On Dangerous Ground. Maggie Price

handsome?”

      “It’ll do.”

      When she leaned to check the level in the bottle, her breast brushed his arm. “You going to want more later?” she asked softly.

      “Only if I decide it will be a good night to die.”

      She laughed, low and throaty. “I’m off at midnight. I’ll be happy to have a drink, or whatever else, with you.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.” He remained silent until the woman moved out of hearing range, then slid his gaze back to Sky. “I’m listening.”

      She wetted her lips. “I need to talk to you about the Benjamin case.”

      “Closed,” Grant shot back, even as he felt the first pinging of an alarm in his head. Whatever was going on, it had to be serious for Sky to seek him out regarding a murder he and Sam had worked—and cleared—two years ago. “In case you’ve forgotten, Ellis Whitebear slit Mavis Benjamin’s throat. He’s sitting on death row. Your testimony helped put him there. End of story.”

      “Maybe not.”

      Deciding he didn’t need to fog his brain further at the moment, Grant shoved the bottle aside and leaned in. “You want to tell me exactly what that means?”

      “Two days ago, I got the results from the blood off the bandage we believe the suspect lost at the Peña scene.”

      “The Peña scene?” Grant narrowed his eyes at her mention of the brutal rape/murder that had stumped Sam and himself. “Did you just change the subject, or are we still talking about the Benjamin case?”

      “Both cases…” Sky’s voice trailed off, and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Grant, you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

      “You’re sending that message loud and clear.”

      The waitress returned with Sky’s drink, an oversize lemon wedge hooked precariously on the rim of the glass.

      Ignoring the woman’s intimate wink, Grant waited until she turned her attention to four cops with empty beer mugs at a nearby table, then he shifted his gaze to Sky’s hands. They were still wrapped one around the other, and her knuckles had turned as white as one of her lab coats.

      “You’ve got my full attention,” he said quietly.

      “The blood found on Mavis Benjamin’s clothing matches the suspect’s blood from the Peña crime scene.”

      “You mean,” Grant began carefully, “the suspects in homicides that occurred two years apart have the same weird blood type?”

      “I mean they have the same DNA.”

      Grant felt sweat gather at his lower back. “Identical?”

      “Yes.”

      A double-fisted punch to the gut would have been easier to take, he thought as he stared across the table. “Ellis Whitebear is sitting in a cell on death row at the state pen. I doubt they issued him a pass so he could go out and cut the Peña woman’s throat, then rape her for good measure. That means he’s got a hell of an alibi.”

      Sky kept her eyes locked with his. “I know.”

      “What else do you know?”

      “That my test results are accurate.”

      “On which case?”

      “Both.”

      Grant uttered a ripe curse. “How the hell could both be right? We’ve got two murders. There’s no way the man who killed the first woman killed the second. So how could your tests show the same suspect DNA at both crime scenes?”

      When Sky shifted in her chair, light from the nearby jukebox touched her sculpted cheek with gold. “The only way I know for two people to have the same DNA is if they’re identical twins.”

      “You’re sure about all of this?”

      She arched an eyebrow. “About identical twins?”

      “About the results from the Benjamin and Peña crime scenes.”

      “Yes. I couldn’t believe it when the computer got a hit on both cases. I went to the evidence bay and pulled Benjamin’s clothing. I did another DNA profile on the suspect’s blood found on her dress. The latest result didn’t vary from the first one. The DNA is Whitebear’s. I did the same thing with the evidence from the Peña scene. I’ve spent the past three days…and nights double-checking my work. Grant, I’m positive. One man, or two with identical DNA, killed both women.”

      This time, Grant’s curse brittled the air. The bartender glanced their way. A scathing look from Grant had the man quickly returning to his business. Grant tightened his jaw. He could almost picture Sam sitting across from him, one of his thick cigars clenched in the side of his mouth, thumbs under the suspenders he habitually wore, as he smiled and said, “Well, pretty boy, sounds like you’ve got one hell of a mess to clean up.” Grant rubbed at the knot that had edged up his shoulders and settled in the back of his neck. Sam was gone, and he was the one who had to negotiate some damn mental chessboard.

      He refilled his glass, nudged it across the table toward Sky. “Forget the tonic water. You could probably use this about now.”

      She glanced at the glass, then her glossed lips curved into a slight smile that only reminded him of how it had felt to kiss that warm, lush mouth.

      “If I thought it would help, I’d drink the whole bottle.”

      “You might just have to fight me for it.”

      She massaged her right temple as if pain had lodged there. “I don’t remember all the details of the Benjamin case, just the work I did. 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.”