On Dangerous Ground Page 16

  “Whitebear,” Grant said as the second guard escorted his charge to the small table in the center of the room. “You remember Ms. Milano?” While he spoke, Grant casually positioned himself between Sky and the prisoner.

  Whitebear flicked a dismissive look at Sky as he settled his big, broad-shouldered body into a chair. “You ain’t gettin’ no more blood.”

  “That’s not why we’re here,” Grant stated, then waited while the guard moved away and took position just inside the door. “Ms. Milano and I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

  Whitebear’s hooded gaze swept the small room. “Where’s my lawyer?”

  “She couldn’t make it, but we have her permission to talk to you. Tell us the truth, Ellis, and things might change for you.”

  “That so?” he sneered. “I did that two years ago, but it didn’t make no difference. The both of you put me in this place for slicin’ that bitch apartment manager’s throat. I didn’t do it. Why the hell should I bother wastin’ breath about it now?”

  Although Grant’s expression remained impassive, Sky saw the tic of a muscle in his jaw. He knew, as did she, that the man sitting in shackles might have spent the last two years on death row for a crime he didn’t commit.

  With smooth grace, Grant settled a hip onto the edge of the table. “You should bother with us now because our minds are open where you’re concerned, Ellis. If you are innocent like you say, it won’t hurt you to walk us through the day Mavis Benjamin got murdered. Tell us everything you did.”

  “Done that. Couple of times.”

  “Do it again,” Grant urged in a quiet voice.

  He was good at this, Sky thought as she watched a sliver of uncertainty slide into Whitebear’s dark eyes. The cop was offering a ray of hope to a man whose hopes had vanished when a jury pronounced him guilty of murder.

  “Can’t hurt none, I guess.”

  With only a few intermittent questions from Grant, Whitebear recounted the day Mavis Benjamin had been found with her throat slit in the communal laundry room of the apartment complex where he had worked on the maintenance staff. As always, he admitted he’d hated the brassy, loudmouthed woman, that they’d argued often in front of other employees and she’d threatened to fire him only hours before she was found murdered. “Hatin’ her don’t mean I killed her,” he stated, then grew silent.

  “True,” Grant agreed, flicking a look at Sky. “The problem is, Ellis, Ms. Milano found your blood on Mavis Benjamin’s dress. I’m having a hard time figuring how it got there if you aren’t the one who killed her.”

  The silver cuffs surrounding Whitebear’s meaty wrists clacked against the tabletop when he shook his head. “That’s a lie. I didn’t kill that bitch, so my blood wasn’t on her. Couldn’t have been.”

  “I didn’t lie, Mr. Whitebear,” Sky countered in a level voice, then paused until his dark, impenetrable eyes met hers. “The blood I found on the sleeve of Mrs. Benjamin’s dress matched what I drew from your arm two years ago.” She took a step closer to the table. “There’s something different about your blood now. I’m here to try to find out what that something is.”

  The man’s upper lip curled in derision. “You think that means a damn thing to me now that I’m locked up? Maybe whatever’s wrong’ll kill me before the state has a chance to.”

  Sky blinked. “I’m not saying you’re sick. All I’m saying is that I have questions about your medical history.”

  When Whitebear said nothing, Grant leaned in. “There’s some questions I’d like to get answered, too, Ellis. Like why, after Ms. Milano and I left here three days ago, did somebody mess with my car, making sure we got stranded here for the night? And why did that somebody burn down a motel room, almost destroying your blood sample, not to mention nearly burning Ms. Milano alive?”

  A look of pure bafflement settled in the man’s eyes as he stared at Grant. Moments later, Whitebear lowered his gaze to his shackled wrists. “How the hell would I know anything about all that?”

  “Have you had a blood transfusion lately, Ellis?” Grant persisted. “Have you been sick since you came here and got some new blood pumped into your veins?”

  Whitebear sat in silence, his dark eyes slitted, while his powerful hands slowly clenched. Sky could almost see the white of his bones beneath his copper-colored skin.

