Just Past Midnight. Amanda Stevens

of your life. We can help you make that happen, but as I said, you’ll have to be patient. Designing the appropriate coincidental meeting can sometimes take weeks, or even months of planning and preparation, but most of our clients agree that the outcome is well worth the wait.”

      Most of your clients haven’t been waiting seven years to catch a killer at her own game.

      Richard glanced at Darian West in the mirror again. She was seated alone, but from the admiring stares she received from nearby diners, he assumed her solitude was by choice.

      Was she waiting for someone? Her next victim?

      Or was her intended prey somewhere in that very room?

      Richard glanced around the crowded restaurant. When his gaze returned to her reflection, he found her staring at him, and his blood turned to ice.

      He suppressed a shudder as he focused his attention on Max Tripp. “Confidentiality is guaranteed, I assume.”

      “Of course. Our reputation is built on our discretion. She’ll never know that your initial meeting was all carefully orchestrated unless you decide to tell her yourself. The same goes for our investigation. We’ll talk to her friends, neighbors, business associates—anyone who can help us gain insight into her personality and character, her likes and dislikes, even her hopes and dreams. By the time we’re finished, we’ll know Dr. West inside and out, but neither she nor the people we interview will ever suspect our motives. We’re good at what we do, Mr. Berkley—but then, you already knew that. A man with your resources would have made certain of our expertise before you contacted us. Am I right?”

      “I’m nothing if not careful,” Richard agreed.

      Something in his tone must have disturbed Max Tripp, because he glanced away, frowning. “Yes, I sensed that,” he murmured.

      “I understand that you were once a police officer, Mr. Tripp.”

      Suspicion gleamed in the man’s eyes. “So you have done your homework.”

      “Do you know an HPD detective named Ellison Kane?”

      “I know of him, but I don’t think anyone really knows him. Kane’s a loner type. Doesn’t even work with a partner, which means he’s probably got connections.” Tripp paused. “What’s your interest in him anyway?”

      Richard said casually, “Our paths crossed on a case once. I’d like to look him up.”

      Tripp sat back and stared at him for a moment. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Dr. West, does it?”

      “Why would you assume that?”

      He shrugged. “Just a hunch. And if I’m right, let me caution you that it’s highly ill-advised for a client to become involved in the investigation. If you start asking questions about Dr. West and she gets wind of it—”

      “That’s why I want you to make the arrangements,” Richard cut in.

      “Arrangements?”

      “Set up a time and place where Kane and I can meet. Tell him anything he says will go no further than our meeting, and make sure he understands that I expect the same from him.”

      Tripp’s tone sharpened. “Look, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into here. Kane’s not going to agree to meet with you if you attach conditions. You start making demands, you’re just going to piss him off. And believe me when I tell you that Ellison Kane is not the kind of guy you want for an enemy.”

      Richard dismissed his concern. “You let me worry about Kane. Just make the call.”

      “And if he doesn’t agree?”

      “He will.” Richard picked up his drink as he glanced again at Darian West’s reflection. “Tell him we have a common interest in spiders. The deadly kind.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      ELLISON KANE had little tolerance for assholes, especially the smug, self-important variety. And by all indications, Richard Berkley fell comfortably into that category.

      As Kane watched him get out of his car and walk slowly up the drive, he decided the man was in serious need of an attitude adjustment.

      The way he walked, the way he dressed—everything about him annoyed the hell out of Kane. But then, according to Max Tripp, the guy was a lawyer—so what could you expect?

      If there was anything lower on the face of the earth than a criminal defense attorney, Kane had yet to run across such an animal. And he’d seen some pretty rough characters in his day.

      The problem with Berkley was that he hadn’t yet realized he was no longer in control. He’d left that prerogative behind when he’d come looking for Kane. He was on Kane’s turf now, and there were certain rules that had to be adhered to. Number one being that in the south Harris County town of Seaport, you did not want to get on Ellison Kane’s bad side.

      He knew the area too well—the bayous that cut through the county, the alleyways and dirt roads that couldn’t be found on any map. He’d even made a habit of walking that vast wasteland along the I-45 corridor known as the killing fields, where the bodies of young women and little girls had been turning up for more than twenty years.

      The suburbs south of Houston weren’t exactly friendly territory, and if Berkley knew what was good for him, he’d mind his manners. Live and let live seemed to be the universal motto down here, and Kane liked it that way. Nobody got all up in his business, and in return, he didn’t ask questions about boats moving around in the Gulf at all hours of the night. The locals had a tendency to be suspicious, nervous, even a little trigger-happy at times, and a man like Berkley could get himself into some real trouble if he wasn’t careful. He could end up getting lost, and never be heard from again.

      It had happened before.

      As Berkley climbed the porch steps, Kane eased the rosewood-handled .45 from his shoulder holster and thumbed off the safety.

      He waited until he heard Berkley’s footsteps on the porch, then he whipped open the door and thrust the gun barrel beneath the man’s chin.

      To Berkley’s credit, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t so much as blink. His unwavering stare was positively chilling.

      Then one brow rose slightly. “Sergeant Kane, I presume?”

      The man’s voice sent something unpleasant scurrying along Kane’s spine, which surprised him. There weren’t many men who could unnerve him like that.

      Well, hell, he thought. This could get interesting.

      THE MAN WAS PATHOLOGICAL, Richard decided as he watched Kane step onto the porch and glance up and down the street.

      “You alone?” he demanded.

      “Of course.”

      He dropped the weapon to his side and head-gestured for Richard to follow him into the tiny, clapboard house. Once they were both inside, Kane closed and bolted the door.

      Richard took a quick survey of his surroundings. The house was close and gloomy, so claustrophobic he had to suppress the urge to tug at his tie. Very little sunshine crept through the single front window that looked out on a scraggly yard littered with car parts, a rusted-out motorcycle and an assortment of debris that Richard couldn’t identify.

      The interior wasn’t much better. The furnishings consisted of folding lawn chairs and what looked to be finds brought home from the city dump. Every inch of table and counter space was used for newspapers, magazines and file folders crammed full of documents, but for all the clutter, the place appeared basically clean. Scrubbed even. The smell of ammonia clung to the air.

      Kane dumped a stack of papers from one of the lawn chairs and motioned for him to sit. As Richard folded himself into the rickety chair, he hoped the aluminum frame wouldn’t collapse underneath him.

      Kane took the