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