  “No,” he stated finally. “I ain’t had no blood pumped into me.” After a moment, his mouth tightened and he muttered low, indiscernible words.

  “Didn’t catch that,” Grant countered. “Did you maybe mention the name of someone who might have a reason to destroy your blood sample? You’re not a stupid man, Ellis. You have to know there’s not a thing in the world I can do to make your situation worse—”

  “I don’t know nothin’,” he groused, then jerked his head toward the guard. “I wanna go back to my cell.”

  The stone-faced guard moved to the table. “Guess you’re done here, Sergeant,” he stated.

  “Looks that way.” Grant locked his gaze with Whitebear’s as he rose. “Whether you tell me or not, Ellis, I’m going to find out what’s going on—”

  “Ain’t nothin’ going on. I’m just tired of you people botherin’ me.”

  “You’re looking at maybe eight more years of rotting in a cell,” Grant pointed out. “Then they’ll slide a needle into your vein. You claim you’re innocent. Fine. Give me something to help prove that, and I’ll go to bat for you.”

  Whitebear jerked his head toward the guard. “Get me outta here.”

  After the guard led Whitebear through the door back to the cell block, Grant turned to Sky. His eyes were hard, the lines at the corners of his mouth intense. “The guard I talked to earlier checked the prison’s records. Jason, aka Spider, didn’t sign in to visit his father after we ran into him in the parking lot three days ago.”

  “That means he must have waited inside the front door here until we drove off,” Sky said. “Then he followed us to the café.”

  “Where he dumped sugar in the cruiser’s carburetor, then tailed us until we checked into Delbert’s motel. He sabotaged the air-conditioning unit while we ate dinner, then got out of there so he’d have an alibi for the time of the fire.”

  “Too bad we can’t prove any of that,” Sky said quietly.

  “A damn shame.” Grant stared at the doorway through which the prisoner had disappeared. “Sky, is there any way a father and son can have the same DNA?”

  “No. They’d have to be identical twins, which, of course, they aren’t.”

  Grant uttered a quiet oath. “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “We’re back to why,” Sky said. “If Spider did do what we suspect of him, why did he want to destroy his father’s blood sample? How could he have possibly known the DNA would be different?”

  Grant gave her a humorless smile. “I’ll just add those to our growing list of questions.”

  Sky acknowledged the same sense of frustration churning inside her that she heard in his voice. “That list is getting longer by the minute.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Grant, we need to talk to the prison’s doctor. He can at least tell us if Ellis has had a blood transfusion while he’s been in Department of Corrections’ custody. If he has, there’s no way that could change his DNA, but at least it would be a place for us to start looking for answers.”

  “You’re reading my mind, Milano.” Grant leaned a hip against the table, crossing his arms over his chest as he gave her an assessing look. “You know, Lieutenant Ryan hasn’t filled Sam’s position yet. Maybe you ought to apply to be my new partner.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  He grinned. “You think so?”

  They had a job to do and they would do whatever it took to get at the truth. Still, Sky’s sense of professionalism couldn’t stop her from picturing again how temptingly disheveled this man had looked standing half-naked in her kitchen. The heated desire she’d felt since that moment stirred deep in
side her. To experience such raw-edged need after so many years of repressing her every emotion sent a zip of heady daring through her.

  The unease that had plagued her since she’d told him about the rape now slid into oblivion.

  Slowly she moistened her lips. She knew her next words would send the controlled, regimented life she’d lived for years veering in a very different direction.

  “The partner deal is a good idea, Pierce.” On legs that weren’t quite steady, she took a step forward until only a mere inch separated them. The prison smells faded beneath his distinctive masculine scent. “I think it ought to happen,” she said softly. “Tonight.”

  He went absolutely still, his gaze sharpening on hers like gray lasers. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

  “I’m talking about us becoming partners. You’re talking about me taking Sam’s job.” She shook her head. “Totally different subjects, Pierce.”

  Grant wasn’t sure whether he should throttle Sky or kiss her senseless.

