On Dangerous Ground Read online

  “Patience, Sigmund,” Mirren stated as she put the finishing touches on the lattes. “You’ll get your dinner when Sky and I are done.”

  As if aiming blame for the delay of his food, Sigmund shot Sky a yellow-eyed glare while twitching his furry gray tail back and forth in jittery little arcs.

  “You mentioned on the phone that you told Grant about the rape,” Mirren said as she turned. Her honey-brown-and-gray hair was scooped up in the usual attractive topknot. A tidy black pantsuit with a paisley silk scarf tied at the neck enhanced the doctor’s air of professional competence.

  “Yes, I told him.” Sky thought about the nightmare that had seemed so real, and swallowed hard. “I thought I could never do that.”

  “Move now.” Using one foot, Mirren gently plowed the tomcat aside, then carried two oversize cups across the kitchen. Angling her head, she slid onto the stool beside Sky’s. “What changed your mind about telling Grant?”

  Sky tasted the latte. It was warm and rich and rejuvenating. Between sips she explained what had happened after Grant pulled her from the grip of the nightmare.

  “How did he react?” the doctor asked.

  “He was caring and kind,” Sky answered, staring at the cheerful pots of herbs that lined the windowsill over the sink. Her chest tightened with the knowledge that what she’d felt for Grant six months ago had deepened a hundredfold over the past few days. Those feelings were all so new. Overwhelming.

  “Compassionate,” she added, meeting the older woman’s waiting gaze. “There’s no other man I could have told. Only Grant.”

  “He sounds special.” Eyes filled with ready understanding, Mirren sipped from her cup. “More than special.”

  “He is.” Sky ran a fingertip around her cup’s rim. Despite the contentment she felt, a nagging memory had her furrowing her forehead. “While I told Grant about the rape, I sensed him getting angry. He didn’t want me to see his reaction, I could tell. But he couldn’t keep his feelings out of his eyes.”

  Sky paused. Nerves had made her palms damp, and she rubbed them down her trousered thighs. “It’s as if, while I talked about the rape, Grant could see inside me, could feel how awful it was.” Even now that she had purged the worst of the black, ragged memories, she felt her eyes begin to fill with tears, and blinked them back. “The next morning, I realized he was still angry. Maybe even angrier.”

  “Some time has passed since then,” Mirren commented after a moment. “How is he handling that anger now?”

  “I’m not sure.” Sky shifted her gaze across the kitchen. Sigmund had taken up sentry duty in front of a set of French doors, his slitted gaze fixed beyond the glass on a sparrow hopping around on the wooden deck. “While we were in McAlester, some things happened on two cases Grant and I are working. Demanding cases. He—we both have a lot to deal with where work’s concerned.”

  Like the fire that might not have been an accident, Sky thought. And the sugar someone dumped into the cruiser’s carburetor. The lab tech who’d dusted the cruiser found only smudged fingerprints under the hood. When Sky had spoken to Grant a few hours ago, he had yet to hear from the State Fire Marshal’s office about the results of their inspection of the air-conditioning unit that had sparked the fire. But, Sky reminded herself, none of that had anything to do with her past…and Grant’s feelings about the rape.

  “When I saw the next morning how upset Grant still was, I thought maybe he’d discovered he couldn’t handle a relationship with a rape victim,” Sky explained, pushing away her cup. Caffeine wasn’t helping calm the nerves tingling at the base of her neck. She folded her hands on the island’s granite surface to keep them still. “I told him I would understand if he couldn’t.”

  Mirren arched a slim eyebrow. “What was his response?”

  Sky closed her eyes against a wave of regret. “It hurt him that I even considered he might feel that way.” She shook her head. “Six months ago I hurt him when I couldn’t confide in him about the rape. Now I’ve told him, and I still managed to hurt him.”

  “Sky, don’t be so hard on yourself. The trauma of a rape integrates itself into every aspect of a woman’s life. Learning to deal with that is a struggle.” The doctor linked her long, neat fingers together beside her cup. “Did Grant explain his anger?”

  “Yes.” Sky let out a breath. “He said he was trying to come to terms with the fact that no one was there to protect me. That I never got the justice I deserve.”

