"My father. Moses. Nothing I could say would stop either one of them from coming. God knows I wanted to see them, no matter how I suffered after they were gone. I watched my father grow old. I suppose that was the hardest part, watching the years pass on his face. That was my calendar. My father's face.

"The last year was the hardest. I was coming up for parole, and it looked as though I'd get it. Knowing freedom was almost within reach-and yet being afraid to be cut off from the world you'd lived in for so long, that was hard. How would you know what to do now, and when to do it? The days dragged, giving you too much time to think, to hope again, to sweat out those last months. Then they let you put on civilian clothes. My father brought me a new suit. Gray pinstripes, very lawyerish. My hands shook so badly I couldn't button the blouse. The sun hurt my eyes when I walked out. It wasn't as if they'd kept us in a hole. It was a decent prison, with decent people in charge, at least for the most part. But the sun was different that day, stronger, brighter. I couldn't see anything through it. And then I saw too much."

She exchanged brushes again, her eyes focused on her work. "Do you really want to hear the rest of this?"

"Go on," Kelsey murmured. "Finish."

"I saw my father, how frail and old he was. The new Cadillac, blindingly white, he drove me home in. I know he spoke to me, and I to him, but I can't remember any of it. Only that everything seemed to move too fast, and the roads were so crowded. And I was afraid, afraid they would take me back. Afraid they wouldn't. We stopped and ate at a restaurant. Linen napkins, wine, flowers on the table. He had to order for me, as if I were a child. I couldn't remember what I liked. And I started to cry. And he cried. So we sat and wept on the white linen cloth because I couldn't remember what it was like to sit in a restaurant and order a meal.

"I slept most of the rest of the drive, exhausted from freedom. Then I woke up and he was turning through the gates. I could see that the trees had grown. The dogwoods that had been saplings, the ones I'd planted myself, were adult trees that had bloomed year after year without me. New paint in the living room, a vase that hadn't been there before. Every little change terrified me.

"I didn't go down to the barn, not for days, until Moses came to the house and bullied me into it. There was a foal I'd helped birth. Now he was sixteen hands high and at stud. New equipment, new men. New everything. I stayed in the house for a week after that. Slept with the light on and my door open. At first I couldn't stand for a door to be closed. But after a while it got better. I had to learn to drive again. I was terrified, but I did it. The first time I went out alone, I drove to your school. I watched the baby I'd left behind as a young girl, learning to flirt with boys. I made myself accept that you'd learned to live without me. And I tried to start over."

Naomi set her brush down, and stepped back. "It's done."

Kelsey wasn't certain of that. The painting might have been finished, but not the emotion behind it. Nor, as far as she was concerned, was the story done. It wasn't a matter of clearing Naomi's name. A man had been killed, and a woman had paid the price. But she wanted to see that the pieces fit.

Still it was a shock to find Charles Rooney's name in the phone book. The private investigator whose evidence had weighed most heavily in Naomi's trial still had an office in Virginia. Alexandria, now. The discreet ad in the yellow pages declared Rooney Investigative Services handled criminal, domestic, and custody. Licensed and bonded and confidential. The first consultation was free.

Perhaps, she thought, she'd take advantage of that.

"Miss Kelsey." When Gertie hurried into the kitchen, Kelsey quickly slapped the phone book closed.

"You startled me."

"Sorry. That policeman's here again." Her homely face expressed simple and loyal annoyance. "Says he's got some more questions."

"I'll see him. Naomi's down at the barn. No need to bother her."

"You want me to make coffee?"

Kelsey hesitated only a moment. "No, Gertie. Let's get him in and out."

"Sooner the better," Gertie muttered under her breath.

Rossi stood when Kelsey entered the sitting room. He had to admire the way she wore jeans, though he'd been equally impressed with the clip from the press conference, and the way she and her mother had looked, trim and blond in their silk suits.

"Ms. Byden, I appreciate the time."

"I don't have much of it, Lieutenant, but I'm willing to stretch it if you have news for us."

"I wish I did." He had nothing but frustration. No unaccounted-for prints in Lipsky's motel room, no witnesses, no trail. "I'd like to offer my sympathies for your loss at the Derby. I'm not much of a horse lover, but even cops watch that race. It was a terrible thing."

