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employment had been eight weeks as a bean counter at an auditing firm. It had come to a quick end when the idea of killing the department manager became palpable. Insecure and inept, the woman had been a tyrant set out to destroy talentbefore it replaced her, and few would have wept over her passing. But when ideas of how to do it and get away with it danced through Munroe’s head, she had known it was time to get out. And that was the good job.
    The assistant brought them to a corner office, knocked gently, and opened the door. Thirty feet of empty space unfurled between the door and Burbank’s desk. The front of the office held a sitting area with a wet bar; framed autographed photos lined the right wall. The left and back walls were solid glass, with a spectacular view of the downtown Houston area.
    Burbank sat on the edge of an oversize mahogany desk in front of the wall of windows, a phone to his ear, one leg firmly on the floor, the other dangling over the corner of the desk, and he was in the middle of a heated conversation. He paused, beckoned to Breeden and Munroe, and then curtly dismissed whoever was on the other end of the line.
    Burbank was Munroe’s height, tanned, fit, and impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit with a pale pinstriped shirt and a pink tie. Silver around his temples framed eyes the gray-blue of a winter sky. He radiated tangible energy and genuine charm.
    Munroe sat in one of the two chairs facing Burbank’s desk and immediately regretted having done so. The chair was plush and comfortable, and she sank into it several inches so that her eye level was closer to Burbank’s chest than to his face, forcing her to look up at him.
    When the silence in the room became uncomfortably long, Burbank smiled at Munroe and finally said, “Thank you so much for coming. I really do appreciate your taking the time to hear me out and at least consider the job that I need done.”
    Munroe stared out beyond him through the windows and, with a look of boredom and her voice monotone, said only, “I came for the money.”
    Burbank laughed, and he placed his hands together. “I trust that the transfer went through smoothly and that everything is in order?” Breeden nodded, and Burbank continued. “Have you had a chance to look over the material I provided?”
    “Yes, I have,” Munroe said.
    “Good, good,” he said, nodding as he spoke, and then he paused as if cutting himself off in the middle of a thought. “You know, I’m not really sure what to call you—do you prefer Michael, Ms. Munroe, Vanessa, or is there perhaps another moniker you’ve taken?” The wordswere almost sarcastic, but his tone was sincere. He had done his research and was letting her know.
    “Most of my clients call me Michael,” she replied.
    “Fine, Michael it is.” Burbank paused and looked out the window at the skyline, then rubbed a finger against his mouth. “Michael,” he said, “I know you don’t have children, but perhaps you can understand the pain of uncertainty and the lack of closure that come from simply not knowing what happened to a child.
    “Emily is the brightest and most lovable daughter a parent could wish for, and I thank God every day for bringing her and her mother into my life.” He pulled a photo out of his wallet and handed it to Munroe.
    “That’s Emily’s high-school graduation picture,” he said.
    Munroe nodded. As in the file photos, Emily was a petite girl with straight, long blond hair and brown eyes made stunning by deep, dark lashes.
    “When Emily decided to go to South Africa, I was against it. I didn’t feel it safe for her to travel alone. She insisted that she
wasn’t
alone, and she was right in a sense—the whole expedition traveled as a group. I think you know what I mean, though. But she was eighteen, old enough to start making her own decisions. I didn’t think it was a good one, but her mother felt that the overland adventure would give Emily a chance to come into