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.
