to force him out, and failed. Were any of them angry enough about it to arrange the — accident?”
“I... don’t know. I doubt it.”
“What about the other drivers? How did they feel about Chris?”
“I think they all resented him, but some more than others. At the banquet after the Mid-Ohio meet, a driver named Buchek made some remarks about Chris’s driving and — other things. They had words, Buchek suggested they step outside, and Chris obliged him. Buchek left in an ambulance. He was a stubborn man,” Victor said, smiling grimly at the memory, “he wouldn’t stay down. He didn’t appear to hold a grudge about it afterward, but who knows?”
“Do you know Buchek’s first name? Where he’s from?”
“Chuck Buchek, probably Charles. From Phoenix. He was in the race yesterday.”
“I’ll check him out. Who else?”
“Last February, after Chris won the meet in Nassau, a driver named Maraschal accused him of — I don’t know, unsportsmanlike conduct or something. Anyway, he challenged Chris to a runoff, just the two of them, for a side bet of twenty thousand dollars.”
“Twenty—? What happened?”
“Chris won and Maraschal paid off.”
“I thought the paper was running on a shoestring. Where did Chris find twenty thousand to put up? And how could you two afford to get to the Bahamas in the first place?”
“The trip to Nassau was free. The Bahamian government picked up the tab for shipping the cars and expenses for the week. And Chris didn’t put up the money for the bet either. He ah, he bet the SuperSport.”
“He bet a car he didn’t own?”
“At the time no one knew it wasn’t his, although it’s become common knowledge since. I’m sure Maraschal’s heard about it. But then I suppose he couldn’t complain even if he wanted to. Code of the caballero and all that macho nonsense.”
“Caballero?” Andy echoed, frowning thoughtfully. “Is this Maraschal a Mexican national? Gerardo Maraschal? Ciudad Juarez?”
“Gerardo. Yes, I think that’s the name. Do you know him?”
“I know of him,” he said, “if it’s the same man.”
“He and Buchek are the only two with whom Chris had any real trouble. For the most part we were just ignored. And not very politely. And that’s really all I can tell you.”
“I want to know more about the business end of things, Victor, and about that rules change. Who can I talk to?”
“I... suppose Colonel Galmont would be your best bet. He’s a member of the board, and one of the ones who pushed for the change. He has an estate in the Catalina foothills, or rather his wife does. He married one of the Mandeville Industries heirs. Probably for love.”
“Why for love?”
“I’ve met her,” Victor said, with a wan smile. “If he married the woman for her money, she couldn’t possibly have enough.”
“I’ll tell them you send your best,” Andy said, managing an answering smile. “Do you know how long you’ll be in here?”
“A few days, they tell me. Why?”
“I ah, I thought you might like to attend the funeral. I can pick you up if you like.”
Victor glanced up at him a moment, then looked away again. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I don’t imagine it would please your family if I came. The movement will undoubtedly hold a separate memorial service for Chris. I’ll feel more comfortable there. But... thank you for offering.”
“De nada,” McMahon said. “Is there anything you need?”
Victor’s numbed gaze wandered around the small, anonymous room, as though his future was written on its sterile walls. And perhaps it was. “No,” he said quietly, “nothing, thanks.”
The Galmonts lived in isolated splendor north of the Patano Wash near the very private Tucson Country Club. The gateposts were hammered bronze, and the long driveway was cobblestone, but McMahon didn’t really get an impression of multiple millions until he parked his dusty beige rental Ford in front of the house and realized that most of the home was underground, built into the side of a carefully groomed foothill. The building’s front façade was smoked glass a story and a half high, a broad dark mirror that reflected the empty desert beyond. He pressed the doorbell but the only sound was the dry October wind whining down from the Santa Catalinas.
A stocky Mexican woman in a frilly black and white maid’s uniform answered the bell.
“I’m Sergeant McMahon,” Andy said, flashing his honorary DEA shield at her. “Is Colonel Galmont in, please?”
The woman didn’t respond. She stood blocking the half-open doorway like Horatio at the bridge. “Policia,” Andy repeated, “Coronel Galmont, por favor.”