She blew out smoke. She hadn't gotten a close look at the knife. There had been no need for her to examine it. But she remembered the wound. She had dozens of wounds filed in her head, never to be forgotten.

She nodded. "The weapon could be right. Okay, Rossi, I'll burn the midnight oil for you, but I can't promise all the tests will be done."

"Thanks." He closed her door, forgot her, and zeroed in on the office and Jack Moser.

Gabe learned about Lipsky ten minutes after he returned from Florida. The press had found a gold mine in Dottie, the housekeeper.

The news that Lipsky had died in a motel room spread from barn to track, from groom to exercise boy.

Gabe's twice-weekly housekeeper brought him the news, and the paper, before he'd done more than tossed his bags on his bed.

Fury flared, like a gasoline-soaked match. He was working on banking it when Rossi tracked him down.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Slater."

"Lieutenant." Gabe offered the paper he'd brought down with him, then sat in the sun-drenched living room. "Odds are you're here to tell me about this."

"You win." Rossi set the paper aside and made himself comfortable. "Fred Lipsky worked for you up until a few weeks ago."

"Up until I fired him, which I'm sure you know. He was drunk."

"And objected to the termination."

"That's right. He pulled a knife, I knocked him down, and I thought, mistakenly, that that was the end of it." His face still sternly controlled, he edged forward. "If I'd had any suspicion that he would have used that knife on one of my men, or one of my horses, he wouldn't have walked away."

"You don't want to make statements like that to a cop, Mr. Slater. It hasn't leaked to the press yet, but the knife in Lipsky's possession at the time of his death was the weapon that killed Mick Gordon. As yet, no one can definitely place Lipsky at the scene at the time of the murder. But we have a weapon and we have motive-revenge."

"Case closed?" Gabe finished.

"I like them neat before I close them. This one isn't neat. How well did you know Lipsky?"

"Not well. He came with the farm."

The statement made Rossi smile. "An interesting way of putting it."

"When I took over here, I kept on anyone who wanted to stay. It wasn't their fault Cunningham played lousy poker."

Intrigued, Rossi tapped his pencil against his pad. "That's a true story, then. Sounded made up. No point in mentioning a deal like that would be on the shady side of the law?"

"No point at all," Gabe agreed.

"I'll talk to your trainer again, and the men. I'm interested to know if anyone who did know him thinks he was suicidal."

"You want me to think Lipsky killed himself?" The rage began to work in him again, gnawing away.

"Why? Out of guilt? Remorse? That's shit, Lieutenant. He was as likely to stick a gun in his mouth or put a rope around his neck as he was to dance on Broadway."

"You said you didn't know him well, Mr. Slater."

"Not him, but I know the type." He'd been raised by Lipsky's type. "They blame everyone else, never themselves. And they don't take that last dive because they're always figuring the angles. They drink and they cheat and they talk a big game. But they don't kill themselves."

"An interesting theory." And one Rossi subscribed to himself. "Lipsky didn't eat a gun or string himself up. He drank a nasty cocktail of gin and what I'm told is called acepromazine. Are you familiar with it?"

Gabe's voice was carefully blank. "It's used to relax horses. It's a tranquilizer."

"Yeah, so I'm told. Funny, I thought when a horse broke his leg, you put a gun behind his ear."

"The noise annoys the customers," Gabe said dryly. "And every break isn't terminal. There's a lot that can be done so that a horse doesn't have to be put down. Quite often he can race again, or breed. When there's nothing else to be done, a vet gives the horse an injection. There's not supposed to be any pain.

I've always wondered how the hell anyone knows that."

"You won't be able to check with Lipsky. Do you keep any of that stuff around here?"

"It's administered by a vet, as I said. Nobody puts a horse down on a whim, Lieutenant."

"I'm sure you're right. It would be a hell of an investment to lose."

"Yeah." Gabe's voice was cool. "Have you ever seen it happen?"

"No."

