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Finally, in the far back corner, he spied a table of four men who looked out of place. He didn’t recognize any of them, and they weren’t speaking to any of the other racers. They were also dressed for upscale L.A. streets, not the middle of Austria and the mountains. He was sure they were only still at the track because Haas had asked them to stick around until he had a chance to speak with them.
Dalton walked over to the table, “Gentlemen, I believe you were here with Dennis Moore. I’m?—”
“We know who you are,” said the man at the end, rather abruptly. His dark blue designer shirt stretched across his lean chest as he folded his arms over it and glared at Dalton. “What do you want?”
Dalton tried not to stare at the man’s overly-styled hair or his lack of wrinkles. Botox or plastic surgery? Either one would’ve given him the ultra-smooth look his skin had. No man in his late fifties looked like this naturally but whatever.
“I wanted to express my condolences,” Dalton said. Then he gestured to the bench. “May I sit?”
The man nodded grudgingly.
“I’m Philip Lyle.” He pointed to the man on his immediate left. “This is Donald Bainbridge.”
Bainbridge was also of a similar age, only he looked it. His face was weather-beaten as if he spent a lot of time outside, like sailing or mountain climbing—he seemed the sort—but his blue eyes were alert and appeared intelligent. His graying hair was thinning on the top and as he offered his hand, Dalton noticed he had a deep gash on his forearm.
“Joe Plover,” Lyle said, pointing to the man across from him. Plover was a bit younger than the rest. The blond’s hair was cropped short but in a styled manner. He also wore designer clothes but seemed uncomfortable in them. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt unconsciously as he shook Dalton’s hand. But it was his eyes that were the problem. They were a watery blue and darted all over the place. His pupils were dilated way too much. The guy was high as a kite, probably on coke or amphetamines.
“And this is Richard Goodman,” Lyle said, gesturing to the last man next to Plover. Goodman was stocky and balding on top, and while the halo of brown hair was a little longer than was the norm, it was tidy. He was trying to appear relaxed, but tension oozed off him in waves. He offered his hand, and Dalton tried not to grimace as his hand was enclosed in Goodman’s slightly clammy grip.
Dalton pulled a chair from the corner and sat down at the head of the table. “I am truly sorry for your loss.”
“Are you?” Bainbridge demanded. “This is your fault. I thought these cars were supposed to be safe. Your people said they were safe. Dennis should be here right now.”
Dalton didn’t take offense at the other man’s anger. He understood it. Shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen. This man’s grief seemed real. Dennis did have people who were mourning his death. That was good to know. It made Dalton feel better somehow that he was risking everything. If no one but him cared that Dennis Moore had been murdered, it would have made things that much harder.
Dalton said evenly, “The cars are safe. This wasn’t Dennis’s first race. He’s raced in other leagues and finished a three-day event with us using these cars before. He knew there was always the chance, no matter how slim, that something bad could happen.” He glanced around the table. “Have any of you done any racing?”
Bainbridge and Lyle both nodded. Goodman merely gave him a small smile, and Plover was zoned out. “Then you know that things don’t always go the way you expect them to.”
Lyle agreed, “It’s true. I’ve done a few races where weird things happened.”
“Still,” Bainbridge commented, “you’re supposed to be there to mitigate the weirdness. To stop it if possible.”
“And I was, but some things are beyond my control.” Bainbridge opened his mouth again, but Dalton held up a hand. “Before you continue. I think you should probably know that the polizei think Dennis had a heart attack and that’s what caused the accident.”
Silence fell over the table as they all absorbed that news. It was a true statement. He didn’t think that’s what happened, but Detective Haas did, and that story suited Dalton just fine. It gave him cover as he poked around, and hopefully, he’d find out what really happened.
“Are…are you sure?” Bainbridge asked.
“Detective Haas said as much to me.”
Bainbridge glanced at Lyle. “Did he say anything to you about his health?”
Lyle shook his head. “Not a word. He’d just gone to have his annual physical. Said everything was good.”
Goodman piped up. “His cholesterol was high, and his doctor wanted to put him on pills for his blood pressure. Told him his stress level was way too high for a man his age.”
“What?” Bainbridge demanded. “He never said a word to me.”
Goodman glanced at Bainbridge and then at Dalton. “Mr. Hughes?—”
“Dalton, please.”
He nodded. “Dalton, Philip and Don are…were Dennis’s best friends since they were kids. I was his financial advisor and trusted friend for many years as well.”
He completely ignored the other man at the table. Interesting. How did he fit into the picture? “I see.”
“I tell you this to give you some background, that’s all. Philip, you and Don know Dennis didn’t like to talk about anything about his health. He was tightlipped about all that stuff.”
