The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“You need that, since we both know you aren’t running on much sleep today.”

He grunts, offering no denial.

I grab another for myself and step to the opposite side of the island, making sure I have a whole lot of marble between me and him. And a few pans to whack him with if needed. Maybe my mom was onto something. “Hope you didn’t have to pry her legs from around your waist to come over here,” I say, in an uncharacteristically crass comment, which I deliver all nice and cool before opening my drink and taking a swig.

The idea is to shock him and redirect the attention to where I want it: anywhere but on me. But this is Lang, and Lang is Lang. He knows me and what I’m doing. “I was right, wasn’t I?” he demands. “He’s hunting the detectives hunting him.”

I abandon my drink and grip the edges of the island and speak what’s been in the back of my mind for a good hour. “I don’t think that we’re going to get good news about Roberts.”

He grimaces and looks skyward before leveling a fierce stare at me, anger bubbling beneath his surface. Anger I know is not at me. It’s about fighting this fight and the wrong side winning. It’s about losing a good man and a detective. “What happened?”

“I had one of those gut feelings that I get, right after my run this morning. It was when I entered the coffee shop. Like he was there. I felt him there, Ethan. I can’t explain it. I felt him at the bookstore, too. Familiar. Like—” I stop myself before I make him more paranoid than he needs to be right now. “I stayed. I shot a video of everyone in the coffee shop. I even talked to one man who caught my attention. That’s how strong the feeling was.”

“And?”

“And he wasn’t the guy. He has cats and judges cat shows, but that’s not the real problem here. When I came home, Old Lady Crawford asked me who the man with the hat and hoodie was lurking around my door last night.”

He curses and scrubs his jaw, planting his hands on the island. “He followed you from the building last night.”

“One could assume. Yes.” I stop there because the truth is that I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about this. I’m human. I’m a detective. I’m the daughter of a recently murdered father who was also a cop. All I know right now is that I want to focus and work the case. “I called the apartment office and had them pull the security footage.”

“That’s it?” he demands. “That’s all you’re going to say to me, Jazz?”

“What do you want me to say, Lang?” I snap, and now I’m angry. “What am I supposed to say?”

“That you get it. That you see what’s happening here. If he kills the detectives who hunt him, you could be next.”

“And so could you.” I shove aside the anger. I need to work. I just need to work. “Which reminds me,” I say, grabbing my phone, “I sent Wade the case file to have him get me a profile and a ViCAP report. I need to make sure he looks for cases where the detective working the case ended up dead.” I text Wade, cautious not to set off any personal triggers: Just to be safe, because of this situation with Roberts, check for cases where law enforcement disappeared.

Message sent, I slide my phone back into my pocket and find Lang glaring at me.

“You’re not going to talk about this, are you?”

“I’m just doing my job, Lang. What else can I do?”

“We need to talk to the captain.”

“I don’t want an overreaction that loses this guy,” I say. “Let’s just see what Wade says. In the meantime, Chuck is working on the camera action from the surrounding area and I’m headed to the apartment office to grab their security feed on my way to the UT campus. I want to follow up on the poetry club myself, in person.”

“I’m in on this one. You don’t get a say-so. I’m with you every step of the way. Let’s go to the office. And I’ll drive us to the campus.”

I don’t argue. Why would I? I have no goal here but to catch The Poet before he kills again.

Chapter 22

Tabitha, a pretty blonde who dresses like she’s Saks Fifth Avenue, pops to her feet the minute we enter the office. Her eyes go wide at the sight of Lang, who is admittedly quite big and rather overwhelming in small spaces, such as this itty-bitty lobby. But she’s not looking at him like she’s intimidated. More like she wants to lick him all over, which is disgusting. He hasn’t showered in two days. She bats long, mascara-laden lashes at him. “Hi.”