The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“I certainly wouldn’t have one pet sit for me,” I say dryly, noting the woman on the bench is no longer on the bench, but the pigeons are still scurrying about. “He’s not our guy.” I’m already thinking about traffic camera footage that might give me a better picture of what set me off this morning, but if I say that to Chuck right now, Lang will get word, and he’ll be on my doorstep when I don’t want him there. I need to shower and think, without him hovering about in my apartment. “I’ll be in soon, but call me if anything else stands out.”

We disconnect, and I do one last visual scan of the area before I accept defeat and start the short walk home. I’ve just entered my building and made it halfway up the stairs leading to my apartment when I hear a familiar, gravelly voice yelling down at me. “Detective Jazz.”

I halt and glance up to the next level, to find Old Lady Crawford leaning over the railing, her tropical shirt a blinding mix of orange and yellow, her shoulders perpetually hunched forward.

“Sam,” I amend. “You know you can call me Sam.”

“I like Detective Jazz.”

My brow furrows with this reply. She never calls me Sam, but she’s a bit eccentric and I just go with the flow. Or perhaps there’s a problem and this is her way of telling me that she needs a detective? She does hold the self-assigned duty of “apartment mom.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Who was that man hovering around your apartment last night? Made me nervous. You kick out a new boyfriend or something?”

The hair on my arms is standing on end again. “What man?”

“You know what man, honey. He was at your door.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. You should know.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Crawford,” I say, my voice calm but firm now. “What did he look like?”

“I couldn’t see his face. He had on a baseball cap with a hoodie over the top of the hat. The brim stuck out wide over his face. The hoodie was pulled down low.”

“How tall?”

She reaches way up over her head. “Tall.”

Of course, anyone is tall to her. I doubt she reaches five feet. “Hair?”

“Under the hat.”

“Clothes?”

“All black. Don’t you know anything?” She sounds irritated now. “Who was he? You know now?”

A killer, I think, but I’ve learned sometimes a lie is the kindest words you can speak. Now is one of those times. “One of the detectives I work with,” I tell her, at least for now. I don’t want to scare her. “I’ll get on him about scaring you. I didn’t hear him knocking. I must have had my TV too loud.” Adrenaline is coursing through me now, roughing up my nerves. “Better run and shower,” I say, managing to sound breezy and easy. “Thanks, Mrs. Crawford.”

I run up the stairs, unlock my door, and enter my apartment. I lock the door and then lean against the wooden surface.

I will not doubt myself again.

I felt his presence. I knew he was here.

And he was.

The Poet was here.

Chapter 19

I ran right past her this morning in my neon green sneakers. She was looking for me, and she knows me, she knows my face, but she just wasn’t ready to see me. But she knew. She felt me there, as she should have. I’m her master, her mentor. She’s ready to be pushed. She’s ready to understand. On some level, she already knows her duty. She performed well this morning. She exposed an abuser who must be dealt with. And I will reward her by ending his sin.

For now, I park my family vehicle in our suburban-area garage and exit to have my wife open the door to the house and hold out a cup of coffee. She dotes on me. She dotes on the kids. We really are the perfect family, but then, that’s by design. I join her and accept the coffee. “Thank you. Perfectly timed, too.”

She smiles and tilts her chin, presenting me with her mouth, which I meet with my own. Happy wife, happy life. I head inside the house and stand at the end of the bar while the boys tell me all about the pancakes Mom just made. I play my role: father, husband, provider. A necessary role to ensure that I, too, follow my true destiny.

Chapter 20

I push off of the door, remove my backup weapon from the foyer table where I keep my keys, and make a trade; the keys go in the drawer. The gun goes on top of the table. Next, I dial Chuck. “I need any camera footage you can get me from my street.”

“Ah wait, what?” He sounds confused. He won’t be for long. “Your street?”

“Yes. Take down the address.”

“I can look it up, but—”