The Heart of Brody McQuade. Mallory Kane

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.

      Brody’s frustration built. He planted his feet hip-width apart and crossed his arms over his chest. “So a man broke into your home, found his way to your bedroom and attacked you, and you can’t tell me one thing about him? Are you even sure it was a man?”

      Victoria opened her mouth, but the retort he expected didn’t surface. Instead, she closed her eyes and the corners of her mouth grew white and pinched. “I’m sure it was a man.”

      “How?”

      She glanced up at him. For an instant her green eyes flashed with fear. Then she dropped her gaze. “His breaths sawing in and out in my ear. He sounded—and felt—like a man.” She wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

      Then she shuddered, and her terror and revulsion reverberated inside him.

      “All right. Good. Now stand up. I need to see your neck.”

      “It’s fine.”

      “That’s not your call to make. As an attorney, I’d think you’d know that. I need to examine the bruises and process you.”

      “Process me?”

      He cleared his throat impatiently. “Look, Ms. Kirkland. I know you understand procedure. So it’d be helpful if you’d cooperate.”

      She stood, her green eyes glittering. “I apologize. I’m not trying to be difficult. I seem to be distracted.” She lifted her chin, exposing the bruises on her neck.

      Irritated because her distress was getting to him, Brody pulled out his cell phone and hit a prerecorded number. “Egan. You upstairs?”

      “Yeah. I was going to let you know I was here, but it looked like you and the victim were butting heads, so I left you alone.”

      “Is there a female officer up there? I want to process Victoria.”

      “Yeah,” Egan said slowly. “A very nice one.”

      “Send her down.” He hung up and pocketed his phone, then retrieved the small green case labeled CSI. Inside he found a disposable digital camera and a small stack of fingerprint paper.

      He stood in front of her. In bare feet she seemed a lot smaller than she had at Kimmie’s funeral and Zelke’s arraignment. Those high heels she always wore added a lot.

      “Sir?”

      “Yeah,” he answered the female voice without turning around. “You’re Officer…”

      “Martin. Sheila.”

      “Good. Thanks for coming down.” He got the camera ready, then spoke to Victoria.

      “Can you lift your hair out of the way?”

      She twisted her hair up, holding it with one hand, exposing her slender neck. Ugly black and purple ovals stood out against her creamy skin.

      Rage against the bastard who’d attacked her clenched at Brody’s insides. He had to quell the urge to touch her marred skin, to soothe it.

      What the hell was going on in his head? He didn’t soothe victims. His approach was to treat them with respect and detachment. The last thing they needed was to be treated like victims.

      It was Kimmie’s death. For the past eight months his emotions had been all upside down and backward. Things were getting to him that never had in the past.

      In any case, Victoria Kirkland was the last person on earth he should be tempted to comfort. He ignored the supple curve of her neck and concentrated on the bruises.

      Moving quickly and efficiently, he snapped several pictures from various angles, instructing her to turn this way and that.

      There were obvious similarities between her injuries and those of Zelke and Briggs. The theory that he’d been forming clicked. Their deaths weren’t random and neither were the break-ins of unoccupied apartments.

      He needed to bounce this off his team. He’d known them both since childhood, but he’d never figured either one of them would amount to much. Egan had always been too bitter about his unfeeling father, and Hayes’s home life had better prepared him to be on the other side of the law.

      But they’d both grown up to be fine men and fine Rangers. Egan’s practical if surly outlook on life and Hayes’s sense of irony had kept Brody grounded these past months. They’d tell him in a heartbeat if his suspicions were off base.

      “Officer Martin, how long have you been on the force?” he asked.

      “Seven months, sir.”

      “Ever seen a strangling victim?”

      Victoria Kirkland turned her head at the question. What was Lieutenant McQuade doing? “I’d rather not be made a spectacle,” she muttered.

      “Just stay still. This won’t take long.”

      Victoria closed her eyes and took a long breath. “I don’t see the relevance.”

      He didn’t answer her. “Get three or four small fingerprint sheets from the kit,” he said to Officer Martin.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “See these markings? They’re the same as on the two previous victims. All three were strangled from behind.” Brody’s voice was detached, his attitude one hundred percent business. But Victoria could feel his finger hovering a millimeter above her skin as he traced the bruises on her neck.

      “Yes, sir.”

      From her voice, Victoria could tell that the young officer