"The horse stumbles on the track, falls. The jockey's off him like a flash, panicked, fighting it back.

Everything gets quiet and grooms race out from everywhere. It doesn't have to be their horse. It's everybody's horse. Then you call the vet, and when there's no choice, when it can't be put off, the vet finishes him-behind a screen, for privacy."

"Have you ever lost one that way?"

"Once, about a year ago during a morning workout. That's a more dangerous time than a race. The rider's relaxed. Everybody is." He could still remember it, the helplessness, the impotent anger.

"This was a pretty filly. The Queen of Diamonds, I called her. The groom in charge of her cried like a baby when it was over. That was Mick." Gabe resisted the urge to ball his hands into fists. "So if you're telling me that somebody finished off Lipsky the way you finish off a terminal horse, I have to say they sent him off in better style than he deserved."

"Do you hold a grudge, Mr. Slater?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, I do." Gabe's eyes were steady and shielded. "You want to ask me if I killed Lipsky, I have to say no. I'm not sure what the answer would be if I'd known what you've told me today, and if I had found him first."

"You know something, Mr. Slater, I like you."

"Is that so?"

"It is." Rossi offered one of his rare smiles, an expression that never sat quite comfortably on his face.

"Some people dance all around questions, some fumble, some sweat. But not you." Rossi picked a mote of lint from the leg of his trousers. "You hated the son of a bitch, and might have killed him if you'd had the chance. And you're not afraid to say so. Thing is, not only do I like you, I believe you." He rose.

"Now, it could be you're bluffing me through this, and I'll find out if you paid a quick visit to that motel.

But I always circle around, so that doesn't worry me." He took another long, careful study. "But I don't think so. Lipsky would've gotten one peep at you through the judas hole and barricaded himself in for the duration. Do you mind if I go down and talk to your men now?"

"No, I don't mind." Gabe stayed where he was; Rossi knew the way. He closed his eyes and concentrated on relaxing one vertebra at a time.

He gave Rossi an hour before he went down to the barn himself. The atmosphere was charged with the combination of excitement and dread that blooms around death. Men stopped their gossiping and instantly looked busy when Gabe appeared.

He found Jamison in conference with Matt over the injured colt.

"The inflammation's down," Matt was saying. "It's healing well. Go to changing the dressing once a day, using the same antiseptic."

"He's going to scar."

Matt nodded, eyeing the long healing slice along the flank. "More than likely."

"Goddamned shame." Jamison picked up the syringe to bathe the wound. "Prime-looking horse like this."

"It'll add to his prestige," Gabe commented, moving up to take the colt's halter himself. He ran his knuckles down Double's cheek, as a man might caress a woman. The colt responded by butting his hand, playful as a puppy. "Battle scars," he murmured. "It won't affect his time, or his ambition. How soon can we put a rider up on him?"

"Don't be in a hurry." Matt jerked aside as the colt swung his head and aimed for his shoulder, no longer a puppy but nine hundred pounds of temperament. The teeth missed by an inch or so. "This one's always testing me. Like to take a chunk out of me, would you, fella?" He gave the colt a good-natured slap on the neck when he was sure Gabe had tightened his grip. "He'll run in Kentucky for you, Gabe. If I was a betting man, I'd put money on him myself."

Gabe accepted Matt's diagnosis, then turned to his trainer. "Jamie?"

"I've been laying out a new training schedule for him. It'll either work, or it won't."

"That'll have to do, then. Did Rossi talk to you?"

Jamison's eyes turned grim as he completed the new dressing. "Yeah. He was down here, asking his questions. Got everybody all stirred up. Peterson figures it was a mob hit. Kip thinks it was a woman.

Lynette didn't take to that and took some skin off his nose. They've been arguing over it, with the boys taking sides."

"Nobody thinks it was suicide?"

Jamison shot Gabe a look and stepped out of the box. "Nobody that knew him."

