The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“As okay as it ever is when I’m with Lang.”

He laughs. “He is a rather big guy.”

His diplomatic way of saying Lang overwhelms a room when he’s present, and he does, but I for one know that isn’t always a bad thing. “Any luck with the cameras?”

“We’re making progress. We’ve pulled all public feed available and we’re through a good chunk of the businesses in your area, including the coffee shop. I’m about to start a review. What am I looking for?”

“A man who might be shadowing me.”

“Shit. He was shadowing you?”

“Yes.” I don’t want to say more, but he needs to know everything I can tell him if he’s going to be effective reviewing any footage he gets his hands on. I give him the full rundown of my night and Mrs. Crawford’s report.

“Everything I say right now will be wrong, but I’m going to speak anyway. I’m worried about you. I’m all in. I’ll find him on that feed.”

I can only hope he does. “Anything on the poetry club?”

“Yes, actually. It’s defunct, but I found something I think you’re going to want to hear. There’s a professor at UT Austin who works for the criminal justice department. He fits the description we’re working with, and it gets better.”

“I’m all about it getting better.”

“Two years ago,” he continues, “while he was working for UT San Antonio, and for only one semester, his curriculum included a class called Abstract Poetry and Criminology. Low enrollment sent it to the graveyard. I’m sending you his name, current schedule, a link to his faculty page, and the outline of the class in question, right—now.”

“God, I love you, Chuck. If this is our guy, I swear I’ll buy you a damn monthly delivery of chocolate for the rest of your life.”

I disconnect and immediately key up the text he’s sent me. The professor’s name is Newman Smith and there’s a photo. Tall, dark, average weight, but it’s his green eyes that cut through me. Evil lives in those eyes.

Lang exits the office. “Tabitha is getting Chuck a list of everyone and anyone, including cable and electric crews, who might have had access to the building.”

“We have a new person of interest,” I say. “A professor at UT.”

He rubs his hands together. “All right then. Why are we standing here?”

“Let’s go.”

We head toward the parking lot, and Lang says, “We’re going to have to tell the captain what’s going on. You know that, right?”

“I’m not arguing that point, but right now, time saves lives. I need to do my job, not defend my methods.”

“I’ll call the captain and let him know we need to talk to him tonight.”

I stop walking and shake my phone at him. “Don’t call the captain yet. He doesn’t believe Roberts is missing. We have to have some kind of proof otherwise.”

“And what do you propose that might be?”

“Finding The Poet on film while following me seems like a good start.”

We glare at each other, but he silently concedes. We turn and start walking again.

Once we’re inside his Mustang, the car rumbling with life, the air spraying us with heat instead of cold, Lang glances over at me with one of his intense looks. “I’m like a brother?”

“You irritated the hell out of me, so yeah. Brother.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs. “Best-looking big brother on planet Earth.”

He’s trying to blunt the tension and make me laugh. I want to, but I don’t. I poke a finger in the air in his direction. “Whore around with whomever you want, but keep it away from my building.”

“Damn. I wanted to whore around right here.” This time his joke falls flat, the air thickening around it. He wouldn’t be the only one whoring around here, considering The Poet’s visit last night.

Chapter 24

On the ride to campus, I read through the material Chuck’s given me on Newman. “Name is Newman Smith, no middle name.”

“Oh hell, anyone without a middle name is a serial killer.”

I don’t even ask his logic on that one. I simply give him a “you’re crazy” side-eye and then keep reading. “He’s a criminal justice instructor with a master’s in forensic science, which would explain the clean crime scene.”

“I thought we were looking for a poet.”

“Two years ago he taught a class called Abstract Poetry and Criminality. Among the topics discussed were ‘Poetry: words that speak to the soul of a serial killer’ and ‘How poetry connects you to the mind of a killer.’” I hold up a finger. “And. It gets better. Also discussed was ‘How poetry is death by words.’”

“From boredom,” Lang grumbles. “Or brain scramble, just trying to figure out what the flip the poem means.”

His comment has me thinking. The barista hates poetry. Lang hates poetry. Summer clearly loved poetry. He held readings in his theater. I love poetry. Maybe The Poet doesn’t love poetry at all, as I’ve assumed. Maybe he uses it to mock those who do.