The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

He ignores that declaration and takes a bite of his pizza. “You do know I’ve studied serial killers, right? Use me. I have a training class I’m teaching this week. Beyond tonight, my schedule is limited.”

I take a bite of pizza and consider his offer. He really is well versed on this topic, which comes from his obsession with a long-uncaptured notorious serial killer before I even met him. Wade found him. He caught him. It made his career. Since then he’s consulted on cases across the country. I’d be a fool not to go over this case with him.

“Off the record,” he promises. “This is just me and you, discussing a case like the old days.”

“Okay. Yes. Please. Let’s talk it out.”

“Let’s do it.” He refills our wineglasses.

I tell him everything about The Poet and my certainty that Newman Smith is our man. “He taught a class that connected serial killers with poetry, but that’s circumstantial. Right now, I can’t prove he’s our man.”

“He fits your profile,” he says. “And I talked to Langford on my way over here. He told me that you think The Poet might have followed you this morning and that’s how he picked Dave.”

“I know he did.” I share the story about my audiobook and Dave hearing the poetry on my phone. “The killer is more than just obsessed with poetry. He’s protective of it as well.”

“Well then, I’ll praise Shakespeare and I’ll be safe.”

“Funny you say that. The poem he left tonight was from Shakespeare. ‘Sonnet 60.’”

“Any idea what it means?”

“As I said to someone else, you could ask five scholars that question and get five different answers, but as to what it means to The Poet, I need some time to process. He was at that coffee shop. I took a video of the entire place.” I hand him my phone and show him the video. “But none of those people were close enough to hear my exchange with Dave.” I grab my computer and he moves the now-empty pizza box to the floor.

“How do you know one of these people wasn’t at the end of the bar when you were talking to Dave?”

“I’m self-aware, and I don’t remember him being there.” I pull up the footage from the coffee shop and find the spot where I’m talking to Dave, frowning.

“This footage is limited,” he points out. “You can’t see who’s behind you and you can’t see the entire section of the pickup bar.”

“You’re right. The Poet could have been there and never been caught on camera, but he’d have to know where those cameras were.”

“Maybe he did.”

My brow furrows. “How?”

“That’s the question,” he says. “But my biggest concern here is that this morning wasn’t the first time he followed you.”

“The first murder that we know of was only days ago, and Roberts was the detective handling the case. The Poet didn’t know I existed before I took over this case.”

“Unless he did,” he counters. “I’ve already pointed this out before, but how many detectives have a history in poetry?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “One. You.”

“That’s ridiculous, Wade. A link to my father is one thing, which I’ve considered, but there’s no way he would know my buried history.”

“Unless he does. He killed for you tonight, Sam.”

I immediately replay those words in my head: He killed for me tonight.

It’s an echo of the words I’ve already thought in my own head but somehow this assessment feels too simple. There’s more to The Poet than an obsession with one person, which is where he’s going with this. “Except this isn’t about me, now, is it?” I challenge. “It’s about him. He killed Dave because he dismissed poetry as irrelevant. I was simply the vehicle for Dave to offend The Poet.” I stand up and walk to the opposite side of the table, my mind working hard and fast. “Dave offended The Poet. He dismissed poetry as unimportant. And maybe The Poet makes these kills about the poetry, but the truth is it’s about him. When you dismiss poetry, you dismiss him.”

Wade’s lips curve and he fills our glasses with more wine before standing up and handing me my glass. “I do believe you understand The Poet better than The Poet understands himself. You’re going to win this matchup. You’re going to get him.”

I drink my wine without the toast he offers me. I have nothing to celebrate. I spoke to Dave. And Dave is dead.

Chapter 45

The need to escape the hell of The Poet’s games is real and present and answered by Wade. He stays the night and not on the couch. Morning arrives with our duties bleeding death and murder. Wade has an early commitment to teach a class on hunting serial killers to visiting recruits in the much-larger San Antonio office. A demand that has him rushing around to shower and dress—yes, he brought a change of clothes. I don’t pick a fight with him over his presumptive behavior. He was good company for personal and professional reasons. He was here for me. I’m never going to bitch at him for being a good friend.