  “That’s more than understandable. A sense of helplessness is hard for a man to deal with. It can be overwhelming to men who are in positions of authority, such as police officers. The fact that your rapist is free, and shouldn’t be, goes against the basic beliefs of Grant’s profession.”

  “True.” Sky shifted on the padded stool, trying to twitch the feeling of unease out of her shoulders. She couldn’t put her finger on why the tension had settled there yesterday after Grant had assured her that he just needed to figure out how to deal with what she’d suffered. Nor could she name the reason that the prickly feeling had stayed with her during the trip back to Oklahoma City after they’d rented a car in McAlester. Now, twenty-four hours later, she had no idea why the pinpricks of unease still danced up her spine.

  “Sky?”

  She suddenly realized Judith Mirren had asked her a question. “I’m sorry. What?”

  However complacent they were, the doctor’s eyes were sharp and searching. “Would you like another latte?”

  “No, thanks.” Sky glanced at her watch. “I have to get back to the lab.”

  “Working overtime this evening?”

  “Yes.” In a little over two hours, the hybridization period would be complete on the blood sample she’d taken the day before yesterday from Ellis Whitebear. This evening she planned to photograph the strips she’d prepared with the amplified DNA and interpret the results. She would know then if she’d made a terrible mistake two years ago that had put the wrong man on death row. A mistake that had allowed a killer to go free and had cost Carmen Peña her life.

  “I’m glad you found time to drop by.” The psychiatrist leaned back on her stool. “Is there something else you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Sky shook her head. “No. I…” She bit back on a restlessness that made her feel as if everything in her world was just a half beat out of sync. A lot of it was due to the Whitebear case, she knew. But her relationship with Grant was the reason she was sitting in Dr. Mirren’s kitchen.

  “I guess I’m nervous because I’ve spent the past nine years deliberately keeping people at a distance. Grant and I have agreed to give our relationship a second chance.” She raised a shoulder. “That’s what we both want.”

  “But?”

  “To have a man so close, feeling so protective on my behalf is a little overwhelming, that’s all.”

  “As is the knowledge that your relationship might soon shift into intimacy.”

  “Yes.” The memory of the soul-deep kisses she and Grant had shared sent a quick jolt to Sky’s stomach. She didn’t think she was ready to take that last step, not yet. Still, just thinking about what it might have been like if she’d given herself to Grant in that dimly lit motel room made her breath hitch and filled her with an undeniable longing.

  “Time will help you sort out things,” the doctor continued, her mouth curving into an easy smile as she squeezed Sky’s hand. “Remember, you’re not the only one who needs some breathing room. You’ve had years to deal with the trauma of the rape. Grant has had a little over a day. You’re ready to move on, but he needs to come to terms with the residual feelings associated with your being assaulted, just as you did. Give each other time and understanding, and your relationship can evolve into something wonderful.”

  Sky sat in silence as the doctor slid off the stool and collected the cups. Until that moment she had not known how desperately she wanted a future with Grant.

  While Sky was saying her goodbyes to Dr. Mirren, Grant was walking into the o
ffice of the Oklahoma State Board of Pharmacy. Smith Casteel, a decorated OCPD lieutenant whose sudden resignation six months ago had sent shock waves through the department, let him into the four-story building.

  “Thanks for waiting until I could get here,” Grant said as they shook hands. “Traffic was hell.”

  “Not a problem,” Casteel said. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie loose, he didn’t look as if he was in a hurry to leave. “I had some paperwork to catch up on.” Turning, Casteel led the way through a maze of dim, tiled hallways with dark offices on either side.

  At the end of one of those hallways, he stopped at a doorway and motioned Grant inside. “Make yourself comfortable. I can probably find some coffee if you want a cup. We brew the same battery acid here as at the PD.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  Grant lowered onto the chair nearest the door and took in the roomy paneled office with a desk, two visitors’ chairs and credenza. His gaze lingered on the framed photograph of a striking brunette angled on one end of the credenza. Kathy Casteel had been an up-and-coming public defender when she was attacked by a robbery suspect whose acquittal she’d gained. That had been months ago and the last Grant had heard, she was still in a coma.

