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“Both cases…” Sky’s voice trailed off, and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Grant, you’re not going to like what I have to say.”
“You’re sending that message loud and clear.”
The waitress returned with Sky’s drink, an oversize lemon wedge hooked precariously on the rim of the glass.
Ignoring the woman’s intimate wink, Grant waited until she turned her attention to four cops with empty beer mugs at a nearby table, then he shifted his gaze to Sky’s hands. They were still wrapped one around the other, and her knuckles had turned as white as one of her lab coats.
“You’ve got my full attention,” he said quietly.
“The blood found on Mavis Benjamin’s clothing matches the suspect’s blood from the Peña crime scene.”
“You mean,” Grant began carefully, “the suspects in homicides that occurred two years apart have the same weird blood type?”
“I mean they have the same DNA.”
Grant felt sweat gather at his lower back. “Identical?”
“Yes.”
A double-fisted punch to the gut would have been easier to take, he thought as he stared across the table. “Ellis Whitebear is sitting in a cell on death row at the state pen. I doubt they issued him a pass so he could go out and cut the Peña woman’s throat, then rape her for good measure. That means he’s got a hell of an alibi.”
Sky kept her eyes locked with his. “I know.”
“What else do you know?”
“That my test results are accurate.”
“On which case?”
“Both.”
Grant uttered a ripe curse. “How the hell could both be right? We’ve got two murders. There’s no way the man who killed the first woman killed the second. So how could your tests show the same suspect DNA at both crime scenes?”
When Sky shifted in her chair, light from the nearby jukebox touched her sculpted cheek with gold. “The only way I know for two people to have the same DNA is if they’re identical twins.”
“You’re sure about all of this?”
She arched an eyebrow. “About identical twins?”
“About the results from the Benjamin and Peña crime scenes.”
“Yes. I couldn’t believe it when the computer got a hit on both cases. I went to the evidence bay and pulled Benjamin’s clothing. I did another DNA profile on the suspect’s blood found on her dress. The latest result didn’t vary from the first one. The DNA is Whitebear’s. I did the same thing with the evidence from the Peña scene. I’ve spent the past three days…and nights double-checking my work. Grant, I’m positive. One man, or two with identical DNA, killed both women.”
This time, Grant’s curse brittled the air. The bartender glanced their way. A scathing look from Grant had the man quickly returning to his business. Grant tightened his jaw. He could almost picture Sam sitting across from him, one of his thick cigars clenched in the side of his mouth, thumbs under the suspenders he habitually wore, as he smiled and said, “Well, pretty boy, sounds like you’ve got one hell of a mess to clean up.” Grant rubbed at the knot that had edged up his shoulders and settled in the back of his neck. Sam was gone, and he was the one who had to negotiate some damn mental chessboard.
He refilled his glass, nudged it across the table toward Sky. “Forget the tonic water. You could probably use this about now.”
She glanced at the glass, then her glossed lips curved into a slight smile that only reminded him of how it had felt to kiss that warm, lush mouth.
“If I thought it would help, I’d drink the whole bottle.”
“You might just have to fight me for it.”
She massaged her right temple as if pain had lodged there. “I don’t remember all the details of the Benjamin case, just the work I did. Was there ever any doubt in your mind that Whitebear did it?”
“No, though he kept claiming he was innocent.” As he spoke, Grant felt the numbing effects of the Scotch, fought against it. “Most of the evidence against Whitebear was circumstantial, but compelling. The victim was the manager at the apartment complex where he did the maintenance and yard work in exchange for an apartment. It was well-known that the victim and suspect didn’t get along—tenants often heard them yelling at each other. We had two credible witnesses who swore that, hours before the homicide, Mavis Benjamin threatened to fire Whitebear and toss him out on the street.”
“She was killed in the communal laundry room right off her office at the complex,” Sky said, adding the details with which she was most familiar. “Hundreds of hairs and fibers from people’s dirty laundry contaminated the scene. The only evidence I found on the victim’s person that linked to the suspect was one drop of his blood.”
