The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Detective Jazz must be prepared for the future. She must be taught how to step into her shoes as the future master, as I have my predecessor. She must learn to protect the poems that are the bible to our world. She must learn how to punish those who do not respect that bible. It’s time, and I’m quite enjoying my mentoring.

My lips curve and I sip my coffee. I do believe I’ll join her for her morning run.

Chapter 12

When murder is your job, you have to find a way to compartmentalize or you go insane. For me, that means flipping a switch off in my mind. That usually happens right now, as I enter my building and walk up the stairs toward my apartment. Tonight, it doesn’t. I could blame it on Lang and his conspiracy theories about The Poet following me, but the truth is, I haven’t managed that little trick since the night my father was murdered.

I reach my door, head inside, and lock up, but I stop there, leaning on the door’s wooden surface. Standing there, I will myself to dispel the tension that I normally leave outside in the stairwell. This is my safe place, the apartment my grandfather persuaded me to buy seven years ago when I made detective. Brilliant man that he was before the dementia took over, he said the new downtown community would double in value. It quadrupled. Now I have something instead of nothing, but I’d much rather just have him back whole again.

I stand at the door another full minute and decide I’m still here for a reason and that reason is The Poet. I don’t know if he followed me tonight, but he’s under my skin and I can’t shake the odd sensation of an evil that felt familiar. So much so that I cave and search my apartment, which doesn’t take long. I have an open concept living room and kitchen, a master bedroom, an upstairs secret loft-style room, and a bathroom.

Once I know I’m alone, I prepare dinner. That means I sit down on my couch with my file, a glass of red wine, my favorite blend, and a bag of popcorn. My faithful TV dinner is just not appealing. The gun I’ve set on the table next to me, however, is. I’m only on sip two of my wine, the edge of this evening still clear and present, when Lang calls.

“Are you home?”

“Yes, Papa Lang, I am indeed home. You do know I’m a detective and taking care of myself, right? And,” I add, “I’m capable of kicking your ass.”

“Should I come over and you can try?”

I kick off my shoes, heels that are somehow still on my feet. Another “girl power” statement. I can run in them and use them as a weapon quite effectively, should it become necessary; even I can admit that’s a practiced skill. “Go service your booty call,” I say, and I hang up.

I sip my wine and will myself to call my mother. I’m resisting her and I know it’s not fair, but I’m self-analytical enough to know why. She pulls me into the deep, complicated puddle of grief, which muddies my mind and affects my performance.

For now, I settle on texting her: Mom. I love you. I’m safe. I’m working a case. I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise.

“There you go,” I murmur to myself. “I can take you out with my high heels and tell my mother I love you, all in the same night. I am empowered.” Those last words trail off. I am empowered. I can’t function in a place of fear, or I won’t be able to do this job. And this job feels like my purpose. It has since I was a small child. I sip my wine and set down my glass. “Okay.” I shrug out of my jacket, ready to dig in.

My mother returns my text: I love you, too, honey. Thanks for letting me know you’re okay. I worry. Guilt stabs at me, but guilt is not empowering. I need to be a better daughter. I know this. I will fix this. I will call her in the morning as promised.

I pull my case file from my bag and lay it in front of me. Next, I grab a pad and pen, scribbling down all my observations from the crime scene tonight. I circle: He’s killed before. I tap my pen on the pad. I need to back that up with facts. I start by downloading the reports Chuck sent me, and my attention immediately goes to a list of professors, teachers, and instructors in the city and state who teach literature. He’s gone so far as to turn the list itself into more lists and narrow down possible suspects based on random criteria: the description we have for the man at the poetry reading and any curriculum with poetry. Thankfully this narrows the list of thousands down to a short list, but I need to make it even shorter. Per Chuck’s notes, there’s also a poetry club on the UT campus, but he has no data on who runs it. More to come. And Lord help me, he’s diving into off-campus poetry/book clubs tomorrow. The list is not going to end.