See part 1 for disclaimers, notes, rating, etc.

(H/C)

"Things are seldom what they seem."

Gilbert and Sullivan, H.M.S. Pinafore

(H/C)

Horatio and Calleigh were almost to the dormitories when they saw Speed coming out of one. "Got it, H," he called, waving an evidence envelope. "The film hadn't just been exposed, though. It's partly melted. I think he put it almost directly on a light bulb. Doubt we'll get anything salvaged from that."

"Which room?"

"Ramon Sanchez." The name meant nothing yet to Calleigh, but Horatio was surprised. Then, thinking about it, he wasn't surprised. Ramon was terrified, and if he wasn't the killer, the killer probably would like to frame him, get him out of the way, to discredit whatever it was Ramon knew.

"Speed, did you find a film box in that room? There was a new roll in Pete's camera. It has to have come from a box somewhere."

Speed shook his head. "Just the film."

"What about the light bulb?" Calleigh suggested.

"What about it?" Speed said.

Horatio picked up the thought instantly from Calleigh and carried it further. "If he held the film that closely to a light bulb, the bulb might have had traces of it burned in. He would have been working quickly, whether he took the film at 4:15 or 4:45. At 4:15, he would have needed to get finished before the other grooms woke up. At 4:45, he would have had to hurry up and get rid of it at the dorm before he was missed back at the barn."

Speed nodded, getting the picture. "I'll go back and check Ramon's light bulb."

"And every other room. All the trash cans, too, for the box. The film might be planted, but the light bulb would be in the killer's own room, I think."

"Got it." Speed handed over the evidence envelope with the film and made a U-turn, heading back into the dorm.

Horatio turned back toward the barns, and Calleigh fell into step beside him, their strides automatically adjusting to each other. "So who's Ramon Sanchez?"

"A groom who knows a lot more than he's telling us. He found the body, and he's scared stiff. The thing that really makes him feel guilty, though, is lying in front of his horse."

Calleigh considered it. "He doesn't mind lying to the police, but he feels badly about lying to his horse?"

"You got it."

"Weird."

"This whole case is strange. You didn't meet the trainer yet, either. He's an emotional lava lamp. Grieving to callous and back in five seconds."

Calleigh shook her head. They passed a small building with a sign on a door that read Racetrack Chaplain, and Calleigh stopped to make sure she had read it right. "Racetrack chaplain?"

"Look at this one." Horatio had stopped in front of the next door, which had a schedule of classes posted on it. "Classes. English as a second language has the most meetings, but there's everything from math on."

"ESL would probably be popular around here," Calleigh agreed, looking around. At least 60 of the backstretch workers seemed to be something other than Caucasian, though they weren't all Hispanic. She could pick out at least four different languages from the morning rumble, one of which was French. French? A trainer walked by next to a horse, heading for the track. The horse was wearing a purple saddle cloth under his saddle, with the Breeders' Cup logo, a stylized horse head, printed on it along with the horse's name. After the name in parentheses was Fr, and the trainer and the exercise rider were holding a conversation in French. An official with eyes like radar walked with them, making sure all other horses stayed several feet away.

"One of the international horses," Horatio said.

"French horses come to Miami to race?"

"The track spokesman said that they're having an international event here Saturday. 14 million dollars in prize money."

Calleigh was impressed. "14 million could be worth killing for."

"So could a picture," Horatio replied. He glanced back at the poster of educational classes. "This is like a world of its own. They've got a chaplain, self-improvement courses, dormitories, and a kitchen. They've obviously got their own criminals, too."

"Any society does," Calleigh agreed. They resumed walking back to the barn, Horatio filling her in on as much as they knew along the way. They went directly to the fifth stall. Silver Lining wasn't there, but Ramon was, spreading fresh straw with a pitchfork. Calleigh automatically caught herself weighing the pitchfork's potential as a weapon. She'd never realized before today just how many options horse people had in that department.

"Ramon?" Horatio said softly, and the groom jumped. He stayed in the back of the 12 x 12 stall, but his eyes were directly on Horatio this time. The horse wasn't there to hear if he had to lie.

Horatio slipped easily into Spanish. "Ramon, do you have a camera?"

He was too surprised by that question to avoid it. "Of course not."

"Why shouldn't you have one?"

"No money, senor." He waved the pitchfork. "I'm just a groom."

"What does a groom make on the track?"

"About $15,000 a year."

Calleigh's eyes widened. "You're on the job at 4:45 a.m. for only $15,000 a year?"

"When do you get off?" Horatio asked.