"He could have gotten his hands on some acepromazine," Matt reminded Jamison. "He'd have known what it would do. Surely he had to know the authorities would catch up with him eventually."

"A man like Lipsky could have lost himself at a hundred tracks." Jamison looked back at the colt. He was dressing the wound himself, as penance for his part in it. "I should have fired him months ago.

Everything might've been different then." And Mick might have been alive.

"That part's done," Gabe said. "But it's not over. Whoever gave Lipsky that last drink is part of it."

"I'll tell you what I told Rossi." Matt scratched his chin as they headed outside. "It had to be someone who knows horses, and who had access to veterinary supplies." He smiled wanly. "Which doesn't narrow it down too much."

"It includes all of us." Gabe watched Matt's jaw go slack. "And several hundred others. Thanks for stopping by."

Matt swallowed nervously. "No problem. I'll check on the colt in a couple of days. I, um, think I'll drop by Three Willows."

"Oh." Eyeing Matt, Gabe took out a cigar and lit it casually. "Is there a problem over there?"

"No, no. I just ... Well."

Gabe's smile came easily. Most of the tension drained away. "She's a pleasure to look at, isn't she?"

Matt flushed, a curse of pale skin. "It isn't a hardship. Channing told me he thinks she might stay around awhile." He'd done his best to pump Channing for details, but the young man was either very discreet or very dense when it came to his stepsister.

"Oh, I think she'll stay awhile." Gabe was going to make certain of that. "And you look all you want."

He swung an arm over Matt's shoulder as he walked Matt to his truck. "A saint couldn't blame you for it. But watch where you touch, Doc."

As Matt fumbled for a response, Gabe opened the truck door for him. "Mine," he said simply.

"You-" He broke off, flushed crimson. "I didn't realize. Kelsey never ... I never-"

"If I thought you had, I'd have to hurt you." Gabe's smile was friendly, even sympathetic, but the warning was clear. "Give Kelsey my best when you see her."

"Sure." Scurrying to leave, Matt scrambled into the truck. "But you know, maybe I should just get back.

I've got a pile of paperwork."

"Then I'll let you get to it." Gabe stepped back, grinning as he watched the truck zip up the long lane.

"You scared the boy white." Jamison thumbed out one of his favored cherry Life Savers.

"Just saving him some trouble down the road."

"That may be." Studying the last of Matt's dust, Jamison let the cool, slick flavor dissolve on his to ngue.

"Does she know you've put your brand on her?"

Gabe chuffed out smoke, remembering, with fondness, her reaction to his very deliberate public kiss.

"She's a bright woman."

"Bright women are the ones who give a man the most trouble."

"I haven't had any trouble in a long time." And he hadn't known just how much he'd wanted some. "I might just drive over myself, and see if I can stir some up." The distraction would do him good, he decided, and he turned to look at his trainer.

He'd been focused on the colt in the barn, and on Matt. Now he could see the lines of weariness, the shadowed eyes. "You look beat, Jamie."

He'd been sleeping poorly, and he'd found it harder yet to choke down a decent meal since Mick's murder.

"I've got a lot on my mind."

"One thing you can get off of it is any responsibility for what happened to Mick." When Jamison merely looked away, Gabe tossed down his cigar and ground it out. The expression in Jamison's eyes only churned up his own feelings of guilt. "Okay, you used poor judgment in keeping him on. I used it in firing him in front of the men. You want to consider that the trigger, fine. But it wasn't the finger that pulled it."

"I see him-Mick-every time I close my eyes." Jamison's voice was low, strained. "The way he must have looked when Lipsky and the colt got done with him. It should never have happened, Gabe." He let out a sigh. There was no answer for that. He knew there was none. "The Derby's in three and a half weeks. That colt's got to be ready, and it's my job to make him so. But I look at him, and I think how proud Mick was to be grooming him."

Saying nothing, Gabe looked out over the hills. His hills. The Derby was more than a race. More even than a goal. It was the Holy Grail he'd been chasing all of his life.