The Heart of Brody McQuade

Chapter Three

It was him. Brody McQuade. He stepped into her foyer looking like a poster for the Texas Rangers in dress khakis, a crisp white shirt, shiny badge on his chest and the signature fawn-colored Stetson held in his left hand. The only thing missing was a tooled-leather holster.

She met his gaze and saw that he was eyeing her clothing just like she’d eyed his.

His brows rose. “Morning, Ms. Kirkland. I didn’t mean to get you out of bed.”

Victoria’s hand tightened at her neck. “How…what…how did you get up here?”

He held up a plastic card. “Master. From the manager.” Was that a twinkle in his eye? It couldn’t have been. Brody’s dark eyes weren’t the twinkling kind.

“Mark Patterson is not supposed to give anyone access to the penthouse.”

Brody didn’t comment.

She narrowed her gaze suspiciously. “I wasn’t in bed. I’m being deluged with phone calls. Apparently everyone in San Antonio knows about last night.”

“Deluged?”

Dear heavens, it was a twinkle. Victoria felt her chest tighten in anger. He thought she was funny?

She propped her fists on her hips, then noticed what that did to her kimono. So she wrapped it around her again and crossed her arms tightly. “Two people have called already and now you’re here.”

“I see what you mean by deluged.”

He nodded solemnly, but Victoria knew sarcasm when she heard it. She ignored it. “I thought the media had to have permission to use victims’ names.”

“You’re the attorney. You ought to know.”

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“I’m canvassing the tenants about their access cards. Whoever attacked you must have had a card, because there was no unauthorized access. No breach of the system, either.”

“Well, that should be easy. Who used their cards last night?”

“I’m waiting for the manager to get me a printout.”

“So you want to see my card?”

“Thought I’d start at the top.”

“Could you give me a minute to dress?”

His gaze flickered. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll go back down to the lobby and wait.”

“Come inside, Lieutenant. There’s no reason for you to wait downstairs.” She excused herself and went upstairs for the first time since the police had left the night before. Her bedroom was still a wreck from the CSIs.

Victoria dressed quickly, averting her eyes from the stripped bed, the misarranged furniture and the fine film of fingerprint dust that covered every surface.

When she came back down, Brody wasn’t in the foyer and the elevator doors were closed. Had he left? Gone down to the lobby to wait, after all?

“Lieutenant?” she called, suddenly nervous. The penthouse was huge, ridiculously large for one person. For the first time since she’d moved in she felt small and vulnerable. “Lieutenant? Brody?”

“In here.”

The kitchen. She followed his voice across the quarry tile to the open door that led into her walk-in pantry, laundry room and trash bin. Brody was examining the door to the hallway.

“I wanted to see where the perp got in.”

“That’s the fire-escape door. The stairs are just to the left.”

“And your penthouse card works in this door, too. My master does.”

“Yes.”

“Who comes in this way?”

“No one.”

“How do you handle trash, recycling, laundry?”

“I set the trash and the recycling out this door and Maintenance picks it up. I do my own laundry.”

“Where do the stairs go?”

“All the way down to the basement, I think. But Maintenance takes the elevator to the third floor, then walks up the fire stairs. They never come inside.”

“Maintenance doesn’t have a card for the penthouse?”

“No. That’s why I put my trash out myself.”

He gave her a hard look, then went back to studying the door. “There’s no sign of forced entry. The perp had to have a master card or one that accesses the penthouse.”

“I have never given anyone a card,” she said sharply.

Brody took a pen-size flashlight out of his pocket and examined the door. “What about these dead bolts? They look like the original locks.”

“They are. These condos were built in the late seventies. That’s why there’s a guardhouse. The guard would operate the gate to let the tenants in.”

“Do you have a key to the dead bolt?”

“Yes, but I think I’m the only one.”

“The only one. Why’s that?”

“Well, other than the staff. I’ve never paid much attention. But it seems like I’ve heard the housekeepers rattling keys.”

“So if the staff have a key, how can you be sure they don’t come in?”