"Around 9:00 or so." Horatio and Calleigh stared at each other. Working a 16-hour day, hard physical work, for $15,000 a year. "I usually take a siesta, though," Ramon admitted, coming a step toward them across the stall. "After the morning, before the afternoon races. Pretty quiet then."

"Why do you work that hard for so little?"

"The horses," Ramon said, like it was obvious. "I love the horses. There is more money sometimes. If they win, I get 2 percent of their money, too."

Horatio quickly ran 2 percent of 14 million on the calculator of his mind, and his eyes opened a bit wider. Of course, Wallace had said there were eight races. The 14 million had to be divided between them. Still, the financial possibilities here had just gone way up. "What do you do with the money, Ramon, if you don't spend it on yourself?"

Ramon instantly locked up, and their growing rapport shattered. "I save it." His eyes never veered away. The horse wasn't here.

"Do you have family back in . . ." Horatio eyed him, weighing the possibilities. "Mexico, is it? Do you have family you send the money home to? Maybe so they can come here themselves eventually?"

Ramon's face was a fiercely polite mask. "I save it," he repeated.

Horatio left that road block and went back to the question of the film. "So you have no reason to have film in your room?"

"No. I have no film." He lost the fierce edge there. Since that was true, he wasn't as desperate to have it believed.

"Are you sure you saw nobody leave the tack room this morning right before you went in?"

"Nobody." His answers were clipped again. His head suddenly came up. "Excuse me, senor. My horse is coming." He slipped out of the stall past them and headed to the end of the barn, getting there just a second before Silver Lining came around the corner, ridden by his exercise rider, accompanied by the trainer and his assistant.

Calleigh shook her head. "He definitely saw somebody."

"There's something about his family, too. I'm sure he sends money home. Maybe someone here has threatened to harm them unless he cooperates." Horatio watched Ramon take the horse's reins and exchange the bridle for the halter. "He recognized the horse's hoofbeats. Out of all the horses walking around here."

Calleigh nodded. "Pretty impressive. Can you imagine working like this for that little, Horatio?"

"No. You'd have to love it. The money isn't enough." Ramon led the unsaddled horse over to a clear area with a drain just outside the barn, and the assistant trainer started sponging the sweat away. Randy, the trainer, stood back and watched, utterly focused. Too focused. "The trainer's another mystery. He does seem grieved about Pete when he thinks about it, but he isn't really thinking about it. He's absolutely desperate for that horse to win Saturday. If the groom gets 2, what do you suppose the trainer gets?"

"You think he's got gambling debts or something?"

"I'll vote for or something. We just don't know what yet." Silver Lining finished getting his bath, and the trainer stepped forward to run his hands thoroughly over each leg. With his hands on the horse, he was relaxed, confident, soothing. The desperation of a moment before had vanished.

"I see what you mean about the emotional lava lamp," Calleigh said. Randy stepped back, satisfied, and nodded to the assistant, who draped a blanket over the horse. Ramon started walking him, cooling him off.

"Let's see how Eric's doing." Horatio headed back for the tack room, and Eric flashed a wide grin as his boss entered.

"H, I found Pete's picture log." He held out a notebook, and Horatio quickly flipped through it. Each shot was recorded, along with notations of which lenses and settings he had used. The final shot, recorded at 1:10 that morning, was labeled "Moon over Miami!!!!" It had been shot 20 on a 24-exposure roll of film.

"Confirms Sam's comments. I think we can assume Pete liked that shot," Calleigh said, reading around his arm. He held the notebook out a bit so they both could study it easily, reading backwards from the moon shot. "Nothing jumps out at me on the rest of that roll."

"It wouldn't be labeled 'drug deal in progress' or such," Horatio pointed out. "It had to be an accident. Something in the background that didn't mean anything at the time but could have later. These were for a book, remember. We'll look at all of the remaining film, too. What he took a picture of once, he might have caught earlier, too." He closed the notebook. "Nice work, Eric. Anything else?"

"Not so far. Slow going. Trouble is, there are too many surfaces here. All this junk."

Horatio grinned, looking around the tack room. "Organized junk, Eric. We just don't know what it's used for."

"If I ever date Amy again, I'll make sure she doesn't have a hay hook with her." Eric looked at the spare hook again.

"Okay, here's what we do. Speed is still at the dorms. You finish up here, and Calleigh and I will take what you've got so far and head back to CSI. Keep me posted."

"You got it, H." Eric picked up another bottle in a row of horse medicines and supplements near Pete's cot. He dusted it for fingerprints, raising at least 10 different sets. He sighed again as he pulled out the lifters. This was going to be a long day.

