True Betrayals

by Nora Roberts

  sense of responsibility? Yes, I do,” she said when he shook his head. “To you, and to her. That’s why I’m here. I need you to tell me what happened.”

  Suddenly weary, he sat, rubbing his fingers over his forehead. “We’ve done this, Kelsey.”

  “You gave me an outline, a sketch. You fell in love with someone. Despite some family disapproval on your side, you married her. You had a child with her. Somewhere along the line things went wrong between you.”

  She moved over to his side, hating to hurt, needing the truth. “I’m not asking you to explain all of that. But you knew the woman you married, you had feelings for her. If you were willing to fight her for the child, to go to court, to hire lawyers and detectives, there had to be a reason. A strong one. I want to know what it was.”

  “I wanted you,” he said simply. “I wanted you with me. Selfishly perhaps, not altogether reasonably. You were the best part of us. I didn’t believe growing up in the atmosphere your mother thrived in was right for you. Was best for you.”

  Had he been wrong? he asked himself. Had he been wrong? How many times had he asked himself that one question, even after everything that had happened had borne him out?

  “Your grandmother and I discussed it at great length,” Philip continued. “She was violently opposed to Naomi having primary custody of you. In the end, I agreed with her. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was one I believed in. Part of it was selfishness, yes, I can’t deny it.”

  He looked up at her, at the woman, and remembered the child. “I didn’t want to give you up, to become a weekend father who would eventually be replaced by the next man in Naomi’s life. And the way she lived during those months after the separation seemed deliberately designed to challenge me. Her attorneys must have advised her to behave discreetly, so she did precisely the opposite. She courted the press, incited gossip. I detested the idea of hiring a detective, but the documentation was needed. I left that matter up to the attorneys.”

  “You didn’t hire Rooney directly?”

  “No, I—How do you know his name?”

  “I’ve just come from his office.”

  “Kelsey.” He reached out and gripped her hand. “What is the purpose of this? What do you hope to gain?”

  “Answers. One answer in particular.” She tightened her fingers on his. “I’ll ask you. Do you believe Naomi murdered Alec Bradley?”

  “There isn’t any doubt—”

  “That she killed him,” Kelsey said tersely. “But murder. Did she murder him? Was the woman you knew, the woman you loved, capable of murder?”

  He hesitated, feeling his daughter’s fingers threaded through his. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I wish with all my heart that I did.”

  Kelsey’s final meeting of the day was with her mother’s lawyers. She’d gleaned little more there, coming up hard against the unassailable wall of attorney-client privilege. She left the plush offices dissatisfied and determined.

  There was always another avenue, she reminded herself. Every problem had a solution. All you needed were the factors, the formula, and the patience to see it through. A pity, she thought, that she’d always done so much better in philosophy and the arts than in math and science.

  If she was discouraged, it was because she was tired. Too tired, she had to admit, to face Naomi with made-up tales of how she’d spent her afternoon.

  She drove through the gates of Longshot instead.

  If Gabe wasn’t home, she’d go on to Three Willows and make some excuse—a headache, perhaps—and retreat to her room.

  Another white lie, Kelsey? she asked herself grimly. If she kept it up much longer, she’d not only become good at it, she’d accept it as normal behavior.

  She started toward the house, but instead of knocking, she simply sat down on the front steps and watched the evening bloom.

  There would be sunlight for another hour or two, she mused. She wondered if the whippoorwill that sang outside the window of her room had a mate nearby. The call would come simultaneously with dusk—sweet, liquid longing.

  The flowers were thriving here, bursting through their bed of mulch to color and scent the air. Dainty primroses, sassy pansies, a trellis that would soon be covered with the spicy perfume of sweet peas. Lilac bushes were heavy with blooms and fragrance, their petals littering the grass with deep purple.

  Such a quiet spot, such a lovely spot, for a man of such energy and passion.

  She heard the door open behind her, then his footsteps. In a move that was as natural as the flowers blooming beside the deck, she leaned against him when he sat and draped an arm around her.

  “I saw your car.”

  “Who planted the flowers?”

  “I did. It’s my land.”

  “My father gardens. In Georgetown I had a lovely little courtyard in the back. So, naturally, I took a course in horticulture and landscape design. It was quite a showplace when I got done with it, but it never looked quite as lovely, quite as intimate as my father’s. There are some things you can’t get out of books.”

  “I plant what appeals to me.”

  “If I had it to do over, that’s just how I’d approach it.”

  “I’ve been thinking about a rock garden, out there.” He gestured toward the slope of the hill. “Why don’t you do it with me?”

  She smiled, turning her face into his throat where the skin was warm and welcoming. “I’d head straight for the library. I couldn’t stop myself.”

