LITMIR.BIZ

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“Could you give me time to get my tail in the door before you chew on it?”

      Brody didn’t bother to answer him. He finished typing in his impressions of the crime scene and Victoria Kirkland’s condition.

      Caucasian female, thirty years old, five foot nine inches—He stopped, picturing her standing in front of him with one shoulder of that black-and-red kimono sliding down her delicately muscled arm. She was slender but not skinny. He went back to typing—130 pounds, blond hair, green eyes.

      “Hot and cool at the same time.” Egan’s voice came from behind him. “Like a hot fudge sundae.”

      Brody kicked his chair back and whirled in one motion.

      “Whoa!” Egan backpedaled. Water flew in an arc across the tile floor as he fumbled with the plastic bottle he held.

      “This is not a joke.”

      “Hey, I know that. But you’ve got to lighten up. I don’t think you’ve slept a night through since…”

      Since Kimberly’s death. The unspoken words hung between them, echoing in Brody’s head. His old life had ended and this new obsessed one had begun the night his sister died.

      “I’m fine,” he growled.

      Egan took a step back. “No, you’re not. Look, Brody. I respect what you’re doing. God knows I’ve admired your abilities all my life, but you shouldn’t be on this case. You’re burning yourself out.”

      Brody sent him a glare and sat back down at the mahogany conference table. He stared at the laptop screen, but the words were a blur.

      He heard the plastic water bottle hit the trash. “Do us both a favor and get your butt to bed. That report’ll be there in the morning.”

      Brody wiped a hand across his face. When he did, the faint scent of roses drifted across his nostrils. He’d washed his hands. How did they still carry her scent? “Yeah, the report’ll be here, but the perp will be back in his spider-hole. What have you got for evidence?”

      “Damn little. Whoever did this is careful, but we already knew that from the other break-ins. There was nothing in the bedroom, but I’ve got the bedclothes.”

      “Nothing? 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

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