(H/C)

Calleigh finished logging in the last piece of evidence and looked up to see Horatio lost in thought, studying the hay hook. This was the second hook, the first one still being down in the morgue being removed by Alexx. Calleigh took a second to watch him. His thoughts, like his movements, were gracefully efficient. He felt the scrutiny and looked up to return her smile across the layout table. "What is it, Handsome?"

He held out the hook. "Look at this thing."

"I have. Hard to believe there's a mundane use for it. I'll bet we could sell a hundred of them in five minutes in certain neighborhoods around here."

"I don't doubt it. Look at the angle, though. It isn't a perfect U at the hook. It's angled slightly down, not parallel to the bar."

"So?" Wherever he was heading, she couldn't see it yet.

"Think of the one in the body. It went straight in, way over on the left side of the abdomen." His eyes met hers with his "we're making progress" excitement burning in them. "It went straight in, Cal."

She saw it so suddenly that she jumped. "On a swing around a person from behind, it wouldn't go straight in. The swing would land more toward the center of the abdomen, and it would pull back toward the killer slightly." She came around the table to take the hook from him, stepping back to give herself room to swing it. "I didn't see any tearing back toward the killer at the entry point."

"We'll have to ask Alexx, but I didn't either. The more I think about it, the more it seems wrong. The killer would have to bring his arm so far around to land that far left that Pete would have had some warning. Whether it was a direct fatal blow or they struggled first, the entry wound shouldn't be that precise." He turned his back to her suddenly. "Attack me, Cal."

"What?"

"You're the killer, coming up behind me. Let's try to get a picture of this."

Calleigh looked at that long, vicious hook and shivered. She wasn't sure if she could attack Horatio with it, even in a re-enactment. He was right, though; there was something odd about that entry point. Forcing herself to see it clinically, she came up behind him and swung the hook around, carefully not putting enough force into it to penetrate the skin. The point was sharp but not sharp enough to cut if she was careful. It hit his abdomen, and she froze as they both looked at the point. Slightly left of center. "You're right, Horatio. It wouldn't have landed all the way across."

"I saw your arm come around, too. There's no way somebody caught him off guard like that." He took the hook from her. "Turn around, Cal. I'm going to try it."

"No need to. We just proved our point."

He picked up the hand that had held the hook and gently kissed it. "You hated doing that. Even though we had to, it was hard. I don't want to leave you there alone."

Touched beyond words, she turned her back to him. Even now, his thoughtfulness still surpassed her expectations. Her expectations were hardly set low, either. Horatio came up behind her, swinging the hook gently around, and it landed left center again. He wrapped his other arm around her and hugged her. She leaned back into him for a minute, then straightened up as he did, and Horatio gave her a quick but hardly professional kiss. "Let's go see Alexx."

(H/C)

"The hook didn't kill him," Alexx stated definitely. "It would have – ruptured the spleen and the splenic artery – but he was already dying. That's why there wasn't as much blood. His heart had practically stopped before the hook went in."

"Stopped from what?"

"Anaphylactic shock."

"What?" Calleigh stared at the body. "What was it a reaction to?"

"That I can't tell you. Tox doesn't show anything on the basic tests, but we don't test for everything. We'd have to have something specific to look for. The possibilities are endless; people can be severely allergic to anything."

"But?" Horatio heard the mystery in her voice.

"I can't figure out how he got whatever he reacted to. He had a completely empty stomach. No stings, no bites, no injection marks. Nothing. Anaphylaxis is fast, but whatever it was had to get into the body. I can't find the entry point. Surely he wouldn't have anything sitting around his cot he was that allergic to, anyway."

Horatio frowned slightly, thinking it through. "You think he fell on the hook when he collapsed?"

"Yes. Like you said, it went straight in. No tearing or stretching of the entry wound at all. He was holding the hook, and he just happened to fall on it at the right angle. Maybe it wasn't murder, Horatio. At this point, I'd have to call the hook an accident, but I still can't figure out what caused the shock in the first place. I'm taking swabs from the nose, see if he inhaled something"

"Murder or not, we still have a crime," Horatio stated. "The missing film. There's something going on here. Anything else of interest, Alexx?"

The ME reached for her notes. "You won't believe this. He's even got you beat, Horatio. I took full body x-rays when I reached the fifth main scar. He's had fractures of eight ribs, the left femur, the right tibia twice, the left radius three times, left collarbone, right collarbone twice, and a broken neck."

"All old injuries?"

"Years old."

"Sam said he used to be a jockey," Calleigh pointed out.

"Anybody with any sense would have quit before he did," Alexx stated firmly.