“Sam and I figured he’d been injured while they struggled—a nosebleed, or something like that,” Grant said. “You took blood samples from all the male workers at the apartment complex and got a match to Whitebear’s. That made the case.” Grant settled a forearm on the table and leaned closer, forcing himself to ignore Sky’s punch-in-the-gut scent. “You’re sure it was Whitebear’s blood on Mavis Benjamin’s sleeve?”
“Yes.” Her brow furrowed. “His, or his identical twin’s, if he has one.”
“If? Whitebear’s in a cell, and I’m pretty sure he’s not Houdini reincarnated. You think there’s some way to explain the suspect blood from the Peña scene if Whitebear doesn’t have a twin?”
“Not that I know of.” She picked up her glass, then set it down without drinking. “If he is innocent, and there’s a twin brother out there murdering people, why didn’t Whitebear mention him?”
Grant raised a shoulder. “The guy’s got a room-temperature IQ. He dropped out of grade school. To him, DNA is probably just three letters.”
“His attorney, then. Surely Griffin found out about Whitebear’s family. He would have zeroed in on a twin if he knew his client had one.”
“Ellis Whitebear’s DNA, or what we believe to be his, was found on the first victim—”
“It is his DNA,” Sky said, the tiny lines around her mouth deepening. “I know what I’m doing in my lab, Pierce.”
“Dammit, Milano, I’m not questioning your ability,” Grant shot back, then set his jaw. It had been that same confidence and determination that had attracted him to her in the first place. Where her job was concerned, Sky had no equal. She didn’t waver. She was in control. It was her personal life that had splintered into hundreds of pieces, and driven her from him.
If you care about me, you’ll let me go.
The memory of the words she’d spoken that night six months ago assaulted him like sniper fire. She had taught him what it was like to want. To feel helpless. To hurt. He stabbed his fingers through his hair. He didn’t need this. He had let her go. He was over her. Why the hell was he even allowing her presence to bother him?
“All right,” he said, forcing his mind back to the problem at hand. “Whitebear’s DNA was on Benjamin’s dress. Because of that, I doubt Griffin thought his client’s protests of innocence held any weight. But then, we’ll never know since the esteemed public defender died in a car wreck a month after Whitebear got shipped to the pen.”
Grant settled back in his chair and forced mental chess pieces to move in his Scotch-soaked brain. “There’s another angle we haven’t talked about,” he said after a moment. “Ellis killed Mavis Benjamin. His twin killed Carmen Peña. It’s a stretch, but anything’s possible at this point.”
Sky nodded slowly. “You’re right.”
Just then, a grizzled, retired detective with a gray beard stopped by the table. He nodded, then spent a few minutes reminiscing about the time he and Sam cornered a do-wrong inside Uncle Willie’s Donut Shop.
When the detective moved off, Grant felt the now-familiar drag of grief over his partner’s death. “Dammit, Sam.”
He wasn’t aware he’d spoken the words until he saw Sky’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, Grant. I know you’re upset about Sam. The last thing you need right now is a mess like this. But both of these cases were yours and Sam’s…yours now. I couldn’t put off coming to you any longer.”
“Yeah.” Because he was tempted to reach out and smooth his fingers across the strain at the corners of her eyes, Grant balled his hands on the table. She had drawn Whitebear’s blood from the man’s arm, performed tests, testified in court to her findings. Her word had helped put Whitebear on death row. It was now possible a different man should be in that cell, and Carmen Peña was dead because he wasn’t.
If that was true, the press would have a field day with mistaken-identity stories. Not to mention make chopped liver out of both his and Sky’s careers along the way. For his part, the idea of getting shipped to Larceny to investigate lawnmower thefts held little appeal.
Grant heard the clatter of more coins going down the jukebox’s slot. A heartbeat later, a low, weepy love song drifted on the air and the dance floor filled.