  “So, we’d argue about logic and whim, then raid the nursery.” He tipped a finger under her chin to lift her face to his. “What’s troubling you, Kelsey?”

  She could tell him, she realized. Of course she could. There was nothing she couldn’t tell him. “I started something today, and I know I’m not going to stop. Everyone’s told me I should let it alone, but I can’t. I won’t.” She took a deep breath and eased back until they were no longer touching. “Do you believe my mother murdered Alec Bradley?”

  “No.”

  She blinked, shook her head. “Just no? Without hesitation, without qualification?”

  “You asked, I answered.” He leaned over to snap off a spray of freesia and handed it to her. “Isn’t it more important what you believe?”

  She shook her head again, then dropped it into her hands. “You can say no, simply no, when you didn’t even know her.”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really?” She lifted her head again. “What does that mean?”

  “I knew of her. I’d seen her around.” He angled his head and toyed with the ends of her hair. “I’ve been a track rat a long time, Kelsey. I remember seeing her at Charles Town, Laurel, here and there.”

  “You’d have been a child.”

  “Not the way you mean. But it’s true, I didn’t know her, didn’t form a solid impression. But I know her now.”

  “And?”

  She needed specifics, he thought. She always would. He wasn’t certain he could give them to her. “And I’ve made my living reading people. Faces, intonations, gestures. Gamblers, psychics, cops, shrinks. We all have that skill in common or we don’t last long. Naomi pulled the trigger, but she didn’t commit murder.”

  With her eyes closed, she leaned against his body again. The flower he’d given her wafted out a delicate scent. “I believe that, Gabe. Part of me is afraid I do simply because I don’t want to accept that my mother could have done what she was convicted of. But that doesn’t dilute the belief. I went to see the detective today. The one who testified against her.”

  His voice remained light. She wondered how she could have so often missed the steel beneath it. “It didn’t occur to you to ask me to go with you?”

  “It did. I wanted to do it alone.” She shrugged. “It didn’t accomplish much. He wouldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. And he wouldn’t, when I tried to hire him, help me find out more about Alec Bradley.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  �
�Anything. Everything. My mother’s only part of this.” She moved away. “What kind of a man was he? Where did he come from? What did he want? Naomi says he became abusive, tried to rape her. What triggered it?”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “I don’t want to do that unless I have to. She’ll close up, Gabe. She’d tell me what she knew, but it could bring whatever progress we’ve made to a dead stop. I don’t want to risk that.”

  “She wasn’t the only one who knew him.”

  Kelsey had already considered that, and rejected it. “I can’t start asking questions around the track, pumping the other owners or crews. Whatever I’d learn wouldn’t be worth the talk it would generate.”

  “What’s your option?”

  “I have the name of the officer who investigated my mother’s case. He’s retired now, lives in Reston.”

  “You’ve been doing your homework.”

  “I’ve always been a good student. I’m going to go see him.”

  Gabe took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “We’re going to go see him.”

  She smiled. “Okay.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  “BEEN A WHILE, ROSCOE.” TIPTON SLAPPED HANDS WITH ROSSI. “HOW come you don’t have my old job yet?”

  “I’m working on it, Captain.”

  “Well, take a seat, and we’ll work on these brews.” Tipton eased himself into the porch rocker. He had a small Igloo cooler beside it, chilling a six-pack of Bud. “How’s the wife?”

  Rossi accepted the can Tipton offered, and popped it. “Which one?”

  “Oh yeah, forgot. You’re a two-time loser.” With a chuckle, Tipton smacked his can against Rossi’s and guzzled down. “Divorce is almost part of the job, isn’t it? I got lucky.”

  “How’s Mrs. Tipton?”

  “Sassy as ever.” Very simple, very basic affection colored his grainy voice. “Two weeks after I retire, she gets a job.” Amused, Tipton shook his head. “Tells me it’s busywork, now that the kids are grown. Hell, we both know it’s to keep her from killing me with a blunt instrument. So I got me my hobby shop in the back, and she’s selling shoes down at the mall.” He smiled, drank again. “I got lucky, Roscoe. Not every woman can live with a cop, active or retired.”

  “Tell me about it.” Two wives and two divorces in twelve years had taught Rossi that particular lesson too well. “You’re looking good, Captain.”

  It was true. Tipton had put on a little weight in his three years off the force, but it agreed with him. The few pounds had filled out some of the lines the job had dug into his face. He looked relaxed and at peace in a work shirt and jeans. An Orioles cap covered what was left of wiry hair that was a mix of ginger and gray.

