The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Good. He’s on track now, right where we need to direct this conversation. Then he opens his mouth again and goes sideways. “Then we had one confrontational interview and that was with Newman,” he continues. “That same night, some guy hangs out by Jazz’s door, and we think he followed her during her run this morning.”

We’re officially back to no proof and my gut feeling, which will go over about as well as no proof and gut feelings ever do, which is never.

The captain’s gaze swings back to me. “Talk.”

I dodge the part where I never actually saw anyone following me. “We’ve collected the security footage available that tracks my running path. I’m about to go through it all now.”

Lang swings us back to Roberts. “Bottom line, Captain, Jazz took over the case from Roberts. Now Roberts is missing and Jazz has this freaky shit going on.”

The captain grimaces. “He’s not missing. He’s not due to be in Houston for two weeks.”

“His phone isn’t pinging,” I say. “He left suddenly. It feels off, Captain. What did he say when he resigned?”

His expression tightens. “He called it in. He already had the job in Houston lined up.” He looks between us, the hard lines of his face pierced by a hint of worry he isn’t quite ready to admit. “Have you gone by his house?”

“Yes,” I say. “And the good news is that he packed up and left. That supports the idea of him leaving of his own free will. I want to believe that’s what happened.”

Lang moves in closer, stepping to the end of the desk between us, the anger in the air between us all shifting to a calmer, conversational energy. “You need to hear what Jazz has to say about this Summer murder.”

The captain gives me a stern, judgmental look that screams of distrust, but I don’t hold back. I tell him everything. My theories about a killer I now call “The Poet” to include my profile, which fits Newman like that perfect winter glove that always manages to hide and never be found. Lang jumps in here and there and drives home the odd behavior of the wife. I finish my report with, “I called the FBI and asked for a profile to back mine up, and a ViCAP report.”

“You’re not all talk then,” he observes. “You’re taking this seriously.”

That “all talk” comment reads like an insult, but I remind myself that I’m hypersensitive with this man who replaced my father. “As should the mayor,” I say. “Better we catch this killer now before there’s a trail of bodies in our city and the press accuses us of looking away because he’s a political donor.”

His jaw clenches so much I believe it might shatter, but then he surprises me by saying, “Agreed. I’ll make that point. I’ll put an alert out on Roberts.” He lifts his chin at Lang. “What are you doing to find Roberts?”

“Finding him. Right now,” Lang adds. “I’m going to go back to work and find the moving company or truck service he used.”

“What about Newman?” I ask, wanting to hear the go-ahead to press him for answers.

The captain levels me in a hard stare. “I don’t know if Newman’s our guy, but I do not like the idea of Roberts being MIA and the ‘freaky shit,’ as Lang calls it, happening to you. Proceed cautiously and discreetly. And watch your damn back. I’m setting up patrols for your street and don’t argue. You won’t win.” He eyes Lang. “Watch her back.”

Lang gives him a nod and Captain Moore motions between us. “You’re both off rotation until further notice. Shuffle your cases to Monroe and Gonzales.”

I don’t argue. In fact, I push for more. “We need resources. Manpower. I’d like to get Officer Jackson, one of the first responders at the Summer murder scene.”

“I’ll make it happen,” he agrees and motions us to the door. “Go.”

Lang and I don’t stay around to find trouble. We head for the door when the captain calls out, “Detective Jazz.” I half turn as he adds, “Find Newman on that film, and I’ll personally call the DA and get you a warrant.”

He’s telling me that I was wrong about him. He’s telling me that he can’t be bought. To that I say, we’ll see.

Chapter 35

Lang and I don’t comment on that meeting with the captain. We settle for a shared look that says it all: We won in there. Barely. We leave it at that and head back to work, because work is the only way we’ll get the job done.

Somehow, it’s seven o’clock at night when we finally settle in at the conference table to dig in, him at the endcap and me with a wide side to myself. We’re just discussing ordering food when Chuck joins us, claiming a seat across from me. “I sent the interns home, all of them, but those sent by Newman were told not to come back. Are we ordering dinner?”