I ignore his comment and glance at Newman’s scores, which are right in line with mine. That doesn’t say a lot to me. I’ve seen people with brains who should explode from their level of brilliance who simply couldn’t apply common sense to life. Brains matter, but far more important is how that person accesses and applies that knowledge.
The Poet has already shown us he’s the real deal, the full package: brains and execution. He’s more than a worthy adversary, which is why he’s a man willing to hide in plain sight. He will not be easy to take down, and he knows it.
Chapter 29
Lang pulls his Mustang into the driveway of Newman’s sprawling mansion of a house in the elite Westlake area of Austin. Both of us lean forward, giving the two-story beauty painted a bluish-gray a better look. Lang gives a whistle. “That’s a good two mil he’s living in. He must rake in the bucks at UT.”
“I’m sure he does,” I agree, “but per his file, he inherited a five-million-dollar trust fund from his father.”
“Bastard can’t just be rich and happy,” Lang mumbles. “If I had five million dollars, I’d be chasing women and buying a boat. What I wouldn’t do is retire, because of pieces of shit like him. I mean, fuck me. This guy has it all, but he’s still killing people.”
“And he’s not done yet,” I say.
He turns sharply in my direction. “We both know that money and power is like a well-done steak. Hard to chew for the DA’s office. They aren’t going to allow us to arrest him without a clusterfuck of a whole lot of evidence.”
“I’ll get with the DA’s office this afternoon and pin down what they’re going to push for to make an arrest.”
“Yeah. Do that, but they’ll just change their minds when he gets a devil attorney who sets fire to the courthouse to keep him out of jail.”
“Then I guess we’d better slam dunk this case.” I reach for my door.
He grumbles something incoherent and does the same.
We exit the Mustang and trek down a sidewalk lined in decorative stones and yellow flowers. There’s even a cute wooden chair in the center of the yard. On the outside, everything about this house screams of domestic bliss and perfection, but no family is perfect. Especially one with a serial killer using them as shelter.
We step onto the covered porch, where we are surrounded by ceramic pots filled with more yellow flowers. Lang jabs at the entry bell, and we don’t have to wait long. The door opens and we’re greeted by a woman dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and the same white Chuck Taylor sneakers I favor on my days off.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her tone uncertain.
Her hair is brown, her eyes green, her skin pale. She can’t weigh more than one-twenty.
She looks like me.
I’m not sure what to make of that observation popping into my head. I mean, technically, by way of coloring and height, you could say that about a lot of people. But a lot of people are not married to a man I believe to be a serial killer, and who joined me for my morning jog.
Lang flashes his badge. “Detective Langford, ma’am.” He motions to me. “And this is Detective Jazz. Can we ask you a few questions?”
“Oh God.” Her eyes go wide, panic in their depths, but she rockets into action. She steps onto the porch and pulls the door firmly shut behind her. “My kids are inside.” Her voice is low, a hushed, urgent whisper. “Has something happened with my husband?”
I don’t miss the word choice. She didn’t ask if something happened “to” her husband but rather “with” her husband. “What do you think might have happened with your husband, Mrs. Smith?”
“Is he okay?” Her lips are parted, breath a pant. “Is he—okay?”
“He’s fine,” I say, surprised that Newman didn’t warn her that we were coming. Quite surprised, actually. “We saw him an hour ago at the campus.”
She looks between us. “What is this?”
“We’re investigating a homicide,” Lang states. “We’re in the process of eliminating suspects.”
“Oh, I—” Her lips part on absent words before she tries again. “Is my husband a suspect?”
She knows.
That’s what that question tells me.
On some level, she knows her husband is a killer. Lang catches that too, obviously, because he plays off of it. “What makes you think this is about your husband?”
“Am I a suspect?” Her voice lifts. “Why would I be a suspect?” Her hand balls in the center of her chest. “My God. Who died?”
“Michael Summer,” I say. “Do you know him?”
She fast blinks. “No.” Her brow dips. “That name isn’t familiar at all. Am I a suspect? I don’t know him.”
“Fair enough,” Lang replies, without confirming nor denying her status as a suspect. “Can you tell me where you were on the fourteenth?”