The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“What do you think you’re doing?”

At the sound of Newman’s voice, cold and calm at my shoulder, and my back where I never want him, I whirl around to find him standing close, a few steps from contact, too damn close. He’s wearing a yellowish-gold bow tie, the color of the flowers in his garden. I wonder if his wife picked it out, if that symbol of family and home helps her pretend that he’s not a monster. Because she knows. I saw it in her eyes. I know she knows.

I hold my ground, and he holds his, intelligent green eyes locked on my face. Evil lives in the soul behind those eyes. “What are you doing?” he repeats.

“Waiting for you.”

“More like lurking around my vehicle.”

“Semantics. You people like semantics, right?”

“You people?”

Killers, I think, but I say, “Professors.”

His lips quirk. I’ve amused him. “Is that how we’re playing this game?”

“We,” I say, “are not playing a game at all.”

“Aren’t we?” he challenges.

“Where were you last night?”

His brows sink into a scowl. “Last night? What does last night have to do with anything?”

“We had a second murder.”

Understanding floods his expression, a hint of anger whitening the corners of his mouth. “That you believe I committed,” he supplies.

I don’t confirm or deny that statement. “Where were you last night?” I repeat.

He studies me for several cool moments, and despite that white around his mouth, the explosive response I’d have earned from most people is nowhere to be found. He simply says, “A university charity event with my wife. I had hundreds of witnesses. I went to bed with my wife. We cuddled.”

Cuddled. Give me a break. My mind goes to Dave’s lifeless face, and anger burns a hot spot in my chest. “Do you know a med student named Dave Gaines?”

“We don’t have a medical school here, and I teach criminal justice.”

“You’ve linked poetry and murder in at least one class you taught,” I correct. “And UT’s Dell Medical School is in Austin, and we both know you know this.”

“The medical school is on Red River Street. Those students don’t come to my location. They’re beyond this level. We do not have a medical school here. I do not teach medical students.”

“Did you know—”

“No. I did not know him. What else, Detective Jazz?” His lips quirk again, and he doesn’t wait for a reply. “I wonder. Should I buy you a dozen doughnuts? Will that get you to go away? Cops do like doughnuts, correct?”

“Only to celebrate the killers we put behind bars. I’ll have my doughnuts soon. As for me going away. You want me to go away?” I dare the question despite the fact that the man has lurked outside my door.

“Considering I don’t even know the people you’ve accused me of killing, I do, in fact, want you to go away,” he says. “It doesn’t appear that I’m going to be that fortunate.”

I reach into my bag and hold up a DNA swab. “Swab your cheek and give me a DNA sample.”

His sharp gaze goes to the swab and then returns to my face, a wicked something in his eyes that I cannot name. “No. I don’t believe I’ll give up my DNA to a desperate detective who will do anything to close her case. I’ve heard about your father’s dirty deeds. I’m beginning to think the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

With that slap, he clicks the lock on his door and climbs into his minivan, successfully shutting himself out of my reach. I watch him drive away, and I’ve heard his message loud and clear. He just told me that he’s made it a point to know far more about me than my name.

Chapter 47

My first instinct is to go to Newman’s house and talk to his wife before he can corroborate his alibi, but that’s an illogical move. Had I been thinking straight, I’d have gone to see her in the first place and asked her for a DNA sample. That was the plan Lang and I talked through. Using her to pressure him is my best next move. That’s how the smarter me would have handled this morning. Instead, I’ve let emotion, not logic, dictate my actions, and this job has no room for emotional decisions, and therefore, I’m pissed. At myself. Which is always a sucky feeling.

At this point, I just head on to the station, a short drive that isn’t tied up with traffic midmorning. Once there, I beeline to the conference room where I find a team of eight at work, Lang and Officer Jackson among that number. “When the captain throws support your way, he really throws support,” I say, and instantly all eyes are on me.

Officer Jackson shoots to his feet at a spot near the opposite side of the table. “Can I talk to you, Detective Jazz?”