by Maggie Price
“It’s Grant. We need to talk about the case.”
Something low in her belly tightened at the sound of his voice. “Are you back in town?”
“Just drove in.”
“Did you find Ellis Whitebear’s twin brother?”
“That’s one subject we need to cover.” His voice came over the phone in a level slide that told her nothing. She furrowed her forehead, trying to remember her schedule. “Tomorrow morning I have a nine o’clock meeting at—”
“Now. We need to talk now.”
“Okay,” she said slowly, thinking about her earlier yearning to step into his arms. “Where do you want me to meet you?”
“Open your front door, Milano. I’m right outside.”
Sky made him wait in the hallway long enough for her to pull on jeans and a shapeless T-shirt, and sweep her hair back with a clip. She punched in the access code to deactivate the alarm, hoping the second barrage of cold water she’d splashed on her face had put some color in her cheeks.
She knew it hadn’t when she swung the door open and Grant’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he stepped inside.
“It’s the middle of the night, Pierce. Give a girl a break.” She couldn’t tell him that the few details she’d given him about the rape had resurrected her nightmare. Even now, the thought of the throat-clenching terror she’d experienced the past three nights nudged her toward panic. She didn’t trust herself to tell him without losing control. She had fallen apart once in front of Grant, and she wasn’t going to put either of them through that again. The fact that the nightmare had returned after nine years, as crippling as ever, cemented the agonizing knowledge that she could offer him nothing.
“I usually don’t try for the runway model look until after the sun’s up,” she added, forcing lightness into her voice.
He didn’t smile, just gave her a long, hard look that made her want to squirm. “I don’t like the runway model look,” he finally said. He turned, scanned the living room where the blues singer crooned that he’d keep her safe and warm in the arms of love. Grant shifted his gaze to the brightly lit hallway that led to her bedroom. “You alone?”
“What?” She stared up at him, incredulous. Did he really think she was entertaining some other man?
He turned, eyed her steadily. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Hard to tell. I was on my way home and didn’t plan to stop. When I saw your apartment lit up like searchlights on a helicopter, I figured you weren’t asleep.”
“Oh.” She’d forgotten she had switched on every light in the place in an attempt to ward off the shadows. Uncomfortable under his assessing gaze, she arched an eyebrow. “You took this route to get home? Since when is my apartment on the way to the snooty part of town?”
This time he did smile. “I went a little out of my way.”
“About five miles.” She flicked a wrist in the direction of the breakfast bar where her briefcase and purse sat. “I’m up because I brought home lab files to review.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, she told herself. She’d finished going over the files before she’d gone to bed.
“It’s hell when you have to bring work home,” he commented easily, then nodded toward the kitchen. “Do I smell coffee?”
“I just made a pot.” She turned, glad for any excuse to avoid the steely gray eyes that made her feel as if he could see right through her. That was the problem with cops, she thought. They didn’t take anything at face value. “Want some?” she asked as she walked around the counter and into the kitchen.
“Sure.”
“Black, right?”
“Good memory, Milano.”
“Austin’s a good five hours from here,” she said, pulling two mugs out of the cabinet. “Did you drive straight through?”
“I was in a hurry to get here.”
Here, she wondered, or just back to the city? Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him peel off his cream-colored jacket, then lay it across a high-back stool on the counter’s opposite side. The gold badge on his belt beside his holstered weapon glinted in the light as he moved. He had spent hours in his car, yet his loose pullover and pleated linen slacks looked fresh and neat.
The lines of utter fatigue at the corners of his mouth and eyes revealed just how tired he was. She filled two mugs, left them untouched beside the coffeepot while her hands curled into fists. God, what she’d give to be free to walk around the counter and press her palm against his cheek.
“Something on your mind, Milano?”
“No.” Heat crept up the back of her neck when she realized he’d begun watching her again.
She came around the counter, handed him a mug. “Have a seat,” she said across her shoulder as he trailed her into the living room.
“Think I’ll stand.” He wandered over to the dark fireplace, leaned a shoulder against the mantel. “Need to get the kinks out.”
Sky slid onto the cushions of the wing chair that sat angled at one end of the sofa. “Did you find Ellis Whitebear’s twin brother?”
“No.” Grant sipped his coffee, blinked hard. “Stuff’s got a punch,” he commented, then set the mug on the mantel.
“I made it a little strong.”
“If you drink that entire cup, it’ll keep you awake through next week.”
That was the idea, she thought. “I can add some water to yours.”
“Forget it. Let’s talk about Ellis.”
“So, you didn’t find his twin,” she said, then sipped. The coffee went down hot and strong, and sent a welcome jolt of caffeine through her system.
“That’s right, I didn’t.”
Something in Grant’s voice stiffened her spine. “Did you at least get a lead on him?”
“A hell of one. I can positively say that Ellis Whitebear doesn’t have a twin brother.”
Sky sat unmoving while the words sank in. “There has to be a twin, an identical twin,” she reasoned slowly. “That’s the only logical way to explain the DNA found at the second murder scene.”
“There is no twin.”
