LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

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 with 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.”

      After Julia moved off, Grant retrieved the printout she’d left, intending to start scanning the names. Ten minutes later, his forehead creased when he found himself still staring at the first page. His mind ought to be centered on the computer-generated names, not on Sky Milano’s take-you-to-heaven blue eyes.

      “Get a grip, Pierce.” It annoyed him that he hadn’t been able to completely forget her over the past six months—more, that he’d been unable to lock her out of his head since she’d walked into the FOP club five nights ago. One of his cases had turned to hell, and that was

Скачать книгу