# The Heart of Brody McQuade

Mallory Kane

## The Heart of. Brody McQuade

Mallory Kane


www.millsandboon.co.uk

## Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Copyright

Mallory Kane credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the southern tradition of oral history, and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.

She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and often uses her medical background to add an extra dose of intrigue to her books. Another fascination that she enjoys exploring in her reading and writing is the infinite capacity of the brain to adapt and develop higher skills.

Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats, and, at current count, seven computers.

She loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at rickey_m@bellsouth.net

To Delores and Rita – here we go again.

## Prologue

Christmas Ev e

Lieutenant Brody McQuade, Texas Ranger, looked at the ornate casket for the first time since he’d walked into the quiet chapel. His heart twisted with pain so severe he couldn’t breathe. That was his baby sister beneath that blanket of pink and white poinsettias. Kimmie.

Ever since he could remember, his mom had drilled into him that Kimberly was his responsibility.

If anything ever happens to us… Those words weren’t just empty motherisms. His parents had been thrill-seekers, and wealthy enough to pursue their dangerous hobbies.

A pipe organ’s dulcet tones swelled. Brody’s throat closed and his shoulders bowed as if they could shield his heart from deeper pain. Out of habit he straightened them. He was a Texas Ranger and Rangers were always strong and straight—dependable and responsible.

Next to him, Sergeant Hayes Keller turned his head slightly. “You all right?” he whispered.

Brody lifted his chin. No way could he let Hayes or the third Ranger on the pew, Egan Caldwell, know the shape he was in. He was their superior officer. His responsibility to them and to the Rangers went beyond personal feelings.

Ah, dammit, Kimmie. What were you doing in that car without your seat belt on? He stared at his hands and pretended the blurriness in his eyes wasn’t tears.

Hayes nudged him.

“The service is over, Brody. Let’s go.”

He raised his head. The music had stopped. In the silence he heard clothes rustle and a few quiet coughs. Everyone was waiting for him to make the first move.

He stood, bitter nausea clogging his throat. Why the hell hadn’t he insisted on a private service? He felt the stares from the people in the chapel—most of whom could have prevented this tragedy if they’d paused in their partying and drinking for one second.

He approached the casket. He reached out a hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually touch the polished surface.

“Bye, Kimmie,” he whispered hoarsely. “I swear I’ll put the bastard who did this away for the rest of his worthless life.”

He felt a touch on his shoulder.

He looked up. It was Caroline Stallings, the socialite who’d let Kimmie die. What kind of woman drove with the top down three days before Christmas? And let a passenger ride with no seat belt?

“Lieutenant McQuade, please accept my condolences. I feel so bad about what happened.”

He took in her pale face and bruised forehead. It was all he could do to rein in the anger that churned in his gut. He met her gaze, gleaning a grim satisfaction when her eyes widened with apprehension. “Thanks,” was all he could manage.

With Egan and Hayes behind him, he navigated through the crush of attendees, most of whom he’d only met in the past three days as he’d interrogated them about Kimberly’s death.

He’d had no idea that interning on the San Antonio City Board would throw Kimberly into the middle of the city’s wealthiest inner circle. Caroline Stallings was on the board, and maybe that explained it. Kimberly had admired Caroline, had in fact raved about her.

But there was something fishy about the hit-and-run crash that had taken his sister’s life, and before he got through with them, he planned to unearth all these Cantara Hills trust-fund babies’ dirty little secrets.

Just as he reached the rear door he saw a familiar, squirrelly face. Gary Zelke, the SOB who had drunkenly slammed into Caroline Stallings’s vintage Corvette.

Frustration, grief and anger roiled inside him like a toxic stew. He eased past a tall blonde who smelled like money and roses, and confronted the little twerp.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Zelke turned white as a sheet. “Just paying my respects.”

“Why aren’t you in jail? You’ve got a lot of gall.” Brody clenched his fists. His jaw ached. “I ought to—”

“Pardon me.”

It was the blonde. Her tailored suit revealed legs that went all the way to the ground. In heels, she came close to his six foot two.

“I’m Victoria Kirkland. We met briefly at the police station the day after the accident.”

He frowned, trying to place her. Suddenly the memory hit him. She was Zelke’s ambulance-chasing lawyer and a potential witness. She’d driven through the intersection seconds before Caroline and Kimberly had.

“You. You bailed him out. After the dirt-wad left my sister lying in the street.”

Victoria Kirkland flattened her lips and nodded. “Lieutenant, my deepest sympathy goes out to you and your family—”

Brody leveled his famous quelling gaze on her. “But…?”

Her green eyes sparked without faltering, and a tiny quirk of her lips surprised him. She gave him back look for look and her expression clearly said, Don’t even try.

“But I’m Mr. Zelke’s attorney. Anything you have to say, you say to me.”

Brody ground his teeth. “He killed my sister.”

Now her gaze faltered. “He didn’t, but I won’t argue the point here while you’re in mourning.”

Brody clenched his fists and his jaw. “Don’t do me any favors, Counselor.”

“You have my card. Call me and we can discuss the charges you’re bringing against my client.”

All of Brody’s anger and pain transferred itself to the long, cool blonde. Sharp as a stiletto and twice as dangerous. If she were cut she’d probably bleed ice water. Why was she bothering with a two-bit drunk like Zelke?

She wasn’t sleeping with him. Hell, she’d eat him alive.

Brody rubbed his eyes and turned away. One thing he knew for sure. When she tangled with him, she’d lose, because he had the advantage. Her heart wasn’t in it. His was.

He was fighting for justice for his little sister.

Chapter One

Eight months late r

“Hey, Caldwell, get up!” Brody McQuade pushed open the door to the second bedroom of the luxury conference suite at the Cantara Hills Country Club. His fellow Ranger was nothing more than an irregular lump under the fancy bedspread.

“Egan!”

The lump stirred. A rude, muffled comment reached Brody’s ears. “Let’s go. We’ve got another break-in.”

The lump turned into a head with brown hair sticking out every which way. “Another…at the condos?” Egan cursed and sat up, kicking at the bedclothes. He yawned and rubbed his head.

“Yeah. Come on.”

Egan squinted at him. “You’re already dressed.”

Brody didn’t respond.

Egan sighed. “I’ll catch up. What room?”

“Didn’t get particulars. The police are there. Ask at the door.” Brody left Egan sitting on the side of his bed with his head in his hands.

Grabbing his holster and hat, Brody stalked out to his Jeep Compass. The whine of police sirens echoed in his ears. He could see flashing blue lights in the near distance, over the Cantara Gardens Condominiums, south of the country club.

Adrenaline pumped through him and he had trouble reining in his impatience on the four-minute drive around the back nine holes of the golf course to the condos’ gates. He’d have preferred to sprint across the manicured greens and straightaways. Probably wouldn’t take forty seconds if he ran flat out.

But arriving at a crime scene sweaty and wrinkled wasn’t the Ranger way. Nor was it Brody’s style.

He’d been expecting this. There had been a break-in every month at the condos since January. Seven so far. Two fatalities. Trent Briggs in February, and Gary Zelke three months later, in May.

Deason hadn’t mentioned the name of the latest victim. The San Antonio Police Department Detective Sergeant had sounded frantic.

Did that mean they’d had another fatality?

He pulled up to the gate where an SAPD officer waved him through. Normally the residents used a computerized access card to open the gate. He had a master in his pocket.

Pulling up beside a police car, he headed inside. He didn’t recognize the officer at the front door, but the young man’s eyes lit on the silver star pinned to his shirt pocket and nodded. “Sergeant Deason is waiting for you, sir. In the penthouse.”

He raised his eyebrows. The penthouse. Victoria Kirkland’s apartment. Naturally it had to be her. Anger bubbled up from his chest, hot and noxious as methane gas.