“They’d have to use the card and the key to get into the penthouse. This is the only apartment that requires an electronic card to get in.”

“What about the other tenants? Zelke, Briggs?”

Victoria shook her head. “Their cards are for the gate and the lobby door. Oh, and their keys didn’t fit each other’s locks.”

“How do you know that?”

“They told me. Because they were guys, they tried the keys.”

Brody pushed his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Somebody dropped the ball on the keys. The manager should have told me about them, or the homeowners’ association. Somebody I’ve talked to had to have known about the keys. Either they’re too dumb to know how important those keys are, or they’re protecting someone.”

As he spoke, Victoria remembered playing with a ring of keys on the floor of her grandfather’s house.

I built you the biggest house in the world, Toto, and when you grow up, you’ll live there like a princess in an ivory tower.

Thinking about her grandfather made her sad. Thinking about the ivory tower made her shiver.

She took a deep breath. “Well, the answer is ‘too dumb to know how important they are.’”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s me. I know about the keys. Until you asked about them I hadn’t thought about them in years.”

“Years? What are you talking about?”

Victoria nodded. “My grandpa designed and built Cantara Gardens.”

“Your grandfather?” Brody’s tone dripped with exasperation. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t think about it. That was more than twenty-five years ago. I was in preschool, or grade school.”

She knew she sounded defensive. She was. This…Ranger, with his hot intensity and unbending attitude, expected everyone to be as single-minded and passionate as he was. Not that she could blame him. His little sister, his only family, was dead, and the killer lived somewhere in Cantara Hills.

“So your grandfather owns the condos? I guess it’s easy to see how you could forget that your grandfather is probably the one person who could tell us who has keys. Please tell me he’s alive.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Lucky for you he’s still around.”

Brody winced. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—”

“I know how you meant it.” She angled her head and sent him a disgusted look. “No, Grandpa doesn’t own the condos. He was a contractor. But his contract with the homeowners’ association contained one caveat. That the penthouse at Cantara Gardens would always be available for use by the Kirklands.”

Brody’s expression deteriorated into disgust. “So you don’t even pay for this massive waste of electricity and resources?”

Victoria stuck her chin in the air. “That’s right, Lieutenant McQuade. I don’t even pay for it. I wonder how long it’s going to take you to get over the money thing. I wouldn’t have thought you were such a snob.”

Brody gaped at her. “Snob?” He took a long breath. “I’m not a snob and I don’t give a damn about whose money is whose. I just want to find out who killed Kimmie.” He hadn’t meant to say that. He’d meant to say who was killing tenants in the condos.

Her eyes, which had been sparking with anger, turned soft. “Oh, poor Kimberly. Brody, I am so sorry—I haven’t even asked how you’re doing.”

He held up a hand. “Save it. You said enough at the time.”

He looked at the keyhole in the back door, shining the little flashlight this way and that, trying to see if he could detect any metal flakes. He pulled out his cell phone and called Egan.

“Working hard, boss,” Egan said as soon as he answered.

“Caldwell, did you check the dead bolt on the back door of Victoria’s penthouse? Had a key been used?”

“I swabbed the keyhole. It looked like there might be some metal shavings. I’ve got the swab.”

“Good. The shavings looked new?”

“I’ll have to get them under the microscope, but I think so.”

“Thanks.” Brody pocketed his phone and turned to Victoria. “Where’s your grandfather now?”

“He’s in a nursing home near my parents’ home.”

Nursing home. His heart sank. “Is he lucid?”

Victoria’s lips curled up in a little smile. “Oh, yes, indeed. He can still beat me at chess.”

“So what’s he doing in a nursing home?”

“He’s diabetic, and he had a massive stroke several years ago. He’s paralyzed on his right side. He needs constant care.”

“Where are your parents?”

She cocked her head. “You mean you don’t know?”

“I know where they live. I know they’re retired and they spend a lot of time traveling. But no, I don’t know exactly where they are.”

“Let’s see. This is August? Then they’re on a photo-safari in Kenya.”

“Can we talk to your grandfather? I’d like to be able to account for all of the old keys.”

