The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Lang, who is closer to the door and me, is now on his feet as well, waving off Jackson. “I’m first,” he says, headed my way, and as usual, he’s ignored a more formal dress code for detectives. He’s wearing jeans yet again today, but on the plus side, he’s managed a polo-style collared shirt. I guess he wants to impress all the little minion helpers and what better way than with a collared shirt paired with jeans?

He points toward the door and we end up in an empty cubicle in the sea of cubicles. “Jackson looks clean,” he says, his voice low. “He was highly awarded in the army. He could have been an officer but wanted to be near his family. He’s got two sisters and he’s close to them and his parents, who own a bakery. He’s dating a baker who works at that bakery.”

“The bad ones always look clean.”

“I thought you were sure The Poet was Newman.”

“We just had this conversation. I am. That doesn’t mean I trust Jackson.” I move on. “What about the cyanide?”

“One of our tech guys found a reference on the dark web to a cyanide sale that’s two years old. He’s trying to make a purchase himself. But assuming the buyer was The Poet, that means he’s possessed that murder weapon for two years. We just don’t have any proof he used it until now.”

“He didn’t start with cyanide. He tried other things.” My lips press together and I steel myself for the explosion to come. “I went and saw Newman this morning.”

“What the fuck?!” His voice is still low and yet he’s managed a shout for my ears only. “I mean. What. The. Fuck? What the—”

“Lang,” I warn.

“I know. You don’t like to be cursed at. Well, fuck that. You shouldn’t have gone there alone. You shouldn’t have gone, period.”

“We have a right to ask where he was last night, and I’d prefer to do that before the mayor shuts us down. I asked. He presented an alibi for us to check out. And I tried to get a DNA sample. He refused.” I lower my voice a notch below its present level. “He accused me of being dirty like my father.”

His eyes narrow. “How did he know about your father? That was an internal investigation kept under wraps and never completed.”

“I don’t know, but it was clearly his way of telling me he is closer to me than I thought.”

“I’m pretty sure he made that point on your doorstep.”

“Detective Jazz.”

At the captain’s voice, I cringe. Lang and I rotate toward him, only to have him step into the cubicle. It’s a move that forces the two of us against the wall, and how can it not? This is a cubicle for one that now has me and two giants inside it.

“What on God’s green earth were you thinking?” he demands, his voice low, rough. Angry.

“Last night’s victim—”

“You knew him,” he supplies. “I know. Lang told me. But you know that Newman is in the mayor’s good graces. Talk to me before you go after him. Do you understand?”

“Tell the mayor to force him to give us a DNA sample.”

“And that does what?” the captain challenges. “Do you have DNA to compare it to?”

“No, but—”

“When you have DNA,” he snaps, “ask again. Ask me, not him.”

My lips press together. “I need to talk to his wife to corroborate his alibi last night.”

“Call her,” he states. “Do it by phone.”

My objection is instant. “But—”

“Call her,” he repeats. “Work your case, exclude everyone else, and then come back to Newman Smith. The end.”

“What about Roberts?” I demand. “What about finding him? He’s the answer to finding Newman.”

“I’m thinking of Roberts. You won’t get to this guy if you give him the mayor’s insulation.”

“He has that,” Lang says, finally speaking up. “And he shouldn’t. Not with Roberts missing.”

“I can’t give the mayor a reason to believe this is Newman,” the captain snaps back. “We have no evidence. Work the case. You won’t even have a small portion of the crime labs results back for a week from the first case, let alone this new one. Get me what I need to get you what you need.”

“He killed Dave Gaines because I spoke to him, Captain. Because I spoke to him. This is no different than him sending in those interns. This was another taunt. One that took a life.”

“Killing that young man is not the same as sending those interns,” he argues. “We know who sent the interns. You can’t prove who killed that young man. Work the case. Get the proof we need, and that isn’t going to happen by you becoming a stalker.” He turns and walks out of the cubicle.

“Stalker?” I take a step forward, and Lang catches my arm. I jerk around and square off with him. “Let go.”