Mallory Kane - The Heart of Brody McQuade

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.