"Yes, it was. My mother's devastated."

"She looked sturdy enough at the press conference."

With a frigid nod, Kelsey sat, and gestured for Rossi to join her. "Did you expect her to fall apart, publicly?"

"Actually, no. But I did find it interesting that Slater sat in on it."

"We're neighbors, Lieutenant. And friends. Gabe is also an owner. And the fact that his colt won, under such tragic circumstances, made it difficult for all of us. We asked him there to show our support, and he accepted to show his."

"You'll excuse me, Ms. Byden, but from what I've seen in the press, you and Mr. Slater seem to be more than friends."

The Byden genes swam to the surface, adding a cool, arrogant tilt to her head. "Is that an official statement, Lieutenant?"

"Just an observation. It's natural enough; you're both attractive people with mutual interests." She didn't rise to the bait. But he hadn't expected her to. "I was hoping you could help me out with the details of what happened at Churchill Downs."

"I thought you weren't interested in horses, Lieutenant."

"Murder interests me, even in horses." He waited a beat. "Particularly if it ties in with a homicide case I want to close."

"You think what happened to Pride is tied in with Old Mick's murder? How? Lipsky's dead."

"Exactly. From what I'm told, it's not easy to get to a Derby entrant."

"No, it's not. The security is tight. We have guards." Her brow furrowed. "It was Gabe's colt Lipsky was after, not ours. And I was under the impression Lipsky's death was considered a suicide. You think it was murder?"

"There's debate on that" was all he would say. "I'd like to snip any loose ends. If you could tell me who had official access to the colt before the race?"

"I would, of course. My mother, Moses, Boggs, Reno." She blew out a breath. "The official who checks identification, the handlers at the gate. The outrider, the one who ponied him onto the track. That was Carl Tripper. The other members of the crew." She ticked off names.

"The guards?"

"Well, yes, I suppose."

"And unofficially?"

She shook her head, but her mind was working. "You'd have to be very slick to get through security on Derby day, Lieutenant. It may look like a free-for-all on television, but the horses are closely watched."

"The drug. It's hard to tell when it was given to the horse."

"That's part of the problem." She took a steadying breath. It was still hard to talk about it. "Pride had traces of digitalis and epinephrine in his bloodstream. It killed him, overworked his heart. He was edgy, but he usually is before a race. Moses keeps him that way."

"Now, why would that be?"

"Some horses run better when they're wired up. Others need to be soothed and calmed. Pride ran best wired."

"How do you know about that?"

"A lot of it comes from the horse. They know when they're going to race. They're not fed as much, they're prepped differently. There's atmosphere. And you might hold them back at the workout when they're itchy to have their head."

"No chemicals?"

Her face went very still. "No drugs, Lieutenant. We don't doctor our horses here with anything that isn't approved and necessary for their health. What someone gave Pride pumped up his heart rate, his adrenaline. The race, the strain of driving him hard for more than a mile, killed him."

Which was precisely what the colt's autopsy report had told him. "Shouldn't the jockey have known something was wrong?"

Her jaw tightened. She wouldn't permit anyone to blame Reno. Not after what he'd been through.

She'd seen for herself the way he'd suffered. The way he'd continued to suffer.

"Pride ran because that's what he was born to do, what he'd been trained to do since he took his first steps. He didn't falter. He didn't fight Reno. You only have to look at the tape to see he was putting everything he had into winning that race. And killed himself trying. Reno was lucky he wasn't killed as well."

Rossi studied his notebook. He'd watched the tape of the race over and over, slowing the speed, freeze-framing. Finally, he nodded. "I've got to agree with that. If he'd have gone onto the track instead of the infield, I don't see how he'd have escaped being trampled. And the way he went down, I figured a broken neck."

"So did I. As it is, he won't be up for another month, at the earliest."

"That should do it for now. I'm going to want to talk to some of the names you gave me. Check out their perspective."

"I appreciate your interest, Lieutenant. I'd rather you didn't question my mother, unless it's vital."

"It was her horse, Ms. Byden."

"I think you understand what I'm saying." She rose, ready to defend. "You're perfectly aware of the background here, and how difficult it is for my mother to undergo police interrogation."