"Anybody with any sense isn't working 16-hour days around horses for $15,000 a year," Horatio replied. "Broken neck, did you say?"

"Yes. C5 and C6. That was the worst of them. He'd had anterior cervical fusion to stabilize it. He's lucky he wasn't paralyzed."

"He still would have been a bit stiff there, wouldn't he?"

"Absolutely."

"Maybe he was using the hay hook for a back scratcher. He was holding it, and he wasn't near any bales of hay. He probably couldn't reach around behind his back very well."

"I'm sure he couldn't," Alexx said. "This still doesn't explain the anaphylaxis, though."

"We'll see. Don't label it a pure accident just yet, Alexx. Give me a day or two."

"You've got it," she replied. "When you find out what he reacted to and how he got it, be sure to let me know."

"I will. Thank you, Alexx." Horatio let Calleigh precede him through the door to the morgue. As they walked down the hall together, he said, "Cal, you check out the hay hook that was in him. Prints, trace, anything."

"What are you going to do, Handsome?"

"I'll start on the rest of the evidence, but first, I'm going to consult an expert."

"An expert in what?"

"Horses."

(H/C)

Horatio dialed the number on his cell phone, flipping through the pages of Pete's film log with the other hand. The phone was answered on the seventh ring. "Hello?"

"Lisa? Horatio Caine."

"Hi, Horatio. How's it going?"

"Can't complain. Listen, Lisa, do you know anything about horse racing?"

"Purely as a fan, but yes. I follow it quite a bit."

"I've got a case involving horses over at Gulfstream Park, and I'd like a little inside information."

"Why don't you ask the people there?"

"Because they're lying to me."

He heard the smile in her voice. "Lying isn't a crime, Horatio."

"No, but murder is."

"Murder? Who was killed?"

"One of the grooms. Could I come over to the stable and ask you some questions, Lisa?"

"Sure, I'll help as much as I can. I'm not an insider on racing, though. Emily's out of town for two days, so I'm running everything myself, and I'm pretty tied up with lessons today. What about tonight? Would 7:00 be too late? Everybody else will be gone by then."

"That would be fine, but I'll have my daughter with me. I have to pick her up from daycare at 5:30, and Calleigh has other plans for tonight."

Lisa hesitated, trying not to sound impolite. "How old is she?"

"Eight months. She won't bother you, though. She's pretty quiet, and she doesn't like strangers."

"We'll be even, then. I don't like kids. Sure, Horatio, bring her along. I might be riding when you get here if the lessons run a bit late.

"No problem. Thank you, Lisa. See you then." Horatio snapped the cell phone shut and started on the pile of evidence. He was still absolutely convinced that this case was a murder. He only had to discover how, and the answer to who would follow.

(H/C)

Speed crept into Ballistics, looking uncharacteristically surreptitious. Trying to, at least. He relaxed after looking around. Calleigh was indeed gone, off for her date with her old friend from college. Tonight was his golden opportunity to be here unseen. He wasn't about to let Calleigh catch him at this. She would only read him another lecture on the proper care and handling of guns.

He pulled out his revolver and looked at it. Cold, impersonal, a piece of metal. Somehow, he never felt that way about the microscopes or the lab equipment. They were on his side, joining the fight, aiding the discovery. The gun was never part of him, staying neutral at best, turning against him at worst. He wished he didn't have to carry one at all, but rules were rules, and the CSIs did get into tight spots at times. He knew that as well as anybody. He touched the spot on his chest where the shot had hit him on dispo day. Since then, he somehow hated the gun even more. It represented his failure. He accepted now that he couldn't have saved the officer who died, but he still felt guilty, like a fraud, carrying a weapon that he never had felt comfortable using.

Once a year, at least, he had to use it. Annual qualifications, where all officers are required to meet minimum standards, were coming up. Once a year, he took the gun apart and cleaned it, hating the job even more because that, too, reminded him of a fellow officer's death. Once a year, he found stolen moments alone on the firing range to brush up his never-too-impressive shooting skills, cramming like a college student trying to make up for a semester's nonchalance with a few all-nighters. Once a year, he met that minimum. He didn't meet it by much, but it was enough to count. He would leave perfection to others. Speed was content simply not to fail.

He aimed and fired, emptying the cartridges into the paper human target, flinching slightly as he did. Why couldn't they make them look like something else? He ran the target up and inspected it. It looked more like it had suffered random hailstorm damage than directed shooting. With a sigh, he replaced it with a fresh one and began again.

Just as he was starting the third round, a voice at his elbow nearly sent him through the ceiling. With ear protection on, he hadn't heard her approach. "Hey, Tim. I thought you were working late tonight."