As he watched couples glide together in the shadowed light, it hit him that the need to hold Sky in his arms was just as sharp now as it had been six months ago. His jaw locked when he realized he was actually sitting there, thinking about asking her to dance. Damning himself for being the biggest kind of idiot, he tightened his grip on control and shifted his thoughts squarely back to business.
“What’s your next step on the blood?”
She met his gaze. “The first thing I need to do is have the suspect samples from both crime scenes checked at another lab,” she said, her voice void of emotion. “I’ll package them in the morning and take them to the OSBI,” she said, referring to the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation.
“Do you have to tell them what’s going on?”
“No. We always use code numbers on the evidence that refers to the case, not the suspect’s name. All the OSBI chemist will know is that we need DNA profiles on both samples.”
“How long will it take to get the results?”
“Three to four days. Five, max.”
Grant looked at the Scotch bottle, acknowledging that his mind was too fogged to develop a game plan right now. With an inward sigh, he swept his gaze upward. “Sorry, Sam, the wake’s over.” He pulled his money clip out of his pocket, peeled off a couple of bills, then tossed them on the table.
“I need to sort this out,” he said, meeting Sky’s waiting gaze. “I’m going home to hot coffee and a cold shower.” And an empty bed. Biting back a swell of frustration, he conceded that what he most needed was to get the hell away from her.
He shoved back his chair, rose and instantly felt the room spin. “Holy hell.” He slapped a palm against the table to keep his balance and waved his other hand toward the bottle. “Stuff’s as bad as swamp muck.”
“Worse, I’d say,” Sky countered. “I don’t think swamp muck makes your eyes cross like that.” Rising, she folded his suit coat over her arm while giving him an appraising inspection. “You’re plowed, Pierce.”
“That was my objective.”
“And in no shape to drive.”
He grinned. “Next thing you know, Milano, they’ll be giving you an award for observation.” Dragging in a deep breath, he waited until the room righted itself. It did…barely. “I’ll call a cab.”
“You don’t need to. I can give you a lift.”
He stared down at her, surprised she’d offered. They’d been at his house that last time they were together. Grant knew if he slid into a car beside her, the minute they pulled into the gated drive that led to his family’s estate he would remember how her kisses tasted, how soft her cheek felt against his cupped hand. Remember, too, the panic that had shot into her eyes when his arms had tightened around her. The absolute paleness that had settled in her skin. The choked sound of her voice when she’d told him goodbye.
If you care about me, you’ll let me go.
Dammit, he had done both.
Keeping his eyes locked with hers, he took a step forward. “Do you really think your taking me home is a good idea?”
“I don’t know.” She raised a hand as if to press her palm against his arm. He saw the hesitation in her eyes, then her fingers slowly curled and she lowered her arm. “Grant, I think we should at least try to be friends.”
“We already made a stab at that,” he said, frustration hardening his voice. She couldn’t even bring herself to touch him. How the hell had he ever expected her to give herself to him? “It didn’t work.”
“We tried being more than friends.”
Without thinking, he raised his hand, traced his fingertip along the soft curve of her jaw. Staring into the depths of those blue eyes, he found himself stupidly pleased when she didn’t shrink from his touch.
“Sweetheart, there’s not a chance I’ll forget what we tried,” he said softly. He saw the instant flush that rose in her cheeks, caught the jump of the pulse in her throat, felt his own pulse respond in kind. He damned himself for giving her the power to shoot such searing need into his system.
As he lifted his suit coat off her arm, he looked over his shoulder at the bartender. “Mind calling me a cab?”
“Sure thing.”
Grant turned back. Sky’s expression was now controlled, emotionless. Her chemist’s face. “I’ll call when I get the results from the OSBI,” she said quietly.
“Fine.”
He watched her turn, watched her sleek gait take her around the dance floor and into the alcove. Then she was gone.