"A few questions-"

"Amounts to the same thing, for her. And whether you can understand it or not, she's grieving. You can ask me anything you like, or you can go to the Racing Commission."

"I can't make any promises, but there's no need to disturb her at this time."

"Thank you." She started to walk him to the door. "Lieutenant, you weren't involved in my mother's case, were you?"

"No. I was still at the police academy back then. Green as iceberg lettuce."

"I was curious who was in charge."

"That would have been Captain Tipton. Jim Tipton, retired now. I served under him when he was a lieutenant, and after he made captain. A good cop."

"I'm sure he was. Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, Ms. Byden." Rossi walked back to the car, nibbling on the seed of an idea. Kelsey Byden had something on her mind, he mused. It wouldn't hurt to do a little digging back himself.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"WHY DO I GET THE FEELING THE ONLY PLACE I'M GOING TO GET YOU in bed is in a hotel?"

"Mmmm." Kelsey twirled her bouquet of black-eyed Susans, part of the centerpiece Gabe had stolen for her from their last Preakness party. "I suppose things have been a little hectic. And you have been busy-giving interviews."

"I'm going to give more of them tomorrow."

"That's what I like. A confident man." They strolled across the lobby to the elevators. "And Double is being housed in stall forty. The base of Secretariat, Affirmed, Seattle Slew. Are you superstitious, Slater?"

"Damn right I am." He stepped into the elevator and tugged her in behind him. His mouth was hot on hers before the doors whispered shut.

"The button," she managed, crushing flowers as she pawed her way under his shirt. "You forgot to push the button."

He groped, swore, and managed to press the right floor. "I didn't think I was ever going to get you alone. Two weeks is two weeks too long, Kelsey."

"I know." She let out a breathless laugh when his teeth scraped her neck. "Naomi needed me. And there's hardly been time to think with the investigation, and trying to get the colt ready for tomorrow. I've wanted to be with you."

The doors opened, and she jerked back. Her cocktail dress was a great deal more than off the shoulder.

She tugged it back into place, amazed that she'd lose control in an elevator, and grateful that the hall beyond was empty.

"You don't know whether to be pleased with yourself or embarrassed."

She fluffed her hair back into place. "Stop reading my mind," she ordered, and caught the doors before they shut again.

"Your room or mine?"

It was as simple as that, she realized. They'd both been waiting all evening for the chance to pick up where they'd left off in Kentucky.

"Mine," she decided. "This time you can wake up in the morning without any decent clothes to wear."

"Is that a promise to rip them off me?"

She swiped her key card through the slot and tried to come up with a suitable answer. Even as the light beeped from red to green, the phone began to ring. "Hold that thought," she told him, and dashed to answer.

"Hello?" She tossed the crushed flowers onto a coffee table, tugged off one earring, then passed the phone to the unadorned lobe. Her fingers went still as they closed over the second sapphire cluster.

"Wade? How did you know I was here?" Very carefully, very deliberately, she removed her other earring and set it down on the table. "I see. I didn't realize you kept in touch with Candace ... . Of course. That's cozy, isn't it? ... Yes, I'm being sarcastic."

Her eyes flashed to Gabe, then dropped. Without a word he crossed to the minibar, opened a bottle of Chardonnay, and poured her a glass.

"Wade. You didn't call at"-she checked her watch-" eleven-fifteen to make small talk, and I really have no intention of discussing my mother with you. So if that's all ..."

Miserably, she accepted the glass from Gabe. Of course that wasn't all. It was never all with Wade.

"Do you want my blessing? ... No, I'm not going to be gracious, and this is as civilized as it gets." She thought about swallowing her venom, but instead let it spew as his oh so reasonable voice nattered in her ear. "Does the lucky bride know that you have a habit of boffing your associates on business trips? ...

Yeah, I'm real good at holding a grudge. You bastard, you oily, self-centered jerk. How dare you call me up on your wedding eve to soothe your conscience! ... How's this? ... No, I don't forgive you.

No, I refuse to share in the blame ... . That's right, Wade, I'm as rigid and unforgiving as ever, but I have stopped wishing you'd die a long, painful, and ugly death. Now I just want you to get hit by a truck while you're crossing the street. If you want absolution, find a priest."

She hung up, slamming the receiver hard enough to strike a whining ring.