“You saw Whitebear’s adoption records?”
“No.” The hand Grant shoved through his blond hair left it looking appealingly rumpled. “I got nowhere with the judge. He turned down my request to unseal the records.”
“The brother’s name could be in there.”
“It’s not.”
She set her cup down with a snap. “If you didn’t see the records, how can you be sure?”
His mouth curved into a sardonic arch. “Turns out I’ve got a lot in common with the case worker who handled the adoption. She didn’t let me look at the records, but she slipped me the name of Ellis’s birth mother and the address in Plano where she lived when she put him up for adoption.”
Sky furrowed her forehead. “What do you and the case worker have in common?”
“Neither of us have any use for men who slit women’s throats.” Grant lifted a shoulder. “I drove to Plano and checked around the neighborhood. A midwife delivered Ellis. She still lives across the street from the house where he was born, still delivers babies. She swears there’s no twin brother.”
“Ellis Whitebear is in his late forties,” Sky pointed out. “The woman could have delivered hundreds of babies since he was born. Do you trust her memory?”
“I trust her journals. She keeps a record of all the babies she delivers. Records their name, weight, length, even takes a snapshot. She showed me Whitebear’s page. I saw a picture of Ellis, buck naked when he was about ten minutes old. Lovely sight. There’s no twin brother.”
Sky rose, her mind whirring as she began to pace. “Whitebear is locked in a cell. Even though his DNA is at the crime scene, we know he wasn’t. He didn’t commit the second murder.”
“That’s a fact.”
She felt like a specimen under a microscope, pacing the living room while Grant examined her with unreadable gray eyes.
“The only explanation is th
e bandage,” she reasoned. “Ellis had to have bled on it, and the killer left it under Carmen Peña’s body.”
“We went through that scenario, Sky. It doesn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense. Tell me about the controls you use in the lab.”
She froze. She knew her blood had drained from her face. That wasn’t something she could control. But she could keep her voice level and hard. “You’re thinking the only other explanation is that I messed up the blood work on the first case. That my testimony sent the wrong man to prison. And another woman is dead because of me.”
“No,” Grant said evenly as he walked to her. “The Benjamin case was mine and Sam’s. We conducted the investigation, worked the evidence. The outcome was our responsibility.” He stared down at her. “In the morning I have to brief Ryan on what I found out in Texas. The lieutenant will ask the same question I just asked you. I’d like to have an answer for him. Tell me about the controls in the lab, Sky,” he repeated. “How stringent are they?”
“Like steel.” Punchy with exhaustion, she struggled to think. “All evidence that’s logged in gets a specific case number. The evidence from each case is kept separate from all other evidence. Always separate.” She dragged the heel of her palm across her forehead. “Before I start on a DNA profile, I label my vials with that case number, put tape over the label so the information won’t get wiped off. I change gloves after each step of the process. Change my lab coat before I move from each room so nothing can get contaminated. After I’ve purified the DNA sample, I mix the reagents from the typing kit with that sample. I’ve got a certain window of time to do that.” She heard the nerves that had crept into her voice, hated them. “The chief could call, and I wouldn’t talk to him until I got done,” she continued. “I keep notes every step. I log everything—”
Grant placed his hand on her arm. “It’s all right—”
She stepped back. “No, it’s not.”
Was it possible she’d somehow made a mistake and her testimony had put the wrong man in prison? Had Sam and Grant and the DA put faith in her that wasn’t justified? “If I somehow made a mistake that cost Carmen Peña her life, it’s not all right.”
“We don’t know that you made a mistake.” Grant paused. “What’s the chance of two unrelated people having the same DNA?”
“One in five billion,” she said automatically. “As far as anyone knows, you’ve got to have identical twins to get an exact DNA match.” Grant’s warm, musky scent curled into her lungs. Because she was tempted to reach for him for comfort, she took another step back.
He slid a hand into the pocket of his slacks. “The obvious key to this is the bandage with Whitebear’s DNA left at the second crime scene. I don’t care if Whitebear’s sitting in a cell. He’s involved somehow in the murder.”
She gave a quick shake of her head. “You said you discounted that scenario.”
“I said it didn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense. If the bandage was left as a means to clear Whitebear, the same MO should have been used at both scenes.”
“It wasn’t. The MO was different. So it still doesn’t make sense.”
Grant angled his head. “I’ve worked a lot of murders, Sky. I’m not sure any of them made sense.” He swiped a hand across the back of his neck. “Everything that relates to the first murder needs to be rechecked. That includes all the evidence, every witness’s statement, everything.”
“The victim’s blood,” Sky said, beginning her own mental list. “The suspect’s. All the blood samples taken from the maintenance men who worked at the apartment complex…” She fought back a swift surge of nausea that rose in her throat. “Oh, God.”
“What?”
“What if…?”
“What if what?” Grant prodded.
She pressed her hand against her forehead. “The day after the first murder I went to the apartment complex. I took a vial of blood from each male employee to check against the suspect blood found at the crime scene.”
“I remember.”