  “A lot of people don’t take to retirement,” Tipton commented. “Makes them old. Me, I’m loving it. I got my workshop—built this chair, you know.”

  “Really?” Rossi tucked his tongue in his cheek as he examined the rickety rocker. The fact that Tipton had painted it a dazzling blue didn’t disguise the way it listed to the left. “It must be rewarding.”

  “Oh, it is. I’ve got three grandchildren now, too. And time to enjoy them. The wife and I are talking about taking a cruise this fall. Up the St. Lawrence. Foliage.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all, Captain.”

  “Damn right.” And if he had much more, Tipton was sure he’d run screaming into the night. “A long, peaceful retirement’s a man’s reward for a job well done.”

  “No one can argue about the job well done.” Rossi sipped at the beer. He preferred imported but knew better than to say so. “I don’t guess you pay much attention to what’s going down now. But you might have read about a case I’m working on.”

  “Oh, I glance at the headlines now and again.” Pored over them, greedy for any glimpse of murder and mayhem.

  “The groom who was murdered at Charles Town, back in March.”

  “Stabbed. Trampled on top of it. You closed that,” Tipton remembered. “Another groom, wasn’t it? Lipsky. Suicide.”

  “That one’s open.” Rossi leaned back and watched a trio of starlings fluttering around an obviously homemade bird feeder on the front lawn. An orange striped cat sat below, eyeing them patiently. On the porch, he thought, they were just two men, passing the time with shoptalk. “No note, no predisposition to suicide. And the method doesn’t fit. Here’s how it shakes down.”

  He explained, as precisely as a written report, the events, from Lipsky’s firing to his death. “We’ve got a picture here of a man with a quick fuse, a violent one, who knows his way around horses. Not a man who makes friends or rises in his chosen profession. One who’s had a few scrapes with the law. Battery. Assault. D and D.”

  “A picture of a man who’d run, not who’d pour himself a cocktail of gin and horse poison.” Tipton chewed on that awhile. “But he could probably get his hands on it.”

  “He could, someone else could. He was after Slater’s horse. Now, could be that was personal. He was pissed about being fired, so he goes for the payback. The old man catches him at it, he panics. Now he’s got a dead man on his hands. Why didn’t he run, Captain? Why does he hunker down in a motel not an hour from Charles Town?”

  “Because he’s waiting for somebody. Somebody to tell him what to do next.”

  “And somebody poured him one hell of a drink. There were no prints on the gin bottle. It was wiped clean.”

  That particular angle had Tipton smiling. Small mistakes, he thought. He had always been fond of small mistakes. He watched his old cat waiting for one of the starlings to make one, and understood precisely.

  “And you’ve got an open case of homicide. Have you taken a good look at this Slater?”

  “Oh, I’ve looked at him. An interesting man. Lots of currents. Did some time.”

  “For?”

  “Illegal gambling. If it had been a couple of months earlier, he’d have ended up in juvie instead of a cell.” Absently Rossi tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “He’s been clean since, so far as the record shows. Grew up mostly on the streets. Mother died when he was a kid. The father slid his way out of trouble. Had some arrests—fraud, forgery, passing bad checks. Mostly con games. Pounded on a working girl in Taos a few years ago. But nothing sticks. Slater slipped out of the system at about fourteen, tripped up and served his time, then kept his nose clean. I can’t say he wouldn’t have done Lipsky, but he’d have been more direct about it.”

  “Who else have you got?”

  “Nobody who clicks. Did you catch the Derby on TV, Captain?”

  “Roscoe, there’s only one sport. That’s baseball.” He tipped his cap. “I did hear something about a horse breaking its leg.”

  “The horse was drugged, Captain. Overdosed. And it was Slater’s ride that won the race.”

  “Well.” Tipton mused over the last swallow of beer. “Where are you circling to, Roscoe?”

  “I’m not sure about that, but it’s a big circle. It goes back twenty-three years. Naomi Chadwick, Captain. What can you tell me about her?”

  “Funny.” Tipton set the empty can under his shoe, then crushed it flat. “That’s the second time I’ve heard that name today. The daughter called me this morning.” He glanced at his watch. “She should be here soon.”

  “Kelsey Byden’s coming here?”

  “She wants to talk to me about her mother.” Tipton leaned back in the rocker, enjoying the way it creaked. “That does take me back.”

  “You should have stayed on the farm,” Kelsey muttered. “There’s barely a week until Belmont.”

  “Jamie can handle things without me.” Gabe smiled as he negotiated a turn. “In fact, he prefers it.”

  “I don’t feel right about taking you away from work now. I could have done this alone.”

  “Kelsey.” With patience, Gabe picked up her hand, kissed it. “Shut up.”