Suck it up, McQuade. Tonight she wasn’t the shyster who’d gotten Kimmie’s killer off with nothing but a DUI. Tonight she was a victim. He didn’t ask if she’d survived the break-in. If she hadn’t, Deason would have told him.

He stepped into the elevator and eyed the button labeled “P.” Beside it was a narrow horizontal slot. He inserted the master access card the condos’ manager had given him into the slot and pressed the button.

The elevator car rumbled and started climbing, straight to the top. The doors opened into a foyer that could have been the lobby of a fancy hotel, complete with massive vases of flowers, illuminated artworks, and marble floors and columns.

Damn. Victoria Kirkland didn’t make this kind of money practicing law. She was a trust-fund baby. He should have known.

He pointedly ignored the voice in his head that reminded him that he was, too. His situation was different. For one thing, he was never going to touch the money his careless, carefree parents had placed in trust for Kimmie and him.

As his boot heels clicked on the marble floor, he heard heavier boots on the dark mahogany staircase to his left. The tall, burly detective sergeant, Cal Deason, came down the stairs.

“McQuade,” he said, holding out his hand.

Brody shook it briefly. He and Deason had worked together before. They both knew that the Rangers were in charge of this investigation, but Brody was careful to give Deason his full respect and consideration for his position. “What’s going on? Have we got a fatality?”

Deason shook his head. “Nope. She was damn lucky.”

Brody’s gut clenched. Lucky? Yeah. Some people were born lucky. He concentrated on the slight weight of the unique silver badge pinned to his shirt and reminded himself that this wasn’t personal.

Personally, he despised the leggy attorney for making good on her promise to get Gary Zelke acquitted of the charge of vehicular manslaughter. But as a Texas Ranger, he was bound to protect her and stop these break-ins and murders.

“Injuries?”

“Bruises on her neck. But other than that, just scared.”

So the perp had gotten in. Tried to kill her. That fit the pattern. If he’d succeeded, this would have been the third killing in eight months—if he counted Kimmie’s. One murder every three months.

“The guy got past the condo’s security alarm system,” Deason went on, “just like every other time. But Ms. Kirkland had her own system installed when she moved in.” Deason nodded toward the ceiling.

Brody followed his gaze and spotted the security cameras trained on the doors. “You get the tapes?”

Deason nodded. “That’s the only camera, and the guy didn’t use the front door, but I’ll have my guys go through them.”

“No. I’ll send them to Austin. Sergeant Caldwell will take them.”

“I’ll have ’em ready.”

Deason’s words were affable, but Brody detected a note of resentment in his tone. He couldn’t blame the homicide sergeant. But Deason knew Brody had no choice. The request for the Rangers to take charge of the investigation had come from the mayor through the governor.

The residents of Cantara Hills had the clout to cover their butts. Once the Rangers had control of the investigation, there’d be no question of conflict of interest.

“I’d appreciate it. How’d the perp get inside?”

Deason shook his head. “My guys are checking. However he did it, he went out the same way. Ms. Kirkland’s extra security may have saved her life, but it allowed the perp to get away clean.”

“I assume your guys are going over that area with a fine-toothed comb. Give Sergeant Caldwell anything you find. As long as we’ve got the Rangers’ crime lab, we might as well use it. Where is Ms. Kirkland?”

“In the kitchen. She wanted some hot tea.”

His mental picture of her modified slightly to add a fragile expensive teacup to her perfectly manicured hand. He’d figured her as a fancy martini type.

“Sergeant Caldwell will be here in a minute to help you process the scene. I’m going to talk to her.”

Deason nodded toward his right. “That-a-way. McQuade…”

He turned back.

“She hasn’t been processed yet. I told her we could wait until she’d calmed down.”

Wealth hath its privileges.

He knew that, too well. What he’d never been able to figure out was why great wealth didn’t come packaged with wisdom and responsibility.

If his parents hadn’t missed out on the responsibility gene, his and his sister’s lives might have taken another path and Kimberly would be alive.

Quelling the urge to clutch at his chest where grief and loneliness still squeezed the life out of his heart, he stepped around a marble column, through a formal dining room and into the kitchen area.

The kitchen was as outrageously opulent as the foyer and living room. It was more like a balcony than a kitchen, with paned windows running across one entire wall, Mexican quarry tile on the floors and teak lounging furniture taking the place of a table and chairs.

Victoria was sitting on a love seat holding a mug in both hands while a young police officer stood nearby looking bored and awestruck at the same time.

Brody caught his eye. “Crime-scene kit?”

The officer nodded. “Yes, sir. Right here.” He toed a metal case at his feet.

“Help them upstairs.” He gestured with his head. “Leave the case here.”

Victoria looked up. Her mug jerked slightly, even though her pale face didn’t change expression. “Lieutenant McQuade. I didn’t expect to see you.” Her voice was husky.

He bit back a retort. Did she actually think he’d send someone else just because she was the victim? This was his case, and he didn’t let anything interfere with a case. “I was available.”

She muttered something. It sounded like Lucky me.

“Tell me what happened.”

She set the mug of tea down on the teak side table. “Can I make you some tea or coffee?”

“No. Tell me what happened.”

Her lips compressed into a thin line and she sat back. For the first time he noticed what she was wearing. It was some kind of shiny satiny nightgown with a robe over it. Except that it wasn’t exactly a robe. It was black and red and looked Oriental. A kimono? Whatever it was, it and the gown together hardly qualified as clothes. The material of both was so slinky and clingy that he could see the vague outline of her nipples and the V where her thighs met.

Lust speared through him. Hell. He swallowed and concentrated on her words.

“I went to bed fairly early, around eleven. I must have gone right to sleep because the next thing I knew something startled me.” She lifted the mug and blew across its surface. The satiny fabric whispered and shimmered.

Brody’s mouth went dry. Dragging his gaze away from her slender body, he focused on her feet. They were encased in delicate, ivory, open-toed slippers. Her toenails were unpainted—naked.

He shifted his gaze to the windows. “What startled you? A sound?”

“Maybe. I woke up and I knew someone was in my apartment. Sergeant Deason has already asked me all of this.”

“Now I’m asking. And trust me, this won’t be the last time.”

“I’m aware of how investigations work, Lieutenant. I was merely pointing out that you might save yourself some time if you talked to him.”

No. You’re merely testing to see if you can intimidate me with your wealth and position. He crossed his arms. She was a victim here. As much as she irritated him, he couldn’t forget that.

“I’ve got plenty of time. What happened next?”

Her fingers tightened on the mug. “I sat up and he—whoever it was—grabbed my throat.” She closed her eyes. “He pushed me down and flipped me onto my stomach before I could react. Then the security alarm went off.”

“It went off after he attacked you?”

“It’s my personal security system, not the building’s. It trips when a door or a window is breached. It automatically calls the police, then after fifteen seconds, the siren goes off.”

“Fifteen seconds? You could be dead in fifteen seconds.”

What little color she had in her face drained away. “Th-the theory is that the police get a head start.”

“Brilliant theory,” Brody muttered. “The condo’s security system never went off, just like the other break-ins.”

“What does that mean? Are you saying it’s one of us?”

He bristled at her words. One of us. As opposed to whom? “Do you mean the residents of Cantara Hills, rather than the rest of San Antonio?”

She angled her head and assessed him. “I mean one of the residents of Cantara Gardens. Lieutenant, should I be talking to someone else? I’m afraid your personal grudge against me might jeopardize this investigation.”

“There is absolutely nothing personal about my feelings for you.”

“Are you sure? Because it certainly sounds personal.”

