Chapter One

       Eight months late r

      “Hey, Caldwell, get up!” Brody McQuade pushed open the door to the second bedroom of the luxury conference suite at the Cantara Hills Country Club. His fellow Ranger was nothing more than an irregular lump under the fancy bedspread.

      “Egan!”

      The lump stirred. A rude, muffled comment reached Brody’s ears. “Let’s go. We’ve got another break-in.”

      The lump turned into a head with brown hair sticking out every which way. “Another…at the condos?” Egan cursed and sat up, kicking at the bedclothes. He yawned and rubbed his head.

      “Yeah. Come on.”

      Egan squinted at him. “You’re already dressed.”

      Brody didn’t respond.

      Egan sighed. “I’ll catch up. What room?”

      “Didn’t get particulars. The police are there. Ask at the door.” Brody left Egan sitting on the side of his bed with his head in his hands.

      Grabbing his holster and hat, Brody stalked out to his Jeep Compass. The whine of police sirens echoed in his ears. He could see flashing blue lights in the near distance, over the Cantara Gardens Condominiums, south of the country club.

      Adrenaline pumped through him and he had trouble reining in his impatience on the four-minute drive around the back nine holes of the golf course to the condos’ gates. He’d have preferred to sprint across the manicured greens and straightaways. Probably wouldn’t take forty seconds if he ran flat out.

      But arriving at a crime scene sweaty and wrinkled wasn’t the Ranger way. Nor was it Brody’s style.

      He’d been expecting this. There had been a break-in every month at the condos since January. Seven so far. Two fatalities. Trent Briggs in February, and Gary Zelke three months later, in May.

      Deason hadn’t mentioned the name of the latest victim. The San Antonio Police Department Detective Sergeant had sounded frantic.

      Did that mean they’d had another fatality?

      He pulled up to the gate where an SAPD officer waved him through. Normally the residents used a computerized access card to open the gate. He had a master in his pocket.

      Pulling up beside a police car, he headed inside. He didn’t recognize the officer at the front door, but the young man’s eyes lit on the silver star pinned to his shirt pocket and nodded. “Sergeant Deason is waiting for you, sir. In the penthouse.”

      He 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