He turned to face Breeze. "I am. What does it look like I'm doing?"

She glanced from him to the target and back. "I'm not sure."

"Thanks a lot. What are you doing here? I told you I'd be late tonight."

"I thought I'd bring a pizza and watch you work." She nodded toward the box on the nearby table.

Food. He hadn't been hungry until he smelled it. Maybe he was simply missing so badly because he was hypoglycemic. That made sense. He investigated the box and found his favorite flavor, pepperoni with extra cheese. He quickly polished off one piece and was starting on a second when the shot rang out behind him. He spun to see Breeze just lowering the gun. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" She tossed his own question back to him. "I've never shot a handgun before. Rifles, shotguns, not a handgun. I just wondered how different it was." She aimed and fired again. Speed never could stop her from something she was determined to do. For Breeze, life was an adventure, new challenges, new experiences. Her energy left him far behind on many things. It was one of the most annoying – and attractive – parts of her personality.

Of course, if anyone caught him letting his girlfriend fire his service revolver, he would get in trouble. It was against the rules. On the other hand, nobody else was down here. He removed the ear protectors from around his neck and put them on her. "Here. At least do it right."

"Thanks," she said, not looking around. She fired four more shots as Speed ate pizza, and he came up behind her to see as she ran the target up to them. He nearly choked on his pizza. Not spectacular shooting, not bull's eye like Horatio or Calleigh, but she had landed every shot in the head somewhere. For her first time with a handgun, it was remarkable.

"You're pretty good," he admitted.

"Thanks. I've hunted since I was a kid." She ran a fresh target back to the end of the range. "Guess I'd better let you get back to it. You're practicing for your annual test, right?"

"How'd you know that?"

"You left the letter about the date on the kitchen table." She handed the gun back to him. "Didn't eat all the pizza, did you?"

"Only half." He took the ear protectors from her and put them back on as she started eating. Aim and fire. He tried to think of how Horatio or Calleigh approached a target, but he couldn't. It seemed so natural to them. Not cold, not impersonal. He finished the round and brought the target up for inspection. Getting a little better. A couple of hours cramming on a few nights, and he would pass. He always did.

Breeze came up to look over his shoulder at the target. "Wow, you're not very good at this, are you?" she said with her mouth full.

The accuracy of her shooting – first time, no less – suddenly hit him in the face. "I guess you think you could do better," he snapped.

Breeze backed off a step. "I wasn't comparing them, Tim. It just surprised me a little, you being a cop and your tests coming up. You really are out of practice, aren't you?"

"I'll pass. I always do." He loaded the gun again, and this time, she watched him shoot. He missed badly. "Do you have to stand there looking over my shoulder?"

"Sorry." She studied him. "It really bugs you, doesn't it? That I did better at this."

"No, it doesn't," he insisted and missed even further on his next shot.

She put down the unfinished piece of pizza. "Tim, I think you could do better if you held your hands a little higher. Gives you a better line of sight. That might help."

He put the gun down, turned, and glared at her. "I don't need lessons from you. I'm the one who's the cop, remember?"

"I don't believe it. It is bugging you. I was just trying to help. There's not a lot of time before your test next week."

"I know that!" His voice suddenly got louder, and she stepped back. "Look, I know what I'm doing here, I do it every year, and I don't need you standing there keeping score on how much better you did, so just back off, okay?"

"I wasn't. . . " Her voice trailed off. "Fine, if I'm bothering you, I'll leave. Good night, Tim." She stalked out of the room, and he stood there debating whether to go after her. The trouble was, she was right. It did bother him, really bother him, that she could top him at this with no practice, while he struggled to meet force requirements every year. She shouldn't have made such an issue of it, though. He knew he was a failure as a cop without his girlfriend telling him. He would never be Tripp or Horatio or Calleigh. He was simply Speed, the trace expert who wished that his job didn't require him to leave the lab. He turned back and fired round after round into the target, but somehow, even though Breeze wasn't looking over his shoulder now, it didn't get any better.

(H/C)

The Hummer wound its way to the outskirts of the city, and Horatio glanced over at Rosalind in her car seat as he stopped at a light. "Ready for an adventure, Angel?" She cooed back at him. "You're supposed to start talking any day, you know it? Can you say Mama, Rosalind?" She sent back a happy stream of nonsense, and he shook his head as the light changed. "You'll like talking once you start. It makes things a lot easier." She didn't seem convinced, contemplating her fingers instead.