Brody reined in his rising irritation. She was right. His question had been out of line. She was the victim of a potentially deadly crime. That was all that mattered. The fact that she was instrumental in freeing the drunken weasel who killed his sister had no bearing on this case. Nor did the unfortunate fact that despite himself, he was attracted to her.

“What about Gary and Trent? Do you think it means anything that they’re the only two who’ve been killed?”

And there it was.

The one thing that kept gnawing at his brain and digging at his insides. He couldn’t shake the feeling that their deaths had something to do with his sister’s death eight months before. His notebook was filled with notes and charts and analyses of every detail of the break-ins and murders—their similarities and their differences.

Everything about the break-ins led back to one undeniable fact. If he started with the night Kimberly was killed, the fatalities in Cantara Hills were three months apart. December, February, May and now August. The break-ins had started in January. There had been one a month since then. The theory was that the five people who weren’t home when the break-ins occurred had been lucky. But Brody had a different theory.

Trent Briggs and Victoria Kirkland had left socialite Taylor Landis’s party together that fateful night, just ahead of Caroline and Kimberly. Zelke had left a few minutes after Kimberly. Victoria had passed the intersection just seconds before Zelke plowed into Caroline’s Vette and fled the scene of the crime.

Briggs and Zelke had been killed during break-ins. And now the last person who’d been near the scene at the critical time that night had been attacked.

And nearly killed.

But Brody didn’t want to get into that with her. She’d denied seeing anything that night, and she’d gotten Zelke off with nothing more than leaving the scene of an accident and driving under the influence.

Brody hated her for that. Even though she’d proved that another vehicle had crashed into Caroline’s car first. Even though the final coroner’s report concluded that Kimberly had already been thrown from the car before Zelke hit it.

“Lieutenant? None of the other break-in victims were attacked, were they? Their apartments were broken into while they were gone.” Her eyes glittered and the mug clattered as she set it down. “So why Gary? Why Trent? Why…me?”

Dammit. She was really spooked. Despite his resentment, the hint of tears in her eyes and the faint trembling of her lower lip tugged at his heart.

“The theory is that the others were lucky they weren’t home,” he said noncommittally.

“It’s too much of a coincidence. Trent and I passed that intersection only seconds before Caroline and Kimberly, and then Gary.”

“Let’s get back to what happened tonight. Now, did you notice anything about your attacker? Was he big? Small? Fat? Skinny?”

“I don’t know. His hands maybe. They were strong—big.”

“Any scars? Any identifying marks?”

She shook her head without looking at him.

Dammit, he needed something to go on. She was the first—the only one who’d been attacked and lived to tell it. “What about his clothes? Long sleeves? What about smell? After-shave? Cologne? Bad breath?”

Her head still turned back and forth. “I can’t tell you anything. I was asleep and then he was there.” Her voice quavered.

Brody’s frustration built. He planted his feet hip-width apart and crossed his arms over his chest. “So a man broke into your home, found his way to your bedroom and attacked you, and you can’t tell me one thing about him? Are you even sure it was a man?”

Victoria opened her mouth, but the retort he expected didn’t surface. Instead, she closed her eyes and the corners of her mouth grew white and pinched. “I’m sure it was a man.”

“How?”

She glanced up at him. For an instant her green eyes flashed with fear. Then she dropped her gaze. “His breaths sawing in and out in my ear. He sounded—and felt—like a man.” She wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

Then she shuddered, and her terror and revulsion reverberated inside him.

“All right. Good. Now stand up. I need to see your neck.”

“It’s fine.”

“That’s not your call to make. As an attorney, I’d think you’d know that. I need to examine the bruises and process you.”

“Process me?”

He cleared his throat impatiently. “Look, Ms. Kirkland. I know you understand procedure. So it’d be helpful if you’d cooperate.”

She stood, her green eyes glittering. “I apologize. I’m not trying to be difficult. I seem to be distracted.” She lifted her chin, exposing the bruises on her neck.

Irritated because her distress was getting to him, Brody pulled out his cell phone and hit a prerecorded number. “Egan. You upstairs?”

“Yeah. I was going to let you know I was here, but it looked like you and the victim were butting heads, so I left you alone.”

“Is there a female officer up there? I want to process Victoria.”

“Yeah,” Egan said slowly. “A very nice one.”

“Send her down.” He hung up and pocketed his phone, then retrieved the small green case labeled CSI. Inside he found a disposable digital camera and a small stack of fingerprint paper.

He stood in front of her. In bare feet she seemed a lot smaller than she had at Kimmie’s funeral and Zelke’s arraignment. Those high heels she always wore added a lot.

“Sir?”

“Yeah,” he answered the female voice without turning around. “You’re Officer…”

“Martin. Sheila.”

“Good. Thanks for coming down.” He got the camera ready, then spoke to Victoria.

“Can you lift your hair out of the way?”

She twisted her hair up, holding it with one hand, exposing her slender neck. Ugly black and purple ovals stood out against her creamy skin.

Rage against the bastard who’d attacked her clenched at Brody’s insides. He had to quell the urge to touch her marred skin, to soothe it.

What the hell was going on in his head? He didn’t soothe victims. His approach was to treat them with respect and detachment. The last thing they needed was to be treated like victims.

It was Kimmie’s death. For the past eight months his emotions had been all upside down and backward. Things were getting to him that never had in the past.

In any case, Victoria Kirkland was the last person on earth he should be tempted to comfort. He ignored the supple curve of her neck and concentrated on the bruises.

Moving quickly and efficiently, he snapped several pictures from various angles, instructing her to turn this way and that.

There were obvious similarities between her injuries and those of Zelke and Briggs. The theory that he’d been forming clicked. Their deaths weren’t random and neither were the break-ins of unoccupied apartments.

He needed to bounce this off his team. He’d known them both since childhood, but he’d never figured either one of them would amount to much. Egan had always been too bitter about his unfeeling father, and Hayes’s home life had better prepared him to be on the other side of the law.

But they’d both grown up to be fine men and fine Rangers. Egan’s practical if surly outlook on life and Hayes’s sense of irony had kept Brody grounded these past months. They’d tell him in a heartbeat if his suspicions were off base.

“Officer Martin, how long have you been on the force?” he asked.

“Seven months, sir.”

“Ever seen a strangling victim?”

Victoria Kirkland turned her head at the question. What was Lieutenant McQuade doing? “I’d rather not be made a spectacle,” she muttered.

“Just stay still. This won’t take long.”

Victoria closed her eyes and took a long breath. “I don’t see the relevance.”

He didn’t answer her. “Get three or four small fingerprint sheets from the kit,” he said to Officer Martin.

“Yes, sir.”

“See these markings? They’re the same as on the two previous victims. All three were strangled from behind.” Brody’s voice was detached, his attitude one hundred percent business. But Victoria could feel his finger hovering a millimeter above her skin as he traced the bruises on her neck.

“Yes, sir.”

From her voice, Victoria could tell that the young officer was as awestruck as a teenager meeting her favorite rock star.

Not that Victoria blamed her. Brody McQuade was one big hunk of eye candy. All rugged and brooding and intense. The Texas Ranger badge and the in-charge attitude only upped his sex appeal.

At that very instant, his hand slid to her shoulder. His touch was warm and reassuring, until she realized all he was doing was turning her so that her back was to him.

“Hand me the sheets and pull back the neck of her robe please.”

So that was why he’d called for the officer. Victoria should have known. He hadn’t needed any help, and he wasn’t going to let the female officer do the fingerprinting. He was insuring himself against any chance of a later accusation of impropriety. The thought made her ears burn. As if she’d stoop to lying.

“He turned her onto her stomach and wrapped both hands around her neck. Do I have that right, Ms. Kirkland?”

Victoria shuddered. His words brought back the terror, the helplessness, the dreadful certainty that she was going to die. Was he doing that on purpose? Taunting her? Forcing her to relive those awful seconds that she’d thought were her last?

