On Dangerous Ground Page 3

  Getting involved with him had been wrong, so unfair. She had hurt him—not intentionally, but she’d hurt him all the same. Now he would rather take a cab than climb into a car with her. The knowledge made her want to weep.

  “Here we are,” Dr. Mirren said as she swept through the arched entrance, bringing with her two oversize cups and the heady scent of rich coffee.

  “It smells wonderful,” Sky said, accepting the cup the doctor offered.

  “Let’s hope it tastes that way. I’ve only had the espresso maker a week, so I’m still practicing.” Smiling, she sat in a leather wing chair on the opposite side of the rug that spread a soft pattern along the wood floor. She blew across the rim of her cup, then sipped. “Not bad.”

  Sky settled on the sofa. “It’s perfect,” she said, savoring the creamy heat that slid down her throat.

  “You mentioned you went for a drive and somehow wound up here.” As usual, the psychiatrist took little time getting to the heart of a matter. “Did something happen tonight?”

  “I saw Grant.”

  “A date?”

  “Hardly. I had to tell him about the results of a comparison on DNA found at two of his homicide cases.”

  “Did you go to his home to tell him?”

  “No.” Although she’d made only a few vague references about her relationship with Grant to the Monday-night group, she had told Dr. Mirren all the details during their private sessions. “I wouldn’t have the nerve to just show up and knock on the door. Grant’s partner died of a heart attack, and the funeral was this afternoon. I knew he’d gone to the FOP club, so I went there.” She lifted a shoulder. “A mistake.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s a social setting. We don’t have that kind of relationship anymore. Never will have again.”

  “Could you have waited until tomorrow to tell him about the DNA results?” Dr. Mirren asked, her eyes meeting Sky’s over the rim of her cup.

  “I suppose. He needed to know, though.”

  “I’m sure,” the doctor said agreeably, as if they were discussing the weather. “Could you have put this information in a memo?”

  Sky tightened her grip on the cup’s ceramic handle. “I have to do that, too.”

  “So, you chose to face this man.”

  “I don’t know why. We’ve had no contact in six months.” That hadn’t stopped a greasy pool of jealousy from churning in her belly when the waitress at the FOP club put the moves on Grant. Sky chewed her lower lip. It had taken everything she had to sit there while the temptation to deck the woman passed.

  She set her cup on the thick wood coffee table in front of the sofa. Too unsettled to stay put, she rose and walked to the leaded-glass windows that spanned one wall of the paneled study. Outside, an obviously recovered Sigmund scuttled full speed across the porch after a fluttering moth.

  “I think I decided to tell Grant in person because of how he looked at Sam’s funeral,” Sky said after a moment. “So miserable. Alone.”

  She’d felt the same way, and it hadn’t had anything to do with Sam’s death. Seeing Grant at the cemetery had sent memories storming through her. Of the stolen lunches they’d managed in the midst of a grueling serial killer task force they’d both been assigned to. His nightly phone calls when his deep, husky voice slid like velvet across her senses. The department’s Christmas dance when she’d first found the courage to step into his arms. The few tentative kisses that had sent need whipping through her. An intimate restaurant where violins stroked as soft as a lover’s touch, then later at his house when he’d pulled her to him and the rich male taste of his mouth swept her teetering toward the edge of control. Seconds later, her stomach had knotted, her lungs refused to work and she’d almost hyperventilated from the feeling of being trapped, with no way out. No way to save herself—though there’d been nothing to save herself from. On the heels of that panicked terror had come the agonizing realization that, no matter how much she wanted to—longed to—give herself to him, she couldn’t.

  Now those memories gained strength, slamming into her so hard, so unexpectedly, that Sky found herself blinking back tears. She felt acid in her throat as humiliation pooled inside her.

  “I wish…” She paused and steadied her voice. “I wish that night with Grant had never happened.”

