Just Past Midnight

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 only real chair in the room, a tattered recliner that creaked ominously when he sat, though he was by no means a big man. He was perhaps five-nine or -ten, with the kind of lean, hungry visage that reminded Richard of a stray dog he’d rescued once. No matter how often the mutt was fed, he could never get enough to eat, and he’d seemed almost pathetically grateful for any scrap of attention that came his way. But at the same time, Richard always had the feeling that with one wrong move, the animal would just as soon go for his jugular.

He got that same vibe from Kane. The man certainly had the appearance of a stray with his uncombed, dirty-blond hair, faded T-shirt and threadbare jeans. But just like his house, the unkempt facade was deceptive. His clothing and hair were clean, his fingernails neatly clipped. Either he had a split personality, or he wanted people to get an entirely inaccurate picture of him. Richard couldn’t help wondering why.

Kane laid the .45 on the TV tray beside the recliner. “How did you find out about me anyway?”

“We have a mutual acquaintance.”

Kane snorted. “If you mean Max Tripp, don’t make the mistake of thinking his name carries any weight around here. I can’t stand that bastard.”

“I’m talking about Michael Farmer.”

“Who?”

The one-syllable question was a little too abrupt. Richard would have expected better from a man like Kane. “Let’s not play games here. You know the name. I can see it in your eyes.” He paused. “And in case Tripp didn’t make it clear, let me assure you, Sergeant, that anything you tell me about Michael Farmer will go no farther than this room.”

“And why should I trust you?” Kane challenged.

“I’ll give you several reasons.” Richard removed a wad of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and tossed them onto the TV tray next to Kane. “A thousand dollars just for answering a few questions. Not a bad day’s work, and no one outside this room ever has to know.”

Kane glanced at the bills, then back at Richard. “I don’t know about where you come from, but down here, attempting to bribe a police officer could get you jail time.”

“Then it behooves both of us to keep our mouths shut about this meeting.”

Something that might have been respect crossed Kane’s features. “What are you after, Berkley?”

“I want information about Michael Farmer. You do remember him, don’t you?”