She heard the sound of paper being peeled off its backing. She was expecting him to press the sticky film against her neck, but she still jumped when he did.

“Try to stand still,” he said, his voice kinder than it had been so far, “and keep your hair out of the way.”

He gently wrapped his fingers around the right side of her neck, pressing the paper firmly against her skin. Chills skittered down her spine. She stiffened. There was a vast difference between his firm hands and her attacker’s thick, punishing fingers, yet the fear was still there.

He peeled the tape off, and after a couple of seconds he pressed a second strip onto the left side of her neck, against the worst bruise. She jerked away and bit off a gasp of pain.

The pressure eased immediately. “Sorry. It won’t be much longer.” He cradled the right side of her head in his right hand as he pressed the tape down with his left.

The warmth of his palm cradling her head sent a surprising tingle of awareness through her. She must be more rattled than she’d thought if she was reacting to this overbearing Texas Ranger who’d made it clear how much he detested her.

And she understood why. She’d believed in Gary Zelke’s innocence or she wouldn’t have given in to his plea to represent him. And although the expert she’d hired had found evidence the police had missed—evidence that proved another car had rammed Caroline’s Corvette prior to Gary’s—Brody McQuade still resented her.

He peeled the tape off her neck. “Okay. You can let your hair down.”

She let go of her hair and massaged her cramped shoulder.

“Label those if you would,” Brody said to Officer Martin. “Left side, right side. You know the drill. And take them upstairs to Sergeant Caldwell.”

Victoria turned around and her kimono slipped down one arm. She grabbed it and pulled it back up, but not before Brody’s dark, intense eyes zeroed in on her bare shoulder and nearly exposed breast.

She stared at him, daring him to look her in the eye.

He did.

“Why did you do that?” she asked.

His brows lowered and his gaze flickered briefly downward. “Do what?” he said harshly.

“Fingerprint my neck. Why didn’t you have Officer Martin do it?” As antsy as she still was, she couldn’t completely hide a smile at his reaction. Had he really thought she would ask why he’d looked at her nearly naked breast?

She did like the idea that he was enough of a guy to look.

“Oh…”

Well, what do you know? He was cute when he was flustered. She’d seen him angry, cold, devastated by grief and disgusted. And she’d seen him calm, efficient and stiffly official. But although she’d noticed his even features, the cleft in his chin and his strong jaw, the word cute had never occurred to her in relation to him. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate the description.

“I didn’t want to depend on secondhand information. I wanted to see for myself.”

Apprehension pooled at the base of her spine. “See what?”

He studied her for a moment, a small frown wrinkling his brow. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something.

Then he took a couple of steps backward, away from her, and looked at the floor. She was a good attorney, a good judge of people and an excellent reader of body language. He’d distanced himself from her because he was going to tell her something she didn’t want to hear.

“There have been seven break-ins in the past eight months. Four occurred while the people weren’t home.” He walked over to the windows.

“Right. Everyone here has talked about how lucky they were.”

“Were they?”

Brody was looking out over the Cantara Hills Golf Course. But she knew his eyes weren’t on the spectacular view. He was turned inward, struggling with something.

“What are you saying?”

He didn’t answer, nor did he move. He stood outlined by the darkness beyond the windows, his arms crossed and his feet planted shoulder-distance apart, his back at once strong-and vulnerable-looking in his white dress shirt.

She walked over and put herself between him and the window. “What are you saying?” she repeated.

He looked down at her. “Why do you think Zelke and Briggs and you were the only ones attacked?”

She shook her head. “That’s what I asked you.”

“Do you know what was stolen from each apartment?”

Victoria was having trouble following his logic. “Not much.”

“That’s right. Not much. The guy barely took enough to call it a burglary. And not one thing that can be traced. No custom jewelry, nothing large. Insignificant stuff.”

“But he took an antique humidor from Byron Dalloway and about five thousand in cash from Mrs. Winger and a diamond-and-emerald bracelet from Jane Majorsky—”

“Insignificant.”

She frowned. “But if burglary wasn’t the motive, then…”

His intense gaze taunted her, dared her to say what she was thinking.

“You do think the break-ins were a cover. You think…”

“You three were the real targets. And if I’m right, he’ll be back for you.”

Chapter Two

Two hours later, back in the conference suite, their temporary headquarters at the Cantara Hills Country Club, Brody looked up from his laptop at the sound of plastic sliding against metal, and then the soft whirr of a computer-driven lock release. The hall door swung open. Egan came in, wiping a hand down his face.

“Where’s the evidence?” Brody asked.

“It’s in the car,” Egan said on a yawn. “Could you give me time to get my tail in the door before you chew on it?”

Brody didn’t bother to answer him. He finished typing in his impressions of the crime scene and Victoria Kirkland’s condition.

Caucasian female, thirty years old, five foot nine inches—He stopped, picturing her standing in front of him with one shoulder of that black-and-red kimono sliding down her delicately muscled arm. She was slender but not skinny. He went back to typing—130 pounds, blond hair, green eyes.

“Hot and cool at the same time.” Egan’s voice came from behind him. “Like a hot fudge sundae.”

Brody kicked his chair back and whirled in one motion.

“Whoa!” Egan backpedaled. Water flew in an arc across the tile floor as he fumbled with the plastic bottle he held.

“This is not a joke.”

“Hey, I know that. But you’ve got to lighten up. I don’t think you’ve slept a night through since…”

Since Kimberly’s death. The unspoken words hung between them, echoing in Brody’s head. His old life had ended and this new obsessed one had begun the night his sister died.

“I’m fine,” he growled.

Egan took a step back. “No, you’re not. Look, Brody. I respect what you’re doing. God knows I’ve admired your abilities all my life, but you shouldn’t be on this case. You’re burning yourself out.”

Brody sent him a glare and sat back down at the mahogany conference table. He stared at the laptop screen, but the words were a blur.

He heard the plastic water bottle hit the trash. “Do us both a favor and get your butt to bed. That report’ll be there in the morning.”

Brody wiped a hand across his face. When he did, the faint scent of roses drifted across his nostrils. He’d washed his hands. How did they still carry her scent? “Yeah, the report’ll be here, but the perp will be back in his spider-hole. What have you got for evidence?”

“Damn little. Whoever did this is careful, but we already knew that from the other break-ins. There was nothing in the bedroom, but I’ve got the bedclothes.”

“Nothing? No hairs? No fibers?”

Egan wiped his face. “Nope. Not that we saw. We picked up a few prints.”

“What about how he got in?”

“It had to be the back door. We found prints on the back stairs.”

“Back door? Back stairs?”

“Yeah. That is one big penthouse.”

“I wish I’d known about the stairs.”

Egan yawned. “I got it covered. I took fingerprints and got one good photo of a boot print in dust. Most of them were smudged.”

“Good job.” Brody closed the laptop and looked at his watch. “I want you up at seven. Get that evidence to Austin. We could have a partial print from Victoria’s neck.”

“Seven?” Egan checked his watch and groaned.

“You got a problem with that?”

Egan averted his gaze and shook his head. “Nope.” He rubbed his eyes. “Two hours and forty-three minutes’ worth of sleep. No problem.”

“Where are the case files for Briggs and Zelke?”

“I haven’t touched them. They’re wherever you left them.”

“I want the lab to compare fingerprints. I think I got a couple of good ones off Victoria’s neck.”

“You? You processed her?”

“The female cop was a rookie. I didn’t want it messed up.”

“I don’t think they tried to take prints off Briggs’s and Zelke’s skin, and there were no usable prints in their apartments.”

Brody cursed. “I don’t guess it would do any good to exhume them.”