Horatio turned into the stable and drove up the long driveway to the barn. Only one vehicle was there, the one that had once belonged to Sam, Lisa's murdered partner in the business. He parked next to it, got out, and extracted Rosalind. She looked around and jabbered excitedly. "New place, isn't it? Wait till you see the inside."

The main aisle was deserted except for the cat, who lay in the precise center like a guardian sphinx. She stood and stretched herself fore and aft before ambling over to them, and Horatio knelt down to bring Rosalind on a level with her. "Hello, Ruth. Remember me? I sure remember you." He scratched the cat under the chin. She had complicated one of his cases horribly by stealing part of the evidence. Unrepentant, she purred like a helicopter, and Rosalind reached out to grab her. "No, Rosalind, don't pull the tail. I know it looks like a handle, but it isn't one. Here." He guided her hand along the fur, then released it, and she petted the cat herself. Ruth went into hyperpurr, leaning into her hand. Rosalind was delighted. With feline changeability, Ruth abruptly decided that she had been social enough and stalked off, and Horatio stood up. Rosalind stretched her arms toward the retreating cat. "No, we're not going after the kitty. Believe it or not, Angel, I'm working. Let's try to find Lisa."

He heard the music as he opened the door to the indoor ring, but it took him a minute to place it. Something about guns, dust, battle. Gettysburg. Lisa was riding Chrissy to a medley from the movie Gettysburg. The horse and rider were completely in a zone, not even noticing the audience, and Horatio stood there, unwilling to interrupt.

The horse danced around the end of the rectangular ring with mincing steps to the light music. Abruptly, the music swelled, surging into a powerful charge, sweeping the horse along with it across the diagonal in an extended trot. The mare collected her stride again at the end of the ring, then slid effortlessly into a canter. She began skipping, changing leads every second stride, then every stride in controlled exuberance. Back to the end of the ring, and she dropped into a stately march as the music changed again. The hooves hovered above the ground, almost reluctant to touch it. The horse seemed suspended in air for a phase of each stride. Suddenly, as the music gathered itself, the forward motion stopped, and the horse stayed in one place, feet still moving, the legs rising and falling on the spot. After several strides in place, Chrissy picked it up again, catching the change in the music perfectly, once again traveling in a floating march around the ring. The music and the horse stopped simultaneously, and the magic slowly dissipated, leaving the memory still real enough to hear, to see, to remember. Horatio suddenly recalled Rosalind, who hadn't made a sound in five minutes, and he looked at her. She was staring at the horse, rapt.

"Hello, Lisa," Horatio called, stepping away from the wall.

Lisa turned off the CD player with the remote control hung from her belt, then turned the horse to face them. "Hi, Horatio. Didn't see you come in."

"You were busy. That was beautiful, Lisa."

"Wasn't it?" She gave the horse a pat, and Chrissy turned her head around and rumbled under her breath. Pats were fine, but she knew that her rider also carried carrots. Lisa laughed and took a carrot slice from her treat pouch, offering it to the horse. She let her walk on then, the reins loose, the horse's head stretched down. "I need to walk her for a bit, Horatio, to let her cool down. Just go ahead and ask me whatever you need to know. Chrissy won't mind me talking as long as I'm just cooling her out, not really riding."

"Have you ever heard of Randy Duncan?"

"Sure. He's a pretty well-known trainer. Not tip-top level like some, but he only runs a small stable. Insists on actually training his horses himself. There are a few at the very top who have five or six assistants around the country, and the trainer simply flies from one place to another and shows up in the winner's circle. Those are rare, but they're the ones who make the papers more. Randy Duncan is quite good, though. He trained the 2-year-old champion colt of last year, Silver Lining."

Horatio came to attention. "Silver Lining. Do you think he'll win at the Breeders' Cup Saturday?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. He's good enough, but the poor horse hasn't had a thing go right this year. He hurt a ligament in the spring that laid him up for a few months, knocked him out of the Kentucky Derby. Then, he's had three races since he got back in training, and he's lost all three. You can make excuses for all of them, traffic problems and such. A horse was disqualified for interfering with him in one of them. Still, they were races that needed excusing. If he's really back in form, yes, he could win, but he won't be the favorite."

"I'm trying to get an angle on the money end of this. One of Duncan's grooms was killed, and there's a chance that money was involved, although it might also be a picture he took. I don't understand that trainer, though. He seems absolutely desperate for the horse to win. Is he in financial trouble?"

"Not that I know of. He's a respected trainer, Horatio. Does a good job with his horses. Of course, nobody puts their financial problems on the front page unless other people do it for them."

"The track spokesman said that there's 14 million on the line Saturday. What would Duncan get of that?"

