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
