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