“All right, Lieutenant. Now I’m sure you’re losing it. They were washed and autopsied and embalmed. You’ve got to get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Brody said on a sigh. “I guess I do.”

Egan headed for his room.

Brody headed for his. At his door he turned back. “Caldwell.”

Egan sighed and let his forehead fall against the door frame.

“Stay up there in Austin. I want to hear back on the lab’s findings as soon as they happen.”

“Let Hayes do it. He’s already there. He can—”

“You were at the scene. I want you. Send Hayes back here. I’ve got a job for him, too.”

“Yeah?”

Brody nodded. “I want him to chase down the items that were stolen from the apartments.”

“I don’t think Briggs or Zelke had anything stolen.”

“I’m talking about the break-ins where nobody was home.”

“What for? You said yourself nothing traceable was taken.”

“The perp is smart. But what use has he got for an antique humidor or an emerald bracelet?”

Egan’s mouth stretched in a yawn. “Maybe he smokes cigars. Maybe his girlfriend will get a real nice birthday present this year.”

“I’m banking on him preferring money. If he pawned the stuff or sold it to an antique store, maybe we can trace it. And if we can trace it, we can trace him.”

Egan rubbed his eyes. “Good point. What about you? What are you going to do?”

“I want every single entry card for Cantara Gardens accounted for. Victoria’s penthouse card, the manager’s master, the household staff. I especially want to know who’s asked for a replacement card in the past eight months. And what they do with cards when tenants leave—or die.”

“Makes sense. That’s got to be how the perp gets in without setting off the alarm system.”

“Somebody, either on purpose or accidentally, gave the murderer entry into Cantara Gardens, and I intend to find out who it is.”

THE BRUISES WERE WORSE this morning. Victoria lifted her chin and touched the sore places with her fingers, watching her reflection in the downstairs-bathroom mirror.

Icy fear slid down her spine and nausea swirled in her gut as she recalled those hot, rough fingers cutting off her breath. She wrapped her arms protectively around her middle and rested her forehead against the cool mirror, waiting for the queasiness to pass.

She’d showered last night after the police and Brody had left, but this morning she still felt dirty—violated. And her pristine apartment had ceased to be a sanctuary. She’d slept on the sofa in the living room because she couldn’t make herself get into the bed where the man had attacked her.

It didn’t matter that Detective Sergeant Deason had stationed an officer in the elevator lobby. It wouldn’t have mattered if the officer had been guarding her bedroom door. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to sleep in that bed again.

The attacker would be back. Brody McQuade had said so last night, and she knew he was right.

A harsh jangling sent her heart into her throat.

Phone. It was just her phone. She took a deep breath and shook off the panic that had gripped her. Why hadn’t she ever noticed how much the phone’s ring sounded like her security alarm?

She picked up the handset on the third ring, glancing at the ornate clock perched on a shelf. Was it really only seven-thirty?

“Victoria, sweetheart.”

It was Tammy Sutton, the wife of the powerful chairman of the San Antonio City Board. Victoria grimaced. She could tell by the tone of Tammy’s voice that she already knew what had happened.

“Hi, Tammy,” she said, forcing a brightness into her voice.

Of course Tammy would know about the break-in. Not even uber-Ranger Brody McQuade could stop the police from reporting the incident to Kenneth Sutton.

“I do apologize for calling so early, but I heard about your attack and I just had to see if you’re all right. What on earth happened?”

“I’m not sure I should be talking about it.”

“Nonsense. I’m your friend. You need someone to lean on right now.”

Friend? Hardly. She and Tammy were on a couple of charity committees together. Victoria’s grandmother would not have approved of the cavalier way people threw around the word friend these days. She’d have called them speaking acquaintances.

“That’s very nice of you to offer—”

“Sweetheart. It’s what friends are for.” Butter wouldn’t melt in Tammy’s mouth, she thought. The woman was up to something. Victoria almost laughed at that thought. When was Tammy Sutton not up to something? The woman could chew up and spit out anybody, then rinse her mouth with a Long Island Iced Tea.

“Tell me what happened. Could you identify the attacker? Did he say anything?”

“No. It all happened so fast. And he didn’t say a word. He just tried to choke me.”

“Oh, my God! And you didn’t see anything?”

“Not a thing.” Victoria wasn’t about to give Tammy the details of how she’d come awake just as the man grabbed her and flipped her onto her stomach. The horror of what could have happened still chilled her to the bone.

“Oh, Victoria. Are you sure you’re all right? He didn’t—”

“I’m fine. Just a little shaken. Now I really have to get ready for work.”

“Work? Victoria, what is the matter with you? You’re in no shape to work. My God, you could have been killed.”

Victoria’s mouth tasted like ash. She could happily have gone all day without hearing that. She licked her lips and sucked in a breath. “Working will help. In fact, it will help a lot, since I’ve got stacks of paperwork to finish. For once I’ll welcome the boredom. I’m fine, really.”

She was so not fine, but she wasn’t going to let anyone know that. She’d built her reputation as an attorney—face it, she’d built her life—on her ability to stay cool no matter what the situation.

She’d had trouble hanging on to her signature cool last night in the presence of Brody McQuade, and that dismayed her.

She didn’t like the sense of safety she’d felt from the moment he’d walked into the room. She didn’t like the sexual attraction that had sparked between them in an arc of electricity that she’d have sworn was visible.

Most of all, she didn’t like Brody’s air of supreme confidence. He knew he was in charge and his confidence was palpable to anyone he came in contact with.

She’d dealt with guys like him, guys who used bullying to get their way. For some inexplicable reason, she was drawn to the caveman type, but at least she’d learned to recognize them and avoid them.

“Hello? Victoria?”

“Oh, sorry, Tammy. I…I thought I heard something.”

“See? You’re obviously too upset to work. Why don’t you spend a few days at my lake house? It’s got all the comforts—even the freezer’s stocked.”

“Thank you, but I can’t leave in the middle of this investigation.”

Tammy Sutton had always been gracious at dinners and teas, but she’d never made overtures to Victoria. Until today. Victoria couldn’t help but wonder what Tammy’s motive was.

A faint beep sounded in Victoria’s ears. “Tammy, I have another call. It could be the police.”

“Oh, of course. I’ll let you go. We must get together for lunch soon.”

“That would be lovely. Bye.” I won’t hold my breath until I hear from you.

She picked up the incoming call. “Hello?”

“Victoria, are you all right?” It was Caroline Stallings.

“What’s going on, Caroline? How does everybody know about my attack?”

“It’s on the early-morning news. They didn’t say much about your condition, so I had to call. I’m so glad you’re not in the hospital.”

“How do they do it? The media, I mean. I didn’t see a reporter anywhere.”

“Tell me about it. I often get the idea that certain people would be happy to have every move they made played out on television. So they delight in talking to the press about anything.”

“Well, I’ve had about enough of this latest media circus. I’m seriously considering moving.”

“I know. This whole year has been so bizarre. Do you realize that three people we know have died in the past eight months?”

“Three? Oh—you mean starting with Kimberly.”

Caroline paused infinitesimally. “Yes, and all three were such tragedies.”

An eerie chill spread through Victoria. “Sometimes I wonder—”

“If there’s a connection? Me, too.”

Victoria heard her sigh. “Caroline, Kimberly’s death wasn’t your fault.”

“I was driving, and Kimberly didn’t have her seat belt on. There are two people who are certain it was my fault. Lieutenant Brody McQuade and me.”

“It was tragic, but it certainly wasn’t your fault. The only person at fault was the driver who ran away from the scene.”

“I’m the only one who can say what happened, and I have no idea,” Caroline said. “Until I can remember what happened…”

“Still nothing?”

“Zero. Zilch. Nada. I’d always heard about amnesia, but I guess I never really believed someone could actually have zero memory of something that happened to them. And yet here I am, living proof.”