"He's running two horses. One goes in the Distaff, and Silver Lining goes in the Classic. The Distaff is worth 2 million, the Classic worth 4. Winner gets 52 percent of the purse money for the race, and the trainer and jockey each get 10 percent of the horse's earnings. On the Classic, if Silver Lining won, Duncan would get a little over $200,000."

"Is there a chance someone could drug the horse, either to lose or to rev him up a bit to help him win?"

"Not in the Breeders' Cup. It'd be hard in an ordinary race, actually. Any winner of any race gets blood and urine drug tests immediately, and the stewards also pick a few other non winners at random from each race to test. Besides, Duncan really is a good trainer, Horatio. Known for being totally honest with his owners and with the press. I can't see him even trying it."

Horatio changed gears. Whatever was bothering Duncan had to be pretty extreme, given Lisa's description of him, which ran totally against Horatio's impression. It might not be related to the murder, though. Maybe the man did have gambling debts. "What about Pete Carter? Ever hear of him?"

"He used to be a jockey. Now, he's a photographer." Lisa abruptly stopped Chrissy. "Is he the one who got killed?"

"Yes. Have you seen his work as a photographer?"

"I've got a copy of his book, actually. I'll let you have it on the way out. He was really good, Horatio."

"I'd appreciate that. Any opinions on his reputation and honesty?"

"He was a top jockey. Finally retired three years ago after breaking his neck. I never heard anybody say anything against him. He had a reputation for being totally trustworthy."

"Another thing. Do you ever lie to your horses, Lisa?"

"Never." The denial was absolute, and she didn't seem to think it was an odd question.

"Why not?"

"They're totally honest. So different from people. They don't always cooperate, but if a horse wants to fight you, he'll fight you outright. They don't have a hidden agenda. You might not like it, but you know exactly where they stand. They make me ashamed of us as people sometimes, actually."

Horatio nodded, understanding that point now. "Thank you, Lisa. If you could let me have that book, I'd appreciate it. I'll return it, of course. One final question, just out of curiosity. Is Silver Lining insured for 20 million?"

"I don't know, but that sounds about right. He was 2-year-old champion, and he's got excellent bloodlines. They could probably sell him right now to a stud farm for 20 or 25 million, even with his record this year. He's a son of Storm Cat, the most expensive stallion in the country. Storm Cat has a stud fee of $500,000 per mare."

Horatio's head tilted, adding that up. "$500,000 per mare?"

"Yep. Crazy, isn't it? Multiply that by 200 mares a year by about 24 or so predicted years as an active stallion. Nice income producer they have there."

"And people actually pay that?"

"There's a waiting list. The other side of it is how well his offspring do. You don't even have to wait until they start to race as 2-year-olds. You can get your money back as a breeder at the yearling sales. Just this September, a Storm Cat colt sold for 8 million at the Keeneland yearling auction. That's for a horse who's never even been ridden yet, much less raced."

"If Silver Lining wins Saturday, what's he worth then?"

"40 or 45 million. And at that, the stud farm would get their money back pretty quickly. Say he goes to stud for $50,000 per mare. About 120 mares per year is the average for the top sires or sire prospects. It takes 4 years until people have any evidence whether he's a total failure at stud or not, because it takes his first crop that long to get to the races. So by the time anything sired by him would race, the farm has over half of its money back, and nobody gives up on a stallion until he's had a few years of failures, so they could bank another couple of years from that. It's an excellent investment, actually, if you've got the money to play it at that level." She brought Chrissy to a stop and dismounted. "You know the neat thing, though? The other horse Duncan has in the Breeders' Cup was produced on a $2,000 stud fee, and she's the only horse her owners have. She's probably worth a few million at this point. You have horses worth 20 million competing head to head with horses worth a fraction of that, and the more expensive horse isn't guaranteed to win. Racing is a great game for people who like adrenaline. You'll lose more than you win, though."

Horatio grinned at her as she approached. "You'll stick with dressage, though, right?"

"No contest. I'll take precision over adrenaline any day. I do like following racing, though."

Rosalind hadn't made a sound all this time, never taking her eyes off the horse. Now, as Lisa led Chrissy up to them, she suddenly reached out with both hands, trying to grab that tantalizing long snout as it came up to them. Chrissy's ears flattened. "Back!" Lisa said firmly, and Chrissy and Horatio both obeyed, tripling the distance between them.

"No," Horatio said. Rosalind reached out again, but Chrissy was a safe distance away.

Lisa studied her. "Look, kid, if you want to meet a horse, let's try a more sociable one. Chrissy isn't the best choice here." She led the mare out of the ring and down to the main aisle, cross-tying her in one of the grooming stalls. She traded the bridle for the halter and removed the saddle, then left the mare standing tied. "Hang on a second, Chris." She went to the stall across the aisle. "Do you remember Valentine, Horatio?"