“I don’t know. He’s a proud man. I’m not sure he’d want a Lieutenant Texas Ranger to see him so helpless and weak.”

Brody understood, but this wasn’t about an old man’s dignity or about respecting the elderly. This was about Kimmie.

It was a cinch, though, that Victoria was going to be protective of her grandfather. He’d ask the manager, but unless the manager could account for every single master key, he’d have to insist on seeing Victoria’s grandfather.

“At least now I’ve got a pretty good idea how the perp got into the other apartments. Somehow, he has a card that lets him in through the front gate and the lobby door, and then he used a master key to let himself into the apartments.”

He closed the back door. “But the penthouse is different. None of the other apartments have two levels. None have a set of back stairs. And none of the other apartments require the use of a master electronic card.”

He looked around the small space. There was a second door between the clothes dryer and the wall. “I guess that’s the door to the back stairwell?”

Brody opened the door, which meant he had to step backward. His arm pressed against her breast.

She pulled away and her back hit the wall.

Working hard at ignoring the feel of her breast against his arm, he shone his flashlight up the dark stairwell. “So the perp managed to get in the back door, and he came up the back stairs. That’s how he got to you before your alarm sounded. He only had a fifteen-second window, right?”

She nodded.

“Caldwell processed the stairwell. He said he found a good bootprint in the dust. Do you not use these stairs?”

Victoria looked up at the narrow spiral staircase. “I don’t like them. It’s awfully cramped in there, and kind of spooky because it’s so steep.”

“What about your housekeeper?”

Her hackles rose. Why did everything he said make her defensive? “I don’t have a housekeeper. So nobody uses it.”

He looked up at her, his dark gaze mesmerizing. “Tell me exactly how long it’s been since these stairs have been used.”

“I moved in here two years ago last December. When I looked at the apartment the manager insisted on taking me all over, including up the stairs.” She gave a small, dry chuckle. “I think he just wanted to watch me walk up the stairs in a straight skirt.”

Brody’s brain immediately conjured up an eight-by-ten glossy of the manager’s view from the bottom of the stairs. He clenched his jaw. “So you’ve never used the stairs since?”

She looked him in the eye and lifted her chin. “Okay, in the interest of full disclosure—”

Ah, hell. She was about to spout lawyer crap for who knew how long, and when she was done he wouldn’t know any more than he already did.

“The week I moved in, I had an open house. There were probably fifty people or more. Everyone was touring the place.”

“So there could have been fifty people on these stairs? Fifty people who saw your back door with the dead bolt, and who know the back stairs lead right up to the hall outside your bedroom.”

She hadn’t thought about that. He could see it in her eyes. “It…it was just a party.”

He sighed. “Tell me who was here, if you can remember.”

“I have the list. I had a guest book, and afterward, I put the names into a database.”

Brody stared. “A database?”

She shrugged and her cheeks turned pink. “For holiday cards.”

“Okay. Who?”

“Gary Zelke, Miles Landis—he’s Taylor Landis’s brother—Tammy and Kenneth Sutton, actually the whole homeowners’ association dropped by.”

“Link Hathaway?”

“Yes, and his daughter, Margaret.”

“What about Briggs?”

“He hadn’t moved in yet.”

“And I don’t guess Carlson was there.”

“No, thank goodness. But Jane Majorsky was.”

“The woman whose bracelet was stolen? What about the others—Dalloway or Amanda Winger?”

“I don’t remember. I’ll get you the database.”

“So that’s it? One party two and a half years ago?” He wasn’t sure he believed her. “No more parties?”

Clouds gathered in her green eyes. “I’m not much of a party person.”

“Yeah? So if you’ve never had another party, what about your holiday-card list? They come around to visit you one at a time?”

“Are you saying that one of them did this?” Her words may have sounded indignant, but her voice didn’t. She knew it was true. She just didn’t want to know.

“It’s likely that one of them hired someone—I’m sure most of the people on your list couldn’t or wouldn’t kill someone with their bare hands. But if I could narrow the suspect list to fifty people, I’d be happy.”