  “Sky, listen to me.” Dr. Mirren sat forward, her eyes sharp and knowing. “The rape you experienced in college was violent and sadistic, and it cut through the core of your existence. To make matters worse, the therapist the college sent you to was inept. If he hadn’t eventually lost his license, I would personally hunt him down and make a professional eunuch of him.”

  Sky stared in silence, surprised by the woman’s candor.

  “Because of his incompetence,” Dr. Mirren continued, “you never had a chance to properly deal with the attack. Certainly you healed physically from the knife wound. You became skilled in self-defense so you can now protect yourself if necessary.”

  “Right. I can take down most any man,” Sky shot back. “I just can’t let one love me.” She gave her head a frustrated shake. “My hormones were in full swing that night with Grant. I wanted. Oh, God, I wanted…” Her voice trailed off. “I just couldn’t.”

  “Because you repressed your feelings about the rape, denied your emotions and blocked the experience so you could function and get on with your life. Everything boiled to the surface while you were with Grant and you reacted very strongly.”

  “I almost upchucked on his shoes,” Sky said miserably. “How’s that for impressing a man who wants to make love to you?”

  “It makes you human. And memorable.”

  “I’ll say.” Sky tried a smile, but it didn’t gel. “Grant mentioned tonight he won’t ever forget that particular experience.”

  “Will you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “It appears it affected you both equally.”

  “Him worse. I hurt him.” As if chilled, Sky wrapped her arms around her waist. “When the panic hit me, I could barely even get out the words to make Grant understand I’d been raped in college. I could hardly breathe, much less give him details about the attack. He asked me to stay with him, just stay with him so he could hold me. All he wanted was to be there for me.” She closed her eyes. “I couldn’t let him. Couldn’t trust myself not to fall apart again. I still can’t,” she added softly.

  “Don’t be so sure.” Dr. Mirren set her cup aside. “You’ve done admirably over the past months coming to grips with the trauma of the rape and its aftermath. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve begun to make some small changes in your life.”

  “Changes?”

  “Your glasses, for instance,” Dr. Mirren said. “Until a few weeks ago, you wore large glasses with tortoiseshell frames.”

  Baffled, Sky nodded. She’d chosen the understated wire-rims on impulse during her last visit to the eye doctor. Even ordered a pair of contacts, which she now wore almost as often as her glasses. “My vision changed and I needed a new prescription, that’s all.”

  “Instead of frames that conceal a large portion of your face—your looks—you chose an attractive pair that draw attention to you, not away. A man’s attention, perhaps.”

  Sky felt her spine stiffen. “I don’t want men to notice me.”

  “For years you haven’t. Now that you’ve begun dealing with the rape, your outer self is changing. Your clothes are different, too. You’re wearing black today probably because you attended a funeral, but you wear more colorful clothes than you did when you first started therapy.”

  “My wardrobe needed updating.” Sky turned and stared out the window at the glowing ball of the full moon. A month or so ago, she had walked into her closet and found herself grimacing at all of the blacks, browns and grays. On a whim she’d taken a rare day off from the lab, gone to the mall and spent hundreds of dollars on a new, colorful wardrobe. She’d had no idea what prompted the trip, just that all that blandness h
ad suddenly made her feel edgy and unsettled. Restless.

  Just like she felt tonight.

  She turned. Dr. Mirren had remained in the high-back leather chair, looking her usual calm and serene self. “Okay, so maybe I’m no longer hiding behind big glasses and drab colors,” Sky conceded. “There’s some things I can’t change. And one of those is my relationship with Grant.”

  “You faced him tonight.” Eyes filled with ready understanding, Dr. Mirren folded her neat hands in her lap. “You could have sent him a memo about your DNA findings, or even phoned. Instead, you went to him.”

  “On business. I had to tell him about the DNA.”

  “You don’t have to explain why, Sky. You just need to understand that for years your life has been focused on your work. Now you may be ready to also focus on a relationship. When, and if, you act on that is up to you.”

  Massaging her right temple, Sky paced the length of the built-in shelves where antique decoys nested amid leather volumes. The ache that had settled in her head while she’d been at the FOP club had transformed into a throb.

