The Grand Prix had transformed the hotel into a temporary headquarters for the racing world.

  August crossed to the elevator bank. A bellhop gave him a long look. At his size, with his scarred face and general appearance, August was used to the stares. He ignored them.

  The Presidential Suite was on the twenty-third floor. August rode up alone, watching the numbers climb. When the doors opened, he stepped into a private vestibule. Only one door. He knocked.

  It opened immediately.

  A thin man in an expensive suit stood there. Mid-forties, dark hair slicked back, wire-rimmed glasses. He looked August up and down with barely concealed distaste.

  "Mr. High?"

  "That's right."

  "Identification, please."

  August pulled out his wallet, showed his private investigator's license. The man studied it like he was looking for forgeries, then stepped back.

  "This way."

  The suite was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Detroit River and Windsor beyond. Modern furniture, abstract art on the walls, a full bar in one corner. Three people sat in the living area. Two men in suits, one woman.

  She stood when August entered.

  Isabella Ortiz was beautiful and August thought she looked like she’d just stepped out of some fancy fashion magazine.

  He guessed she was in her late thirties, with dark hair falling past her shoulders, olive skin, and eyes the color of strong coffee. She wore a white blouse and black slacks. No jewelry except for a gold watch.

  "Mr. High." She crossed the room, extended her hand. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

  August shook her hand. Her grip was firm, her skin warm.

  "Your name," Isabella said. "It's unusual. August High. Is it real?"

  Most people danced around the question. Asked if it was a nickname or a stage name. Isabella just asked directly.

  "It's real," August said.

  "How did you get it?"

  The two security guys on the couch shifted. This wasn't the kind of question clients usually asked in the first thirty seconds. But August saw what she was doing. Testing him. Seeing if he was the kind of man who could handle her directness.

  "My mother was a drug addict," August said. His voice was flat, factual. "She showed up at a Detroit ER in labor. High out of her mind on whatever she'd been using. The nurse who delivered me named me High because that's what my mother was. August because I was born August first. My mother died three days later from an overdose. I went into the system. Got adopted eventually by a man who runs a boxing gym."

  The suite was quiet. Even the security guys had stopped moving.

  Isabella held his gaze. "I'm sorry. That was intrusive."

  "You asked a question. I answered it."

  Isabella studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly.

  "Please, sit." Isabella gestured to the seating area.

  August sat in a chair that probably wasn't designed for someone his size. It held. The two men on the couch watched him with professional wariness. Security, August figured. The thin man who'd answered the door had disappeared into another room.

  Isabella remained standing. She moved to the windows, looked out at the city. "Carlos Mendoza. My lead driver. Last night, he was murdered. The police found him in an alley downtown." She turned back to August. "They believe it was a robbery gone wrong. I don't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because nothing was taken. His wallet, his watch, his phone. All still on him." Isabella's accent gave her words a musical quality. "Carlos was beaten with extreme brutality, then burned. The police showed me photographs."

  August studied her. She held his gaze without flinching. Most people couldn't maintain eye contact with him for more than a few seconds. Something about his size, his face, made them uncomfortable.

  Isabella didn't seem uncomfortable at all.

  "What exactly do you want from me?" August asked.

  "Find who killed Carlos. Find out why. The police are competent, I'm sure, but they're overwhelmed with the Grand Prix. Extra security, crowd control, VIP protection. A murdered driver is just another case file to them." Isabella sat down across from him, leaned forward. "I need someone who can focus only on this. Someone who knows this city. Someone who can move quickly."

  "I'm not cheap."

  "Money isn't a concern."

  One of the security guys shifted. August caught the movement in his peripheral vision. The man had his hand near his jacket. Probably armed. August filed that away.

  "The racing world has its own investigators," August said. "People who know the circuit, the teams, the politics. Why hire a Detroit PI?"

  "Because this happened in Detroit. Because the racing investigators work for the same organization that pays me. I need someone independent. Someone with no connection to any of this." Isabella gestured around the suite. "And because the person who recommended you said you were the best at what you do."

  "Who recommended me?"

  "A mutual acquaintance who prefers to remain anonymous."

  August let that sit. He had a few contacts who might make that kind of referral. Most of them existed in the gray areas of Detroit's criminal world. If they'd vouched for him to someone like Isabella Ortiz, they had their reasons.

  “I'm asking you to find the truth. Whatever it is." Isabella stood again, too much energy to sit still. "Warm-ups start tomorrow. My team is expected to compete. I have sponsors, contracts, obligations. But Carlos deserves justice. He deserves better than being forgotten in the chaos of race weekend."

  August watched her pace. There was genuine emotion there. She was channeling everything into action.

  August stood. At his full height, he towered over everyone in the room. The security guys both tensed. Isabella didn't move. He looked around the suite. At the expensive furniture, the view, the security, the woman who could afford all of it.

  This was going to be complicated.

  Rich people always were.

  Multiple agendas, hidden motivations, secrets wrapped in money.