Victoria heard the chimes of her intercom. “Now there’s someone at the door. Looks like I’m the most popular person in Cantara Hills this morning.” She’d tried to make her voice light, but knew she’d failed.

“Don’t let them get you down. Are you going to work?”

“Planning to. I’m sure not staying here all day.”

The chimes rang again. “I’d better go. It might be Lieutenant McQuade, wanting to harass me some more.” Her words were sarcastic, but deep inside, Victoria felt a twinge of anticipation.

What the heck was wrong with her? Did she actually want to see Brody again? Want to experience that sense of safety and power again? Last night he’d filled her apartment with his comforting presence.

“Victoria, if you need to talk or if you just want to get a drink or have lunch or something, let me know.”

Victoria thanked her and hung up. She looked down at herself. She was still in the ivory gown and black-and-red kimono. She started toward the intercom, reaching to turn on the security camera’s monitor.

But before she got to it a ping announced the arrival of the elevators. She recoiled.

Who…? Nobody but the manager had a master access card capable of sending the elevator to the penthouse. She clutched her kimono together at the neck and waited, paralyzed with fear, as the doors slid open.

Chapter Three

It was him. Brody McQuade. He stepped into her foyer looking like a poster for the Texas Rangers in dress khakis, a crisp white shirt, shiny badge on his chest and the signature fawn-colored Stetson held in his left hand. The only thing missing was a tooled-leather holster.

She met his gaze and saw that he was eyeing her clothing just like she’d eyed his.

His brows rose. “Morning, Ms. Kirkland. I didn’t mean to get you out of bed.”

Victoria’s hand tightened at her neck. “How…what…how did you get up here?”

He held up a plastic card. “Master. From the manager.” Was that a twinkle in his eye? It couldn’t have been. Brody’s dark eyes weren’t the twinkling kind.

“Mark Patterson is not supposed to give anyone access to the penthouse.”

Brody didn’t comment.

She narrowed her gaze suspiciously. “I wasn’t in bed. I’m being deluged with phone calls. Apparently everyone in San Antonio knows about last night.”

“Deluged?”

Dear heavens, it was a twinkle. Victoria felt her chest tighten in anger. He thought she was funny?

She propped her fists on her hips, then noticed what that did to her kimono. So she wrapped it around her again and crossed her arms tightly. “Two people have called already and now you’re here.”

“I see what you mean by deluged.”

He nodded solemnly, but Victoria knew sarcasm when she heard it. She ignored it. “I thought the media had to have permission to use victims’ names.”

“You’re the attorney. You ought to know.”

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“I’m canvassing the tenants about their access cards. Whoever attacked you must have had a card, because there was no unauthorized access. No breach of the system, either.”

“Well, that should be easy. Who used their cards last night?”

“I’m waiting for the manager to get me a printout.”

“So you want to see my card?”

“Thought I’d start at the top.”

“Could you give me a minute to dress?”

His gaze flickered. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll go back down to the lobby and wait.”

“Come inside, Lieutenant. There’s no reason for you to wait downstairs.” She excused herself and went upstairs for the first time since the police had left the night before. Her bedroom was still a wreck from the CSIs.

Victoria dressed quickly, averting her eyes from the stripped bed, the misarranged furniture and the fine film of fingerprint dust that covered every surface.

When she came back down, Brody wasn’t in the foyer and the elevator doors were closed. Had he left? Gone down to the lobby to wait, after all?

“Lieutenant?” she called, suddenly nervous. The penthouse was huge, ridiculously large for one person. For the first time since she’d moved in she felt small and vulnerable. “Lieutenant? Brody?”

“In here.”

The kitchen. She followed his voice across the quarry tile to the open door that led into her walk-in pantry, laundry room and trash bin. Brody was examining the door to the hallway.

“I wanted to see where the perp got in.”

“That’s the fire-escape door. The stairs are just to the left.”

“And your penthouse card works in this door, too. My master does.”

“Yes.”

“Who comes in this way?”

“No one.”

“How do you handle trash, recycling, laundry?”

“I set the trash and the recycling out this door and Maintenance picks it up. I do my own laundry.”

“Where do the stairs go?”

“All the way down to the basement, I think. But Maintenance takes the elevator to the third floor, then walks up the fire stairs. They never come inside.”

“Maintenance doesn’t have a card for the penthouse?”

“No. That’s why I put my trash out myself.”

He gave her a hard look, then went back to studying the door. “There’s no sign of forced entry. The perp had to have a master card or one that accesses the penthouse.”

“I have never given anyone a card,” she said sharply.

Brody took a pen-size flashlight out of his pocket and examined the door. “What about these dead bolts? They look like the original locks.”

“They are. These condos were built in the late seventies. That’s why there’s a guardhouse. The guard would operate the gate to let the tenants in.”

“Do you have a key to the dead bolt?”

“Yes, but I think I’m the only one.”

“The only one. Why’s that?”

“Well, other than the staff. I’ve never paid much attention. But it seems like I’ve heard the housekeepers rattling keys.”

“So if the staff have a key, how can you be sure they don’t come in?”

“They’d have to use the card and the key to get into the penthouse. This is the only apartment that requires an electronic card to get in.”

“What about the other tenants? Zelke, Briggs?”

Victoria shook her head. “Their cards are for the gate and the lobby door. Oh, and their keys didn’t fit each other’s locks.”

“How do you know that?”

“They told me. Because they were guys, they tried the keys.”

Brody pushed his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Somebody dropped the ball on the keys. The manager should have told me about them, or the homeowners’ association. Somebody I’ve talked to had to have known about the keys. Either they’re too dumb to know how important those keys are, or they’re protecting someone.”

As he spoke, Victoria remembered playing with a ring of keys on the floor of her grandfather’s house.

I built you the biggest house in the world, Toto, and when you grow up, you’ll live there like a princess in an ivory tower.

Thinking about her grandfather made her sad. Thinking about the ivory tower made her shiver.

She took a deep breath. “Well, the answer is ‘too dumb to know how important they are.’”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s me. I know about the keys. Until you asked about them I hadn’t thought about them in years.”

“Years? What are you talking about?”

Victoria nodded. “My grandpa designed and built Cantara Gardens.”

“Your grandfather?” Brody’s tone dripped with exasperation. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t think about it. That was more than twenty-five years ago. I was in preschool, or grade school.”

She knew she sounded defensive. She was. This…Ranger, with his hot intensity and unbending attitude, expected everyone to be as single-minded and passionate as he was. Not that she could blame him. His little sister, his only family, was dead, and the killer lived somewhere in Cantara Hills.

“So your grandfather owns the condos? I guess it’s easy to see how you could forget that your grandfather is probably the one person who could tell us who has keys. Please tell me he’s alive.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Lucky for you he’s still around.”

Brody winced. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—”

“I know how you meant it.” She angled her head and sent him a disgusted look. “No, Grandpa doesn’t own the condos. He was a contractor. But his contract with the homeowners’ association contained one caveat. That the penthouse at Cantara Gardens would always be available for use by the Kirklands.”

Brody’s expression deteriorated into disgust. “So you don’t even pay for this massive waste of electricity and resources?”

Victoria stuck her chin in the air. “That’s right, Lieutenant McQuade. I don’t even pay for it. I wonder how long it’s going to take you to get over the money thing. I wouldn’t have thought you were such a snob.”

Brody gaped at her. “Snob?” He took a long breath. “I’m not a snob and I don’t give a damn about whose money is whose. I just want to find out who killed Kimmie.” He hadn’t meant to say that. He’d meant to say who was killing tenants in the condos.

Her eyes, which had been sparking with anger, turned soft. “Oh, poor Kimberly. Brody, I am so sorry—I haven’t even asked how you’re doing.”

