The Heart of Brody McQuade

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.”