She looked like she’d happily rip her tongue out if it meant she didn’t have to answer any more questions. “There aren’t fifty people anymore.”

Now he was getting somewhere. He wasn’t sure where. “Right. Zelke is dead.”

Her gaze wavered. “Yes, and…”

“And?”

“Well, my ex.”

Her ex? Ex-what? he wondered, and stopped his thoughts right there. It didn’t matter. “He’s not in the picture any longer?”

She paused, not looking at him. The tiny laundry room seemed to shrink as Brody tried to maintain his detachment. It shouldn’t make a bit of difference to him whether she was in a relationship or not.

“No.”

The word was curt.

Brody started to ask where the guy was, when suddenly Victoria stiffened and a hand flew to her mouth.

“Dear heavens, that’s it!”

Brody’s pulse jumped. “What’s it?” He reached for her. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry, I’m fine. I just remembered something. He was wearing cologne. Expensive cologne.” Her face was transformed. “I should have recognized it right away. It’s called Torture. It’s a top brand in Europe. My ex used it. I think because he liked the name.”

Brody frowned. “You’re saying the perp smelled like this expensive cologne? So what kind of expensive are we talking about? Expensive as in I’m worth it or expensive as in if you have to ask?”

If Victoria Kirkland thought it was expensive, it must be made from unicorn blood or something.

Her mouth quirked up. “Expensive as in nobody’s worth that. It’s over two hundred dollars an ounce for the cologne. I bought my ex a bottle one Christmas.”

“So I guess he was worth it.”

“Like I said, nobody’s worth that.”

Brody took a small notebook out of his jacket pocket and jotted down the name of the cologne. Beside it he made a note to check with the other break-in victims to see if they remembered the scent. It was a long shot. The scent could easily have faded before the victims got home. The only two who could verify that the perp was wearing expensive cologne were dead.

“So what kind of ex was he? Husband?”

That question was totally irrelevant and Victoria’s face told Brody she knew it. So he tried to make it relevant. “Could it have been your ex who attacked you? Maybe he still has a key?”

The storm clouds were back in her eyes. “What kind of question is that? There have been seven break-ins—eight now. Two of my friends have been killed. And you’re trying to turn this into a lovers’ spat? I can assure you it wasn’t my ex-fiancé.”

“What’s his name?”

“It wasn’t him.” Her voice was harsh.

Brody met her gaze.

To her credit and his surprise she didn’t flinch. She lifted her chin. “Rayburn Andrews.”

Brody’s eyebrows shot up. “The heir to the cosmetics fortune? I thought he died.”

Victoria’s eyes closed briefly. “He went down in his private plane on a trip to Cancun.”

“Sorry,” he said automatically. Her words conjured up unwelcome memories of his parents. Was her ex a jet-setting thrill-seeker like they were? Was she?

“So we’ve got a perp who can get past security alarms and into a secure penthouse, and who wears super-expensive cologne.”

He thought about his long list of suspects. “Who else do you know who wears—” he glanced at his notepad “—Torture?”

“Unfortunately, I’ve noticed it a lot of places. It’s become ridiculously popular, probably because it’s so expensive.”

Brody raised his brows.

“It’s a distinctive scent, but it smells horrible if someone uses too much. I’ve noticed it, but I’m not sure I can say for sure on who. I really don’t pay attention.”

“Well, if you notice anybody, tell me.” He glanced around the spacious penthouse. “You need to beef up your personal-security system, have them take that damn fifteen-second delay off the alarm.”

“So you really think he’ll try again?”

“He’s extremely organized—one break-in a month, one fatality every third month. You threw a wrench into the works—upset his schedule. We have no idea what he’s going to do next. But I want you prepared.”

Her gaze met his. “You think you know who it is, don’t you?”

Brody shook his head. “No. Not yet. But I think the man who killed Briggs and Zelke and who tried to kill you is one of your neighbors.”

Chapter Four

The sound of a card triggering the door lock didn’t surprise Brody. He’d been expecting Hayes Keller, the third Ranger working with him on the Cantara Gardens murders. He finished writing the last name on the whiteboard as the door opened.