  Jazz had been right about that.

  "My rate is five thousand a day plus expenses," August said.

  "I'll triple it."

  August blinked. That was the first time someone had responded to his rate by multiplying it without negotiation.

  Isabella smiled. It transformed her face, made her even more dangerous. "Fifteen thousand a day, Mr. High. Plus whatever expenses you incur. I want this solved quickly. Consider the fee an incentive for speed as well as results. You know how much people in my line of work value speed."

  The thin man returned from the other room carrying a folder. He handed it to Isabella, who held it out to August.

  "Everything we have on Carlos. His background, his contract with the team, his known associates. Also information about our team structure, the other drivers, our primary competitors." Isabella waited while August took the folder. "The police have their files. I'm sure you can access those through your own channels."

  August opened the folder. Photographs, documents, printed emails. Enough to get started.

  "We have a replacement driver taking Carlos's seat," Isabella said. "The race must go on, as they say."

  August closed the folder. "I'll look into it. Give me a day or two to see what I can find. Then we'll talk again."

  "I'm staying here through the weekend. Call anytime." Isabella pulled a business card from her pocket, handed it to him. Her fingers brushed his. The contact lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "Day or night, Mr. High. This is my priority."

  August pocketed the card. "One more thing. If I find out Carlos was involved in something illegal, something that got him killed because of his own choices, you still want the truth?"

  "Always."

  August headed for the door. One of the security guys stood to escort him, but Isabella waved him off.

  "I'll walk him out."

  She followed August to the vestibule. When they were alone, she spoke quietly.

  "You're wondering if you can trust me," she said.

  "I'm wondering what you're not telling me."

  "Many things. But none that will prevent you from finding Carlos's killer." Isabella looked up at him. She was tall for a woman but still had to tilt her head back. "I'm hiring you because I need someone I don't control. Someone who will find the truth even if I don't like it. Can you do that?"

  "That's the only way I work."

  "Good." She opened the door. "Goodbye, and I look forward to hearing from you soon."

  August rode the elevator down alone. In the lobby, he found a quiet corner and opened the folder. Carlos Mendoza's face stared up at him from a professional headshot. Young, handsome, confident. The kind of face that belonged on magazine covers and energy drink commercials.

  Now it was in the morgue.

  August flipped through the rest of the documents. Team roster, race schedule, sponsor information. He'd go through it all carefully later. Right now, he just wanted to get a sense of what he was walking into.

  His phone buzzed. Text from Paul Fawcett: "Heard about the Grand Prix murder. You involved?"

  August typed back: "Just got hired. Can you start pulling some background for me?”

  "Of course."

  August slipped the phone away, tucked the folder under his arm, and walked out into the Detroit night. The air had cooled slightly, but the humidity still hung heavy. In the distance, he could hear the sound of construction. They were setting up barriers for the race course, transforming downtown streets into a track.

  The Grand Prix circus had come to Detroit.

  And August High had just bought a ticket.

  4

  The office was dark except for the glow of the city below.

  He stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching the lights of Detroit spread out before him.

  Somewhere down there, construction crews were working through the night to have everything ready. Building barriers, erecting grandstands, transforming ordinary streets into something else entirely.

  The Grand Prix would bring chaos. Crowds, cameras, police presence multiplied tenfold. All of it useful. All of it complicating.

  His phone vibrated. A text message, brief and coded. He read it once, deleted it, then stared out at the city again.

  So Isabella Ortiz had hired an investigator. That was expected. She was predictable. The question was whether this investigator would be a problem or merely an irritation.

  August High. Apparently, a man with a reputation. Large, violent, effective. Not sophisticated, but competent in the way street dogs were competent. Dangerous if cornered.

  He considered the variables. The police investigation would proceed exactly as anticipated. Overwhelmed, understaffed, distracted by the demands of the Grand Prix. They would follow their procedures, fill out their reports, and ultimately file the case away when the obvious leads dried up.

  But a private investigator answered to different pressures. Operated by different rules.

  Another vibration. Another message. This one slightly longer.

  He read it, lips pressing into a thin line. High had already visited the Westin. Already accepted the job. Moving faster than expected, but not problematically so. Not yet.

  The room was silent except for the faint hum of climate control. Everything in its place. Everything measured and precise. That's how operations succeeded. Through preparation, through patience, through the careful management of risk.

  Carlos Mendoza had been a risk. An acceptable one initially, but risks had a way of metastasizing. Of spreading into areas they shouldn't. That’s why they needed to be ripped out, root and all.

  Now Carlos was handled.

  But handling created its own risks. Investigations, attention, questions that led to other questions. The method had been deliberate. A message to those who needed to see it, but messages drew eyes, and eyes could see more than intended.

  He turned from the window, moved to the desk. A folder lay open there. Photographs, documents, schedules. He studied them in the dim light, confirming details he already knew.