"Vividly."

Lisa emerged from the stall leading the small gray. "Here, kid. Grab this one." Rosalind reached out again, latching onto the muzzle, stroking the horse like she had petted the cat. If Valentine could have smiled, he would have. He leaned into her, his ears alert with interest. "Want a ride?"

Horatio hesitated. He knew that Valentine was a little girl's pet, but he also had seen him do some dangerous things. Granted, that had been under exceptional circumstances. "Are you sure it's safe?"

Lisa studied him. "Val is as safe as any horse can be. Is anything worthwhile in life totally safe, Horatio?"

"Good point." He still hesitated, though. Rosalind had explored up the horse's face to the ears, discovering to her delight how far over she could pull them. Valentine still looked like he was in horse heaven, as did Rosalind. Finally, Horatio stepped around to the horse's side and set Rosalind on his back, carefully holding her in place.

Lisa tightened the lead rope. "I'll lead him down the aisle and back, and you walk alongside and hold her."

The music of hooves rang on the roughened concrete aisle as the horse ambled gently down the aisle and back. Horatio was ready to reassure Rosalind if she needed it, but it wasn't necessary. She wasn't squirming, either. Her body was absolutely motionless, but her eyes were wide, seeing the world from a whole new perspective. They went up and down the aisle twice, then stopped. Chrissy, tired of standing, stretched out one front hoof and began banging her steel shoe on the concrete like she was playing drums. Lisa laughed. "She can't stand to be just parked somewhere. If I was actually riding, she'd throw a fit. Better get off now."

Horatio pulled Rosalind down, and she didn't protest. Her eyes were still wide, and she reached out again almost respectfully to pat the horse. Lisa gave her a minute, then led Valentine back into the stall and took off his halter. "Your first ride, kid," she said as she exited. "Remember it."

"I believe she will," Horatio replied, watching his daughter's expression.

Lisa crossed back over to Chrissy and picked up a brush. "Don't get her within reach of Chrissy. She really doesn't like kids."

"We'll stay right here," Horatio said from the middle of the aisle. "Thank you for your information, Lisa."

"No problem. Give me five minutes, and I'll get that book for you." She brushed the horse off, cleaned out each hoof with the hoof pick, then picked up a bottle from a shelf at the side of the grooming stall. Using an old toothbrush, she began to paint Chrissy's hocks with the liquid.

Horatio abruptly came to attention, staring at the bottle. DMSO. Dimethyl sulfoxide. He had seen another bottle just like this one in the tack room near Pete's cot. Pete had had what they thought was an extra toothbrush, too. He would have to look it up, but he seemed to remember that the drug had some interesting qualities. "That's an anti-inflammatory, isn't it?"

"Yes. Lots of things, really. They use it for everything from arthritis to spinal cord injuries overseas, but the FDA won't approve it for people here." She smiled at him. "That just keeps it cheap. Wonderful stuff. I use it on my leg all the time."

"Do you think it's likely that someone working around horses would use it on himself?"

"Probably about 75 of horse people who are around it at all have used it on themselves. Believe me, it works better than anything else out there."

"It travels through the skin, doesn't it? Totally penetrates the membranes?"

"Right. It's like an injection without a needle. Way beyond those local arthritis creams. This stuff crosses cell barriers like they don't exist. That's why I use a toothbrush for it. Getting it on your hands to apply it is giving yourself a double dose. Anytime it touches you, it enters the system." She stepped away from the horse for a minute and ran the toothbrush across the back of his free hand. The stuff was liquid fire, burning yet not hurting. He could actually feel it penetrating the skin and tissues, heating all the way into the joints, then fanning out. The attraction for anybody with arthritis was crystal clear. He'd never felt anything work so deeply, either. And Pete Carter had had a broken neck.

"Lisa." The intensity in his voice stopped her task, and she looked up to face him. "Could it act as a carrier? Could you mix something else with it and have it take that across the membranes into the body, too?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. I've never had any reason to try it."

His expression was totally professional now, and Rosalind returned from her equine daze to study him curiously. "I think someone else might have had reason to try it. Could I have that, Lisa, as a sample to compare to some other?"

"Sure." She recapped the bottle and handed it to him. "Keep it. It only costs a few bucks." She unclipped the cross ties and led Chrissy into her stall. When Horatio left the barn five minutes later, he took away with him Pete Carter's first book, the bottle of DMSO, and a whole new theory for the murder method.