He held up a hand. “Save it. You said enough at the time.”

He looked at the keyhole in the back door, shining the little flashlight this way and that, trying to see if he could detect any metal flakes. He pulled out his cell phone and called Egan.

“Working hard, boss,” Egan said as soon as he answered.

“Caldwell, did you check the dead bolt on the back door of Victoria’s penthouse? Had a key been used?”

“I swabbed the keyhole. It looked like there might be some metal shavings. I’ve got the swab.”

“Good. The shavings looked new?”

“I’ll have to get them under the microscope, but I think so.”

“Thanks.” Brody pocketed his phone and turned to Victoria. “Where’s your grandfather now?”

“He’s in a nursing home near my parents’ home.”

Nursing home. His heart sank. “Is he lucid?”

Victoria’s lips curled up in a little smile. “Oh, yes, indeed. He can still beat me at chess.”

“So what’s he doing in a nursing home?”

“He’s diabetic, and he had a massive stroke several years ago. He’s paralyzed on his right side. He needs constant care.”

“Where are your parents?”

She cocked her head. “You mean you don’t know?”

“I know where they live. I know they’re retired and they spend a lot of time traveling. But no, I don’t know exactly where they are.”

“Let’s see. This is August? Then they’re on a photo-safari in Kenya.”

“Can we talk to your grandfather? I’d like to be able to account for all of the old keys.”

“I don’t know. He’s a proud man. I’m not sure he’d want a Lieutenant Texas Ranger to see him so helpless and weak.”

Brody understood, but this wasn’t about an old man’s dignity or about respecting the elderly. This was about Kimmie.

It was a cinch, though, that Victoria was going to be protective of her grandfather. He’d ask the manager, but unless the manager could account for every single master key, he’d have to insist on seeing Victoria’s grandfather.

“At least now I’ve got a pretty good idea how the perp got into the other apartments. Somehow, he has a card that lets him in through the front gate and the lobby door, and then he used a master key to let himself into the apartments.”

He closed the back door. “But the penthouse is different. None of the other apartments have two levels. None have a set of back stairs. And none of the other apartments require the use of a master electronic card.”

He looked around the small space. There was a second door between the clothes dryer and the wall. “I guess that’s the door to the back stairwell?”

Brody opened the door, which meant he had to step backward. His arm pressed against her breast.

She pulled away and her back hit the wall.

Working hard at ignoring the feel of her breast against his arm, he shone his flashlight up the dark stairwell. “So the perp managed to get in the back door, and he came up the back stairs. That’s how he got to you before your alarm sounded. He only had a fifteen-second window, right?”

She nodded.

“Caldwell processed the stairwell. He said he found a good bootprint in the dust. Do you not use these stairs?”

Victoria looked up at the narrow spiral staircase. “I don’t like them. It’s awfully cramped in there, and kind of spooky because it’s so steep.”

“What about your housekeeper?”

Her hackles rose. Why did everything he said make her defensive? “I don’t have a housekeeper. So nobody uses it.”

He looked up at her, his dark gaze mesmerizing. “Tell me exactly how long it’s been since these stairs have been used.”

“I moved in here two years ago last December. When I looked at the apartment the manager insisted on taking me all over, including up the stairs.” She gave a small, dry chuckle. “I think he just wanted to watch me walk up the stairs in a straight skirt.”

Brody’s brain immediately conjured up an eight-by-ten glossy of the manager’s view from the bottom of the stairs. He clenched his jaw. “So you’ve never used the stairs since?”

She looked him in the eye and lifted her chin. “Okay, in the interest of full disclosure—”

Ah, hell. She was about to spout lawyer crap for who knew how long, and when she was done he wouldn’t know any more than he already did.

“The week I moved in, I had an open house. There were probably fifty people or more. Everyone was touring the place.”

“So there could have been fifty people on these stairs? Fifty people who saw your back door with the dead bolt, and who know the back stairs lead right up to the hall outside your bedroom.”

She hadn’t thought about that. He could see it in her eyes. “It…it was just a party.”

He sighed. “Tell me who was here, if you can remember.”

“I have the list. I had a guest book, and afterward, I put the names into a database.”

Brody stared. “A database?”

She shrugged and her cheeks turned pink. “For holiday cards.”

“Okay. Who?”

“Gary Zelke, Miles Landis—he’s Taylor Landis’s brother—Tammy and Kenneth Sutton, actually the whole homeowners’ association dropped by.”

“Link Hathaway?”

“Yes, and his daughter, Margaret.”

“What about Briggs?”

“He hadn’t moved in yet.”

“And I don’t guess Carlson was there.”

“No, thank goodness. But Jane Majorsky was.”

“The woman whose bracelet was stolen? What about the others—Dalloway or Amanda Winger?”

“I don’t remember. I’ll get you the database.”

“So that’s it? One party two and a half years ago?” He wasn’t sure he believed her. “No more parties?”

Clouds gathered in her green eyes. “I’m not much of a party person.”

“Yeah? So if you’ve never had another party, what about your holiday-card list? They come around to visit you one at a time?”

“Are you saying that one of them did this?” Her words may have sounded indignant, but her voice didn’t. She knew it was true. She just didn’t want to know.

“It’s likely that one of them hired someone—I’m sure most of the people on your list couldn’t or wouldn’t kill someone with their bare hands. But if I could narrow the suspect list to fifty people, I’d be happy.”

She looked like she’d happily rip her tongue out if it meant she didn’t have to answer any more questions. “There aren’t fifty people anymore.”

Now he was getting somewhere. He wasn’t sure where. “Right. Zelke is dead.”

Her gaze wavered. “Yes, and…”

“And?”

“Well, my ex.”

Her ex? Ex-what? he wondered, and stopped his thoughts right there. It didn’t matter. “He’s not in the picture any longer?”

She paused, not looking at him. The tiny laundry room seemed to shrink as Brody tried to maintain his detachment. It shouldn’t make a bit of difference to him whether she was in a relationship or not.

“No.”

The word was curt.

Brody started to ask where the guy was, when suddenly Victoria stiffened and a hand flew to her mouth.

“Dear heavens, that’s it!”

Brody’s pulse jumped. “What’s it?” He reached for her. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry, I’m fine. I just remembered something. He was wearing cologne. Expensive cologne.” Her face was transformed. “I should have recognized it right away. It’s called Torture. It’s a top brand in Europe. My ex used it. I think because he liked the name.”

Brody frowned. “You’re saying the perp smelled like this expensive cologne? So what kind of expensive are we talking about? Expensive as in I’m worth it or expensive as in if you have to ask?”

If Victoria Kirkland thought it was expensive, it must be made from unicorn blood or something.

Her mouth quirked up. “Expensive as in nobody’s worth that. It’s over two hundred dollars an ounce for the cologne. I bought my ex a bottle one Christmas.”

“So I guess he was worth it.”

“Like I said, nobody’s worth that.”

Brody took a small notebook out of his jacket pocket and jotted down the name of the cologne. Beside it he made a note to check with the other break-in victims to see if they remembered the scent. It was a long shot. The scent could easily have faded before the victims got home. The only two who could verify that the perp was wearing expensive cologne were dead.

“So what kind of ex was he? Husband?”

That question was totally irrelevant and Victoria’s face told Brody she knew it. So he tried to make it relevant. “Could it have been your ex who attacked you? Maybe he still has a key?”

The storm clouds were back in her eyes. “What kind of question is that? There have been seven break-ins—eight now. Two of my friends have been killed. And you’re trying to turn this into a lovers’ spat? I can assure you it wasn’t my ex-fiancé.”

“What’s his name?”

“It wasn’t him.” Her voice was harsh.

Brody met her gaze.