  Before she met Grant Pierce, she had felt so in control. So content with her life. So safe.

  Her hand slid slowly down her cheek; she pressed her palm against her jaw where his fingertips had skimmed. When he first walked into her life, everything about him—his sinfully handsome face, burnt-whiskey voice and roguish reputation—had tempted her to turn tail and run. Nevertheless, she’d stayed put. Told herself she’d healed completely. Refused to acknowledge the inner wariness that spiked inside her whenever Grant got too close. For the first time since the rape, she had wanted a man.

  As much as he’d wanted her.

  Too late she learned the monster from her past still had her in its grip.

  Now, according to Dr. Mirren, that monster was breathing its last breath.

  Sky dragged air into her lungs that should have cleansed, but didn’t. She knew there was no way she could trust that she had truly closed the door on the past. No way to be sure the monster wouldn’t spring back to life.

  No way she could risk doing anything about the searing need for Grant that still burned inside her.

  Leaning back, feet propped on his desk, Grant listened intently to the party on the other end of the telephone. It had taken him five days to track down this lead that could be a starting point at locating Ellis Whitebear’s twin brother. Finally he was getting somewhere.

  The next instant, Grant’s eyes widened. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Positive. Ellis Whitebear became a ward of the State of Texas at the age of two months when his mother gave him up for adoption.”

  “I need to take a look at those records.”

  “They’re sealed. I suggest you direct any questions about his family history to Mr. Whitebear himself.”

  Grant muttered a few choice words under his breath. Adopted. Sealed records. Mystery DNA. How much better could this get?

  “Did you say something, Sergeant Pierce?”

  “Nothing you’d want to hear.” Grant swung his feet onto the floor and started searching for the name he’d jotted on a yellow sticky note. “Look, Mrs….”

  “Kanawa.”

  “Mrs. Kanawa, Ellis Whitebear is sitting on death row at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary. I helped put him there. He’s not likely to schmooze with me about his relatives. Besides, the information he gave to the Department of Corrections doesn’t mention anything about being adopted. Which means Whitebear may not even know about it, much less the details of his birth family.”

  “That’s highly possible.”

  “More like probable,” Grant added. “Mrs. Kanawa, I called you with what I thought was a routine request for information. I figured you could check Whitebear’s birth certificate and read me his parents’ names. Then I planned to ask if you could check for a birth certificate for his twin brother. Now you’re talking about adoption and sealed files.”

  “Nothing wrong with your hearing, Sergeant.”

  The woman’s steely tone told Grant he’d better crank out some charm if he was going to get anywhere.

  “Look, I’m a civil servant, too.” He added a soft chuckle for effect. “I know all about red tape. God knows we’re drowning in it here in Oklahoma City. But you and I can get around all that. I’ll skip asking you the names of Whitebear’s parents, if you’ll check his file and tell me what it says about any natural siblings. Specifically a twin brother. Yes, he exists. No, he doesn’t. That’s all the information I need from you.”

  “Sergeant, here in Texas, sealed means sealed. No one has access to that file. Not even me.”

  Grant scraped his fingers through his hair and held on to control. “What sort of paperwork does the great state of Texas require for me to get access?”

  “You have to appear before the presiding judge in this county and show cause why the court should make that information available to you.”

  “I have to appear?”

  “Yes. I can fax you the judge’s information so you can contact his clerk.”

  “Great,” Grant said, then rambled off his fax number before hanging up. He propped his elbows on his desk and rubbed at the knot of tension in his neck.

  This late in the afternoon, the Homicide squad room was filled with detectives sitting behind ancient metal desks. Several talked on the phone, one pounded thick fingers against a computer keyboard, still another leafed through a stack of crime scene photos from this morning’s whodunit. Across the room, Jake Ford sat at his desk, taking information from a tall redhead wearing half a dress who’d walked in off the street claiming to have information about a homicide that occurred ten years ago. Thank God it wasn’t one of Sam’s cases, Grant thought as he idly watched the redhead sweep her hand through the air to make some point. If it had been, he’d be the one sitting there with his eyes crossed, instead of Ford.