  The Grand Prix would proceed. The operation would continue. And if August High became more than an irritation, if he started pulling on threads that shouldn't be pulled, then August High would be handled as well.

  Detroit had plenty of dark alleys.

  The city glittered below. Oblivious. Going about its business while wheels turned within wheels, while plans unfolded in darkness, while men like Carlos Mendoza disappeared into alleys and men like August High stepped unknowingly into patterns they couldn't see.

  The Grand Prix would be spectacular.

  And when it was over, when the crowds dispersed and the barriers came down and Detroit returned to itself, everything would be exactly as it needed to be.

  He allowed himself the smallest smile.

  FRIDAY

  Part Two

  THE CIRCUIT

  5

  August arrived at the circuit early Friday morning.

  The streets of downtown Detroit had been transformed overnight into something foreign. Steel barriers lined Jefferson Avenue, grandstands rose like temporary monuments, and every surface was covered in sponsor logos.

  The air smelled like rubber, fuel, and danger.

  Isabella's credentials got him through security without question. A laminated pass that said "VIP: Team Personnel" opened every door. The guard at the gate barely glanced at August's face before waving him through.

  The paddock was controlled chaos. Teams worked in their designated areas, mechanics swarming over cars like surgeons preparing for operations. Engines fired and died. Tools clanged against carbon fiber. Everyone moved quickly but efficiently, speaking in technical shorthand August didn't pretend to understand.

  He'd spent most of the night reading through Isabella's folder. Carlos Mendoza had been twenty-six years old. Single, no family except his ancient mother in Barcelona who he saw maybe once a year.

  He'd come up through the European racing circuits before landing with Isabella's team two seasons ago. Fast, talented, and by all accounts headed for the top tier of the sport.

  Also a ladies' man. The folder contained tabloid clippings, social media screenshots. Carlos photographed with models, actresses, the daughters of wealthy sponsors. Nothing serious, nothing that lasted more than a few weeks. The kind of player who treated relationships like pit stops during a race.

  Which meant jealous boyfriends. Angry fathers. Plenty of potential enemies that had nothing to do with racing.

  August walked through the paddock, his size and scars drawing stares from the sleek racing crowd. He ignored them. The teams were setting up for the day. The main race didn't start until Sunday at twelve-thirty, but practice sessions and warm-ups were clearly intense, too.

  He found Isabella's team garage easily enough. The cars sat like exotic sculptures, black and red with silver accents. Mechanics in matching uniforms worked tirelessly. No one paid August any attention.

  A woman approached him. Fifties, gray hair pulled back tight, clipboard in hand. She looked him up and down with the same expression the hotel bellhop had worn.

  "You're the investigator," she said. Statement, not question.

  "August High."

  "Maria Costa. Team manager." She didn't offer to shake hands. "Isabella said you'd be prowling around. Try not to disrupt anything. We have a race to run."

  "Who's going to be driving on Sunday?"

  "Miguel Santos. Our reserve driver." Maria's expression soured. "Good, but he's not Carlos. Nobody on this circuit was Carlos's equal. You want to know who had motive to kill him? Start with every other driver and work your way out."

  She turned to bark orders at a mechanic, effectively ending the conversation.

  He spent the next hour wandering. The paddock was a city unto itself. Each team had their designated area. Some were elaborate, with hospitality suites and private lounges. Others were bare-bones operations running on hope and sponsorship money.

  August listened to conversations, watched interactions. Racing people spoke their own language. Tire compounds, fuel windows, downforce, apex speeds. But underneath the technical jargon, he heard the same thing he heard in every competitive environment. Jealousy, ambition, desperation.

  By ten-thirty, the morning warm-ups had started. The sound of engines screaming through downtown Detroit was deafening. Raw power channeled through carbon fiber and controlled by men willing to risk everything for fractions of a second.

  He made his way to the team owner suites. These were located in the Renaissance Center, with views overlooking the circuit. Isabella's credentials got him past another layer of security and into an elevator that rose above the chaos.

  The suites were exactly what August expected. Wealth on display. Floor-to-ceiling windows, catered food, open bars despite the early hour. Men and women in expensive clothes watched the practice session on monitors while conducting business on their phones.

  August found the suite for Isabella's team. She wasn't there, but her assistant was. The thin man with the wire-rimmed glasses who'd answered the door last night.

  "Mr. High." He looked even less pleased to see August in daylight. "Isabella is with the media. She'll be occupied most of the morning."

  "Who else is here?"

  The assistant gestured vaguely at the suite. Two older men sat at a table, deep in conversation. A younger woman stood at the window, watching the track. Three others clustered near the bar.

  "Sponsors mostly. Corporate representatives. People who write checks and expect results." The assistant lowered his voice. "Most of them are furious about Carlos. Not because he's dead, but because it's bad publicity."

  August moved through the suite, introducing himself when necessary, mostly just observing. The sponsors were what he'd expected. Smooth operators who measured everything in brand value and market share. Carlos's death was a disruption to their investment, nothing more.

 

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