  “Sorry to hear about Sam,” Casteel stated as he settled into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. “He and I worked a couple of cases together during my stint in Homicide. I learned a hell of a lot from Sam Rogers.”

  “So did I.” Grant had only a nodding acquaintance with Smith Casteel—he’d been promoted to Vice while Grant still rode the streets. Still, Casteel had once carried a badge and his current job of conducting background and compliance investigations for the Oklahoma State Board of Pharmacy enabled Grant to sidestep the red tape—and hard-edged questions he knew he would encounter—if he tried to get what he wanted through the DEA.

  Casteel propped his forearms on the desk. He was a tall, lean man in his late thirties, with dark eyes that looked a little harder than the floor beneath Grant’s feet. “I don’t guess you’re here to trade stories about Sam.”

  “No. I have a couple of questions about a man who may be a licensed pharmacist in this state.” As he spoke, Grant slid a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his sport coat. “Here’s a copy of what the Department of Public Safety has on him,” Grant added, leaning forward to hand the paper across the desk.

  Also in his pocket was the copy he’d run of Kirk Adams’s photo from the yearbook he’d pulled off a shelf in the library at the University of Oklahoma. After one look, the bastard’s handsome face and cocky grin had branded itself in Grant’s brain.

  “When he renewed his driver’s license two years ago, Adams lived in Ventress, Oklahoma,” Grant stated. “He hasn’t filed a change of address with the DPS. The information may be current. I’d like to find out for sure.”

  Casteel studied the paper, then slowly lifted his gaze. “Is Adams a suspect in a homicide?”

  “No, his name came up in a conversation, is all. He’s the type of guy who has no qualms about breaking rules, and he thumbs his nose at authority.”

  “Not the preferred qualities of someone who dispenses pharmaceutical narcotics for a living,” Casteel observed.

  “True, and those are Adams’s good traits,” Grant stated. “He’s known to victimize women, and he’s slick enough to get away with it.”

  Casteel’s eyes narrowed. “Do tell.”

  “If the pharmaceutical board’s received complaints on him, he’s someone you should take a close look at,” Grant continued. “The complaints are probably righteous.”

  “I’ll make a note of that.” Casteel pursed his lips. “Once you get confirmation of his address, do you plan to pay Mr. Adams a visit?”

  “That’s not on my agenda.” It was the truth. At this point, Grant didn’t know what, if anything, he would do once he knew Adams’s whereabouts. The mental chess game now playing in Grant’s head required planning, long-term strategy, and it was far from over. All he knew at this point was there was a dark, dangerous something inside him driving him to get all the information he could on the slime.

  Raising a hand, Grant rubbed his gritty eyes. He’d spent the previous night pacing a path in his living room carpet, telling himself that the fact Sky had survived the rape, that she had let him back into her life was enough. For the first time in his life, a woman had him thinking serious thoughts of futures and tomorrows. Dammit, that ought to be enough. For a few minutes he had almost believed it could be. But the past—her past—wouldn’t loosen its hold on his thoughts. The image of Sky, drugged, terrorized and bleeding haunted him. During the remainder of the night, a plan had played in his head, growing and expanding until it took on a sense of reality that Grant wasn’t sure he knew how to control. All he knew was that if he paid Adams a visit, he would be in and out before the bastard knew he was there. He’d worked Homicide long enough to know how to take care of trash without leaving a trace.

  “So, Pierce,” Casteel began, “since you’ve got nothing solid on Adams, I can view your visit as unofficial. That means I’m not required to fill out a report on what you’ve just told me.”

  Grant gave a slight nod. “I wouldn’t want to cause you unnecessary paperwork.”

  “I appreciate that.” Shifting his hooded gaze, Casteel slid a keyboard from beneath the center of his desk and typed in data. A moment later, he nodded at the monitor angled at his left. “So, your boy is one of those Adamses.”