To her credit and his surprise she didn’t flinch. She lifted her chin. “Rayburn Andrews.”

Brody’s eyebrows shot up. “The heir to the cosmetics fortune? I thought he died.”

Victoria’s eyes closed briefly. “He went down in his private plane on a trip to Cancun.”

“Sorry,” he said automatically. Her words conjured up unwelcome memories of his parents. Was her ex a jet-setting thrill-seeker like they were? Was she?

“So we’ve got a perp who can get past security alarms and into a secure penthouse, and who wears super-expensive cologne.”

He thought about his long list of suspects. “Who else do you know who wears—” he glanced at his notepad “—Torture?”

“Unfortunately, I’ve noticed it a lot of places. It’s become ridiculously popular, probably because it’s so expensive.”

Brody raised his brows.

“It’s a distinctive scent, but it smells horrible if someone uses too much. I’ve noticed it, but I’m not sure I can say for sure on who. I really don’t pay attention.”

“Well, if you notice anybody, tell me.” He glanced around the spacious penthouse. “You need to beef up your personal-security system, have them take that damn fifteen-second delay off the alarm.”

“So you really think he’ll try again?”

“He’s extremely organized—one break-in a month, one fatality every third month. You threw a wrench into the works—upset his schedule. We have no idea what he’s going to do next. But I want you prepared.”

Her gaze met his. “You think you know who it is, don’t you?”

Brody shook his head. “No. Not yet. But I think the man who killed Briggs and Zelke and who tried to kill you is one of your neighbors.”

Chapter Four

The sound of a card triggering the door lock didn’t surprise Brody. He’d been expecting Hayes Keller, the third Ranger working with him on the Cantara Gardens murders. He finished writing the last name on the whiteboard as the door opened.

“So where have you been?” he asked, glancing at his watch. It was after ten.

“Drinking beer and watching strippers.”

Brody shot Hayes one of his patented silencer looks.

“Hey—” Hayes tossed his Stetson onto a chair and held up his hands, palms out “—I was finishing up a case. Twenty-four/seven, we never sleep. That’s our motto, right?”

Brody allowed himself a tiny smile. It was an old joke. “Nope. The Ranger motto is One riot, one Ranger.”

“That, too.” Hayes stepped over to the whiteboard. “What’s all this?”

“The printout on the table lists every tenant of Cantara Gardens who used their access cards on the night of Victoria’s attack.” Brody pointed toward two thin manila folders. “Those are Briggs’s and Zelke’s case files with printouts of card use on the night each died. I’m comparing the lists.”

Hayes looked at the board. “Lotta names.” He pointed. “Do all these show up on all three nights? Damn busy place, those condos.”

“Tell me about it. I spent all day today talking to the tenants. There are forty units. All are occupied. Fifty-two tenants total. The manager’s records list seventy-eight active cards.”

“Whoa! So I take it the manager isn’t too careful about controlling card access. You got the breakdown of who’s where?”

“Twenty-nine are singles. Eleven couples, and one couple has her mother living with them. Twenty-nine plus twenty-three accounts for the fifty-two official tenants. Who knows how many of the singles have live-in friends.”

Hayes looked at the board. “He’s got seventy-eight active cards for fifty-two tenants? That’s twenty-six cards unaccounted for. You think there are that many freeloaders?”

Brody shook his head. “I’m hoping most of the cards are lost or destroyed, but there’s no record. The manager apparently gave ’em out like Halloween candy. I don’t think the man ever saw a request for a card he didn’t grant.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m calling a special meeting of the Cantara Hills Homeowners’ Association to talk about changing out the condos’ security system. If I had my way, I’d change out the manager, too. I’ve got an SAPD officer meeting with each tenant to round up duplicate cards. That’ll narrow the field a little bit.” Brody arched his neck and massaged the tight tendons of his shoulders.

Hayes yawned and headed for the kitchen. “Want a beer?”

“Nah. Just water.” Brody stared at the grid he’d drawn on the whiteboard. He had three columns, headed Briggs, Zelke and Victoria. Under each he’d listed every card access recorded by the security-system computer from noon until 2:00 a.m. starting on the date of each attack.

He rubbed a hand over his face and sat down. All the numbers were beginning to run together.

Hayes tossed him a bottle of water and sat on the other side of the table. Brody turned up the bottle and drank half of it in one gulp.

“That’s a lot of people coming and going,” Hayes said, echoing the remark he’d made earlier.

“Look at the repeats.” Some names had shown up on the entry log several times during one evening.

“Does the system show exits?”

“I wish. Just entries through the gate.”

“So Jane Majorsky, for instance, who came in three times on the day Briggs was killed and once on Zelke’s day, and twice the day Victoria was attacked, might have loaned her card to someone else.”

Brody nodded again and then finished his water. “She could have loaned her card or she could have given somebody her original card and gotten a duplicate from the manager. There’s nothing that indicates when the card was made.”

“Pretty sloppy.”

“And dangerous.”

“So how many of those cards did you personally see?”

Brody dug his small notebook out of his pants pocket and flipped pages. He quickly counted the list of names he’d jotted down as he talked to tenants. “I’ve got thirty-four names. And there were twelve apartments where I got no answer.”

“It’s late and I never was good at the fox, geese and grain game. Figured out anything from all this?”

Brody leaned back in his chair, balancing it on the two back legs. He gestured with his empty water bottle. “Amanda Winger used her entry card three times on the night of Briggs’s murder, once on Zelke’s night and twice last night. And get this. Ms. Winger is seventy-eight.”

“What’s she doing in a ritzy swinging-singles’ condo?”

“Actually, she’s a special case. She’s Tammy Sutton’s mother, and of course Kenneth Sutton is head of the board.”

“So Tammy Sutton probably has a card that reads Amanda Winger.”

“Kenneth Sutton could, too. There’s no telling.”

“What about Miles Landis? His name is on there.”

“Yep. His card was used twice each night. Between six-thirty and seven-thirty, then again later. Close to midnight.”

Brody stood and checked off their names.

“There’s no difference in the cards? Date issued? One says duplicate?”

Brody shook his head tiredly. “There’s nothing on the card except the tenant’s name and apartment number. And get this, the housekeeping and maintenance staff all use the same coded card. That one just says staff. The only place their cards don’t work is on the penthouse. And if that’s not enough, the staff also have master keys to the dead bolts, so they can get in to clean. Biggest mess I’ve ever seen. I’m recommending to the board that they find themselves a new manager.”

“Security cameras?”

“I’ve already been through all that. There’s no guard in the guardhouse to check ID and no camera on the gate.

“The only security camera in the whole place is the one in front of the elevators in Victoria Kirkland’s suite. Egan has the disk, but Deason’s right. We’re not going to see anything. Whoever attacked her didn’t come through the front entrance.”

“So what about Victoria Kirkland? Egan said she wasn’t injured. Did she see anything?”

Brody shook his head. “The perp attacked her from behind. She has bruises on her neck that are consistent with Zelke’s and Briggs’s injuries. I took fingerprints, but of course prints on skin are always a long shot.”

“She’s on all three lists.”

Brody nodded. “She’s obviously super-organized and efficient. She gets in within two minutes either side of six o’clock every day.”

“Sounds more like super-anal. Any way she could have faked her injuries?”

Brody glowered at him.

“Hey—what? Did I step on toes?”

Brody ignored him. “Byron Dalloway has three entries last night, but none on the night of Zelke’s murders and only one for the night of Briggs’s murder.”

Hayes stood and stretched. “So you’re targeting the odd patterns, like the old lady going out three times in one night, and like Majorsky there. She’s done a lot of coming and going.”

“I’m working on the theory that whoever is doing this is using a duplicate card they got from one of the tenants. And has somehow obtained a master key to the dead bolts. The individual apartment keys are different.”