Standing beneath the rotating red beacon of the overhead bubble light, Grant ruthlessly kept control in place to keep from going after her. She was the first woman he had thought about a future with, the first woman who had really mattered. The first to reject him. Pride was as strong as the hurt he’d endured when she walked away six months ago. Pride had kept him from seeking her out. Kept him from begging for whatever scraps of her life she would agree to give him.
He jerked on his suit coat, then shoved his fists into his pockets. Damn if he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.
Chapter 2
Hand unsteady, Sky rang the doorbell on the elegant Tudor brick house that sat bathed in silver moonlight. She was barely aware of the white roses that tumbled out of a massive planter near the door, paid no attention to their sweet scent that hung in the warm summer air. Two hours had passed since she’d walked out of the FOP club—away from Grant—and every nerve in her body was still scrambled.
So much for well-laid plans. Facing him had been hard. More difficult than she thought it could ever be. She had rehearsed everything in her mind before she walked into the club. Knew exactly what to say about the results of the DNA profiles. Had fought to keep her voice steady.
Nothing inside her had stayed steady, she conceded while she waited in the overlapping puddles of light from the carriage lamps bordering the house’s massive front door. She closed her eyes, picturing again the sight of Grant nursing his drink in a dim corner of the club. His thick, sandy hair had been rumpled, his broad shoulders bent as if they carried the weight of the world. His chiseled features had been set, remote. Yet, when he’d raised his head to meet her gaze, his eyes had been full of the pain of his partner’s death.
Just one look and he had shaken her off balance.
She thought she had grown stronger over the past six months. Maybe she had in other areas, but she still had few defenses where Grant Pierce was concerned. She needed those defenses. God, did she need them.
From somewhere behind her, a sharp, metallic click sounded on the still night air. Sky’s scalp prickled, followed by a jolt of sheer terror. Years of self-defense training kicked in; she raised her arms and whirled. The screech that followed could have doubled for the tornado warning siren.
“Good grief, Sigmund!” Sky stared down at twelve pounds of gray, outraged tomcat whose fur and tail were standing straight on end. “Sorry I stepped on your tail,” she muttered after her heart unfroze in her chest. How did you explain to a cat that she’d mistaken the metallic click of its tags with the snick of a switchblade shooting out of a hilt? The all-too-real memory of that sound echoed in her head, had her swallowing back bile.
Just then, the front door swung open and she jolted.
“Sky, what a pleasant surprise,” Dr. Judith Mirren commented in a soft voice that carried the faintest hint of her native Louisiana. Her searching gaze swept past Sky’s shoulder. “Please tell me it wasn’t you who just howled like a banshee.”
Sky pushed away the chilling memories that had surged from her past. “Sigmund snuck up on me and I stepped on his tail.” She motioned toward the shadowy porch rail where the cat now sat staring with regal feline disdain, tail twitching as if it had electrodes attached.
“No harm done, I’m sure,” Dr. Mirren said, pulling the door open wider. “Come in.”
The woman’s brown eyes were kind—and sharp. At sixty, she had settled comfortably into middle age, the lines on her face revealing a quiet intelligence that came only with experiencing life. Her hair was a mix of honey-brown and gray, scooped up in a loose topknot. She wore trim black slacks and a chic linen blouse the color of storm clouds.
Sky gave an apologetic smile. “I should have called first.”
“Nonsense. This evening’s group left about ten minutes ago,” the doctor said as she stepped back to let Sky in. “I was considering making myself a latte, but Richard’s out of town and I didn’t want to drink one alone. Now I don’t have to.”
“I didn’t plan on dropping by,” Sky explained as she entered the large wood-paneled foyer with glossy pine floors. “I went for a drive and somehow wound up here.”
Dr. Mirren arched an eyebrow. Wordlessly she shut the door and nodded toward a wide doorway. “Make yourself comfortable in the study. I’ll be back with our lattes.”
“Need some help?”
“Thank you, no. I’ll just be a minute.”