  He wasn’t dense; it had taken only a split second for the meaning behind her words to sink in. She was ready for their relationship to slide into intimacy, ready to give herself to him. Just thinking about it had heat streaking through his veins. And that was all the reaction he’d allowed himself, because immediately after Sky dropped her bombshell a guard stepped into the interview room and escorted them to the office of the prison doctor.

  Grant slid a hooded look sideways. Considering the decision she’d made, how the hell could Sky sit in the chair beside his, looking so calm? So cool. Her hair was swept back flawlessly into a twist that his fingers itched to pull loose. Her blue eyes remained utterly expressionless while need whipped quietly, painfully through him.

  Throttle or kiss?

  His scowl deepened. The question was irrelevant. He couldn’t do either since they were sitting across the desk from the prison’s dour-looking doctor.

  “There’s been no blood transfusion since he’s been incarcerated,” Dr. David Brace advised while he peered through thick glasses at Ellis Whitebear’s medical file. The man was a good hundred pounds overweight and had to be pushing seventy. What hair he had left was gray and sprang from his head in feathery tufts.

  Forcing his thoughts to business, Grant leaned forward in his chair. “Look, Doctor, I’m going to level with you. Ms. Milano took a blood sample from Whitebear three days ago. It doesn’t match the blood she drew from him two years ago. You got any idea why that might be?”

  “Doesn’t match in what way?”

  “The DNA profile is different,” Sky stated.

  Brace blinked. “Never heard of something like that happening.” He shut the file, then pulled off his glasses and polished the lenses with the end of his polka-dot tie. “Not to cast doubt on your abilities, Ms. Milano, but are you positive?”

  “Yes. Another chemist verified my findings.”

  “Interesting.” Brace pursed his lips. “I suppose this anomaly could have something to do with the aplastic anemia Mr. Whitebear suffered. That was before he entered the prison system, though. The man’s healthy as a horse now.”

  Although he wasn’t touching her, Grant could almost feel Sky’s spine stiffen. “What treatment did Whitebear receive for the aplastic anemia?”

  “Allogeneic marrow transplantation.”

  Grant held up a hand. “You’re going to have to translate, doc.”

  “Of course. Aplastic anemia is a condition where a person’s bone marrow no longer produces anything. It’s as if all blood cells have been wiped out.”

  “I’m following you so far,” Grant stated.

  “Mr. Whitebear had a bone-marrow transplant several years ago,” Brace continued. “He was fully recovered when he wound up on death row. The nurse here takes a blood sample from him every six months and sends it to the hospital where the transplant was done. There has been no reoccurrence of the disease. As I stated, he’s healthy.”

  Sky looked at Grant. “Remember when I told Whitebear there was something different about his blood now? He asked me if that meant a thing to him now that he was locked up.”

  Grant nodded. “Ellis must have thought you’d come to tell him that his bone-marrow problem had come back.”

  Sky angled her head as if analyzing the data. “Doctor, does the file list who donated bone-marrow to Mr. Whitebear?”

  “No. You’d have to ask the inmate.”

  She shook her head. “He’s not forthcoming about things right now.”

  “Try contacting the hospital where the transplant was performed. That might be a dead end, though. Names of donors are usually kept confidential.”

  “It’s worth a shot to ask,” Grant said. “What hospital?”

  “University Hospital in Oklahoma City.”

  “I’ll call on our way back to the city,” Grant said as he and Sky both rose.

  She hesitated. “Doctor Brace, have you ever heard of an occurrence where a marrow transplant altered the recipient’s blood DNA?”

  The man gave her a look that was pure skepticism. “No.” He stared down at the file folder on his desk. “However, I don’t keep up with all the studies that come out. I guess anything’s possible.”

  “This bone-marrow transplant,” Grant began as he walked beside Sky along the sidewalk toward the lot where he’d parked his red Porsche, “do you think it could have changed Whitebear’s DNA?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t aware that anything could change a person’s DNA, but something changed his.”

  “So maybe one of the samples you took from him is his own DNA, and one contains the DNA of whomever donated bone marrow to him?”