  Grant frowned. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “Kirkland Adams, aka Kirk Adams, is the son of Warner Adams, who owns just about every pharmacy in the southeastern part of this state. The family is stinking rich. It’s doubtful Kirk’s ever pulled a shift behind a drugstore counter, even though he’s a licensed pharmacist. He’s probably solely management, working under the old man’s thumb.” Casteel flicked a look at Grant. “Kirk’s home address is the same as on his SDL.”

  Nodding, Grant felt his throat tighten. Ventress, Okla homa, was two hours away by car. “Ever had any complaints filed on him?”

  “Kirk looks squeaky clean,” Casteel said, his gaze skimming the monitor. “His old man has his finger on the political pulse of about ten counties. If Junior’s ever encountered any trouble, Pop has probably bought him out of it.”

  “Yeah.” Grant set his jaw. He had hoped to find something. Some reason to get to Adams through legal channels, but he knew now that wasn’t going to happen. The bastard didn’t even have an unpaid parking ticket. Grant readily acknowledged that work-related complaints and unpaid tickets wouldn’t begin to avenge what Adams had done to Sky. But at least the slime would be forced to answer for something, Grant thought. Then, maybe the wrongness of the plan formulating in his mind would overshadow the rightness.

  “Anything else?” Casteel asked.

  “No. I appreciate your help.”

  “Anytime.”

  As Grant rose, he felt a light vibration against his waist. He shoved back the flap of his sport coat, pulled his pager off his belt and checked its display. “This is a call I’ve been expecting from the Fire Marshal,” he said, remeeting Casteel’s gaze. “Mind if I use your phone before I head out?”

  “Help yourself,” Casteel said.

  Sky sat motionless at her work counter in the forensics lab, staring at the photograph she’d taken of Ellis Whitebear’s latest DNA profile. If her heart was still beating, she couldn’t tell. She doubted there was any blood pumping through her veins, because her flesh had turned to ice beneath her white lab coat.

  It was close to eight o’clock; this late, she was the only person in the lab with its U-shaped counters lined with beakers, trays of test tubes and stands holding glass pipettes at rigid attention. Behind her, the evidence refrigerator sitting next to the emergency shower clicked on and hummed.

  She’d lost track of how many times she’d reread the notes she had compiled since she’d walked into the lab yesterday with Ellis Whit
ebear’s blood sample in her evidence kit. Now she forced her dazed mind to picture each of those steps, to determine if somehow, some way she’d made a mistake.

  In an unconscious gesture, she started to push her glasses higher up on her nose, then realized she wasn’t wearing them—she’d put in her contacts that morning.

  Over the past hours, she had drunk an entire pot of coffee, and her stomach was burning worse than her eyes. Her shoulders and back muscles felt like high-tension wires; her world, which had seemed just a half beat out of sync hours earlier, now threatened to spin crazily out of control.

  If she were called into court this minute, she would have to testify that Ellis Whitebear’s DNA did not match the man’s who killed Mavis Benjamin two years ago.

  But it had, Sky reminded herself, while the muscles in her stomach contracted like a fist. At one time it had matched. That was why Whitebear was sitting on death row for the murder.

  The pressure in her chest threatened to spread as she swiveled on her stool and checked the clock on the far wall. Its thin, red second hand swept soundlessly around the dial. Why she was checking the time, she didn’t know. It didn’t matter how late it was, she had to tell Grant the results of the DNA profile. With a shiver of deep uncertainty chilling her to the bone, she reached for the phone.

  When his pager went off, Grant was pounding his way up the station’s back stairs. He recognized the number of the forensics lab on the pager’s display. He already knew Sky was working late—before leaving the Fire Marshal’s office he’d called the Homicide sergeant on duty and told him to look in on her to make sure she was okay.

  Clenching his jaw, Grant swiped his ID card through the scanner on the stairwell’s third-floor landing, then jerked open the door. He knew without a doubt the fire that had destroyed Sky’s motel room had been no accident, and he planned to keep her in his sights until he got his hands on whoever had set it.

  Minutes later, he slid his ID card through another scanner, then strode into the lab, passing through the unmanned reception area without a glance. The light in Sky’s office was on, as was the computer terminal, but she wasn’t at her neat-as-a-pin desk. Veering right, Grant headed down a long, dimly lit hallway.