“So where have you been?” he asked, glancing at his watch. It was after ten.

“Drinking beer and watching strippers.”

Brody shot Hayes one of his patented silencer looks.

“Hey—” Hayes tossed his Stetson onto a chair and held up his hands, palms out “—I was finishing up a case. Twenty-four/seven, we never sleep. That’s our motto, right?”

Brody allowed himself a tiny smile. It was an old joke. “Nope. The Ranger motto is One riot, one Ranger.”

“That, too.” Hayes stepped over to the whiteboard. “What’s all this?”

“The printout on the table lists every tenant of Cantara Gardens who used their access cards on the night of Victoria’s attack.” Brody pointed toward two thin manila folders. “Those are Briggs’s and Zelke’s case files with printouts of card use on the night each died. I’m comparing the lists.”

Hayes looked at the board. “Lotta names.” He pointed. “Do all these show up on all three nights? Damn busy place, those condos.”

“Tell me about it. I spent all day today talking to the tenants. There are forty units. All are occupied. Fifty-two tenants total. The manager’s records list seventy-eight active cards.”

“Whoa! So I take it the manager isn’t too careful about controlling card access. You got the breakdown of who’s where?”

“Twenty-nine are singles. Eleven couples, and one couple has her mother living with them. Twenty-nine plus twenty-three accounts for the fifty-two official tenants. Who knows how many of the singles have live-in friends.”

Hayes looked at the board. “He’s got seventy-eight active cards for fifty-two tenants? That’s twenty-six cards unaccounted for. You think there are that many freeloaders?”

Brody shook his head. “I’m hoping most of the cards are lost or destroyed, but there’s no record. The manager apparently gave ’em out like Halloween candy. I don’t think the man ever saw a request for a card he didn’t grant.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m calling a special meeting of the Cantara Hills Homeowners’ Association to talk about changing out the condos’ security system. If I had my way, I’d change out the manager, too. I’ve got an SAPD officer meeting with each tenant to round up duplicate cards. That’ll narrow the field a little bit.” Brody arched his neck and massaged the tight tendons of his shoulders.

Hayes yawned and headed for the kitchen. “Want a beer?”

“Nah. Just water.” Brody stared at the grid he’d drawn on the whiteboard. He had three columns, headed Briggs, Zelke and Victoria. Under each he’d listed every card access recorded by the security-system computer from noon until 2:00 a.m. starting on the date of each attack.

He rubbed a hand over his face and sat down. All the numbers were beginning to run together.

Hayes tossed him a bottle of water and sat on the other side of the table. Brody turned up the bottle and drank half of it in one gulp.

“That’s a lot of people coming and going,” Hayes said, echoing the remark he’d made earlier.

“Look at the repeats.” Some names had shown up on the entry log several times during one evening.

“Does the system show exits?”

“I wish. Just entries through the gate.”

“So Jane Majorsky, for instance, who came in three times on the day Briggs was killed and once on Zelke’s day, and twice the day Victoria was attacked, might have loaned her card to someone else.”

Brody nodded again and then finished his water. “She could have loaned her card or she could have given somebody her original card and gotten a duplicate from the manager. There’s nothing that indicates when the card was made.”

“Pretty sloppy.”

“And dangerous.”

“So how many of those cards did you personally see?”

Brody dug his small notebook out of his pants pocket and flipped pages. He quickly counted the list of names he’d jotted down as he talked to tenants. “I’ve got thirty-four names. And there were twelve apartments where I got no answer.”

“It’s late and I never was good at the fox, geese and grain game. Figured out anything from all this?”

Brody leaned back in his chair, balancing it on the two back legs. He gestured with his empty water bottle. “Amanda Winger used her entry card three times on the night of Briggs’s murder, once on Zelke’s night and twice last night. And get this. Ms. Winger is seventy-eight.”

“What’s she doing in a ritzy swinging-singles’ condo?”

“Actually, she’s a special case. She’s Tammy Sutton’s mother, and of course Kenneth Sutton is head of the board.”