“What if the vial with Whitebear’s name on it actually contains blood from one of the other men?” She stiffened her spine against the possibility that somehow, some way, blood samples had gotten mixed up, that vials had been mislabeled. That she’d made a terrible mistake that led to another woman’s death. A mistake that could end her career, and damage Grant’s.
“What if the real killer is one of the other employees?” she asked. “That could explain the matching DNA at both scenes.”
She shivered against the cold realization that crept beneath her flesh. “I don’t believe this is happening.”
Grant stood inches away, looking calm. Controlled. “Whitebear had the means, the opportunity and the motive to murder Mavis Benjamin. The jury considered more than just your testimony when they found him guilty.”
The possibilities looming in her head notched up the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I need to talk to my captain first thing in the morning and let her know what’s going on. I’ll recommend she assign Gilchrist to run a second DNA profile on all the blood samples I took on this case. Every vial. My work needs to be verified.”
Grant nodded. “I know that needs to be done to eliminate any questions. Still, my gut tells me Gilchrist will get the same results as you.” He fell silent, staring into the darkened fireplace. “Whitebear holds the key to this. I just wish to hell I knew what that was.”
“You’ll have to go to the state pen. Interview him again.”
“If he’ll talk to me.” Grant shrugged. “He’s on death row. I can’t exactly hang the threat of prison over his head to get him to cooperate.”
“You can tell him that giving us more of his blood might get him freed.” Sky pulled in air, hating the desperation in her voice. “All along he claimed he was innocent. Grant, what if he is? What if I got vials switched and that wasn’t his blood at the first crime scene? The only way to resolve this is to know for sure if it was his blood or not. Another chemist needs to draw a sample from him. Check it—”
“You, Sky.” Grant took a step toward her. “You need to draw it. Check it.”
She shook her head. “I might have messed up—”
“You might not have. You’re the best damn chemist in this department. Just because things don’t seem to add up right now doesn’t mean your work can’t be trusted.”
“I have to trust it,” she said fiercely. “I testify in court. What I say can lead to a person’s execution. How can I do that when I’m standing here right now feeling totally uncertain of everything?” She heard her voice hitch, attempted to level it. “I hate this. I hate losing control.”
“You haven’t lost control. And you don’t have to deal with this alone.”
She closed her eyes against the gentleness of his tone. It was so hard to fight the promise of comfort she heard there.
“You’d better go,” she said, her voice an unsteady whisper. “I need to think this through.”
He stared down at her, a muscle working in his jaw as his eyes darkened to the color of tarnished pewter. “You figure you’ll just take all this on your own shoulders and waltz me out of here?”
“No—”
“Like before?”
Everything inside her went still. “Before was personal.”
“And this is business. The Benjamin case is mine, mine and Sam’s. I’m responsible. That means I’m calling the shots. Something’s gone haywire, and we need to figure out what it is. Together.” He reached out a hand, slid it to her nape and kept it there when she stiffened. “Just like there was something wrong when I first walked in here. Suppose you tell me why you’re really up this late.”
Her eyes widened. “I told you. I have lab files to review.”
“Your briefcase is sitting on the kitchen counter next to your purse.”
She gave him a wary look. “So?”
“You’re a creature of habit, Milano. I remember from before that when you brought work home, you alway
s put your briefcase on the coffee table so you could spread ev erything out there. You never put your briefcase on the counter until you finished your work.”
Heat crept up her neck, pooled in her flesh beneath his fingers. “Habits change—”
“Every light in this place is on.”
She stepped back, forcing him to drop his hand. “The electric company loves me.”
“Then there’s the coffee.”
“So, it’s strong—”
“It’s one o’clock in the morning. Why are you drinking coffee with enough caffeine to keep you climbing the walls for a week?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Why?”
Feeling cornered, she took another step back. After losing so much sleep, she wasn’t in any condition to accept probing. “It’s just one of those nights.”
“One?” he persisted. “You look near exhaustion. You’ve got shadows under your eyes the color of slate, and a haunted look that says you’ve lost a hell of a lot more than one night’s sleep.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters.”
When she didn’t answer, he eased a step closer and wrapped his hand around hers. “Talk to me, Sky.” He lifted her hand to his lips, placed a soft kiss against her knuckles. “Let me in.”
Her pulse skipped, and she had the fleeting sense of how good her hand felt in his.
“I…” Her throat knotted. Talking to him about the rape had sparked the nightmare back to life. Telling him that would cause him guilt and hurt he didn’t deserve. One thing she was sure of, the only thing she was sure of, was she’d hurt Grant Pierce enough for one lifetime.
“It’s something I have to deal with. Alone.”
“Why? Why alone?”
“It’s best.”
“For whom?”
“Both of us.”
“That may be true.” He turned her hand over, watched her eyes as he traced a fingertip along the length of her palm. Her heart stopped, then did a slow roll.
“Problem is, I’m not willing to stand back and find out,” he continued quietly. “Six months ago you forced me out of your life. The way I saw it then, I had no choice but to let you. Now there’s business between us, and there’s no forcing me out. You’re not dealing with this alone.” His eyes locked with hers. “None of it.”