  “Maybe.” She furrowed her forehead. “I wish I had the answers we need, but I don’t know a lot of specifics about bone-marrow transplants.” She hiked the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder. “I know you’re thinking that Spider is the most logical person to have donated bone marrow to his father. That’s not necessarily true. The person whose marrow matched Ellis’s could have been an unrelated donor. That’s why there are so many nationwide donor registries, because so often blood relatives don’t match the person in need of a tissue or organ transplant.”

  “Yeah,” he said, pulling in a deep drag of the hot summer air. His sixth sense told him that something about the investigation had shifted, that he and Sky were closer to finding answers to the questions that plagued them. “My first thought was Spider.”

  “When I got my masters, I studied under a man named Marcus Linley, a professor of hematology. He always kept up-to-date on the studies going on in the field, even the obscure ones. I’ll make an appointment to see him. Tonight, if possible.”

  “Speaking of tonight.” As he spoke, Grant moved in front of her, halting her steps on the sidewalk. He hooked a knuckle under her chin and lifted her face. The afternoon heat was tempered by a brisk wind that tugged wispy strands of her dark hair from its twist.

  “Let me get something straight, Milano. You’re telling me you’re ready for us to be together, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Hearing a ripple of unsteadiness in that one word, he narrowed his eyes and gazed down into her face. For the first time in his life he felt himself hesitating when it came to the thought of having sex. He’d never had a problem getting women to come willingly to his bed. But sex wasn’t his need right now, he realized. His need was for this woman. This one woman who had been hurt so terribly by another man’s cruelty.

  The thought put a tightness in his throat. It also put the fear of God in him to think that he might not give her what she needed.

  With the slightest pressure, he inched her toward him. “You’re sure? Absolutely sure?”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Are you trying to talk me out of this?”

  “Not on your life. I just want to make sure I get it right.”

  Her mouth curved. “Don’t look at me to give you pointers, Pierce. I’ve logged some lean years when it comes to dating, much less sex.” A
lthough her words were light, he saw the nerves swimming in her eyes.

  “I won’t hurt you, Sky. You have my word.”

  Her smile fading, she placed a palm against his cheek. “I know that.”

  With light fingertips, he skimmed a windblown curl off her right temple. “I don’t suppose you’d want to spend another night at Delbert’s motel? It’s only about a mile from here, you know.” The anticipation twisting his insides into a hot knot had him realizing he was only half kidding.

  A glint of amusement joined the nerves in her eyes. “Not on your life, Slick.”

  “I had to try.”

  When they reached the car, he used the remote on his key chain to disable the Porsche’s alarm while they walked to the passenger side. When Sky slid into the seat, Grant caught a glint of sunlight off a piece of metal on the parking lot’s surface.

  “What is it?” she asked, leaning out of the open door as he used the toe of his loafer to nudge the flattened metal.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said after a moment, and shoved back one of the flaps of his suit coat. “Remember when Spider showed up here the other day?” he asked, resting a hand on his waist beside his holstered Glock. “He crumpled a soda can, this can, in his hand then tossed it aside. I threatened to add littering to the charges I wanted to haul him in on.”

  “I remember.” Sky raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure it was that can?”

  “I remember this neon purple label.” Grant crouched to get a closer look. “Spider wasn’t drinking a regular soda. This is one of those megabrands that has ten times the usual amount of sugar. It’s advertised to give you superenergy to get you through the day and night.”

  “I’ve seen the ads.” Sky gave him a thoughtful look. “So, are you thinking Spider had another can of that stuff in his pickup truck? That instead of buying a bag of sugar when he followed us to the café, he just popped the cruiser’s hood and poured a can of high-test soda in the carburetor?”

  “There you go, reading my thoughts again.” Grant slid a plastic evidence envelope out of his inside coat pocket and prodded the can inside. “Maybe Spider even had a six-pack of this stuff in his pickup. If this was the only can he’d drank, he could have conceivably poured five cans of this stuff into the carburetor.”