  Grant caught movement at the door, turned his head in time to see Julia Remington breeze in. She was slim, beautiful and had an enviable homicide clearance rate. The printout draped over her arm was thick enough for Grant to know he’d be working some heavy duty overtime. “You owe me big bucks for this, Pierce,” she said, then plopped the printout onto the clutter in the center of his desk. “Pay up.”

  “Pay up? You’re married to the CEO of Remington Aerospace, and you’re trying to extort money from me?”

  She smirked. “This coming from the guy who lives on his family’s estate, wears Armani suits and Gucci.”

  Grant raised a shoulder. He was independently wealthy, having inherited a nice little enterprise called Pierce Oil, the company left to him and his older brother years ago when their parents died in a plane crash. The only thing Grant had ever wanted to be was a cop, so he gladly left the running of the company to his brother. But he didn’t try to hide the fact that he lived beyond his city salary.

  “Give me a break, Julia. I live in the guest house. I haven’t bought a new suit in months, and the Gucci shoes are two years old.” He gave her a caustic grin. “How come you’re so prickly? You chip a nail when you went to Communications to pick up the printout for me?”

  “Stuff it, Pierce.” She slid a hip onto the edge of the desk and swept her hand toward the pages. “The names are in alphabetical order. The only Whitebear that NCIC lists is your buddy Ellis.”

  “Great.”

  There had to be a missing twin, Grant thought. He’d hoped the ghost search he’d run through the National Crime Information Center for all Native American males with the same date of birth as Ellis Whitebear would bring up the man’s brother. Maybe it had, Grant mused as he thumbed through the printout’s pages. If a different family had adopted Ellis’s twin, then he’d probably be using that family’s surname. And maybe a different date of birth, if that date had been unclear when their mother handed her two-month-old sons over to the state of Texas. Or, maybe the twin hadn’t ever been arrested, never did military service, had no mental health commitments or contracts wit
h law enforcement. If so, he wouldn’t show up in NCIC’s database.

  “Dammit, Sam and I closed this case. It’s not supposed to jump up two years down the road and bite me on the rear.”

  Julia skimmed her gaze to the desk that butted up to the front of Grant’s. “Any idea how long it will be until they bring in someone new?”

  “No.”

  “Whoever it is will be your partner. The lieutenant will ask for your input.”

  Grant kept his eyes off Sam’s desk. The day before, he’d finally boxed up the photo of his partner’s wife and kids and the Mickey Mantel-autographed baseball Sam had displayed on one corner of the desk. After adding the cache of cigars and personal papers he’d dug out of the drawers, Grant had taken the box to Sam’s widow. He wondered how long just looking at the now-bare desk would put a knot in his gut. He couldn’t even think about anyone else taking up residence there. “If Ryan asks, I’ll tell him to take his time.”

  Julia nodded as she thumbed through a stack of messages she’d picked up from the secretary’s desk on her way in. “Meanwhile, let me know if you need any help. Halliday and I just cleared our last open case.”

  “Lucky you.”

  She hesitated. “I almost forgot. Lonnie asked me to tell you Sky phoned while you were on your last call.”

  “Thanks.” Grant set his jaw against the instant zing that shot through his blood. For six months, he and Sky had avoided each other. He knew she was probably calling to tell him she’d gotten the results from the blood samples she’d sent to the OSBI. Nothing between them had changed, he reminded himself. If it wasn’t for work, they still wouldn’t have anything to say to each other.

  “Don’t bother calling the lab,” Julia said when he reached for his phone. “Lonnie said Sky is at the Training Center teaching recruit school this afternoon. She’ll call you back when the session’s over.”

  “Yo, Remington,” one detective bellowed from across the room, the cord on his phone dangling from his fingers. “Your old man’s on line three.”

  Sighing, Julia slid off the desk. “Sloan would love hearing himself called that.”