The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“I was hoping you weren’t still at work.”

“You were hoping I was because you need me.”

“I have your cell number. Why are you there?”

“I’m just trying to give you something to catch this guy with.”

“And I love you for it,” I say. “Where are we on Newman’s alibi for last night?”

“The event he told you he attended was legit. I haven’t gotten my hands on a guest list yet. There’s no film of the actual event. I do have a campus guard now on autodial and feeding me what film exists.”

“What’s the bottom line?”

“Newman was at the campus and left at about nine o’clock.”

“And his wife?”

“That’s the interesting part of the story. I have her on camera at the campus, arriving at seven. She was dressed nicely, but she wasn’t there long, for about an hour. She left in a rush and seemed to be upset. The guard says she was crying.”

“I’d cry if that man were my husband, too,” I murmur. “Just to confirm. She left at eight. He left at nine.”

“Correct. The tip about Dave’s murder came in at ten thirty. The campus is ten minutes from his house. He had plenty of time to kill Dave before that call.”

Yes, he did, I think. “What about traffic camera footage that puts his vehicle at Dave’s house or nearby?”

“I’ve looked. His vehicle isn’t on the footage, and we’re trying to find a camera that shows us a spot where he might have pulled off and walked. We’re also checking hired cars with pickup and drop-off locations somewhere nearby. So far—nothing.”

“What about proof of when he went home?”

“We caught his vehicle on camera at one a.m., turning onto his street.”

“He had to be on camera somewhere between nine and one.”

“I’m trying, Jazz. I really am trying.”

“I know. You did good. Now go home. Rest feeds the brain.”

“Says the person I know who isn’t home herself?”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

“They don’t pay you the big bucks.”

“Close enough. Go home. That’s an order.” I disconnect, certain that he’ll go home. He’s good at taking orders. I, however, am not, or I wouldn’t be here.

It’s right then that I watch the garage door open and Newman’s minivan pull out to the street. Damn it. I need this time to talk to the wife, but what if he’s on his way to kill someone else? My cell phone rings and it’s Lang again. This time I answer. “Lang—”

“I’ll follow him. You talk to the wife. And yes, I knew you’d be here. Bad Jazz. Bad.”

God, I love this man. “That works,” I say and disconnect, already reaching for my bag and the door.

My phone goes in my jacket pocket, my bag over my shoulder, and I step to the street, locking up behind me before pocketing my keys. The night is muggy, a heaviness to the air that suffocates. Appropriate considering The Poet’s murder weapon is cyanide and that’s how his victims spend the last few minutes of their lives: they suffocate while their organs die.

I step onto the sidewalk leading to the house, motion detectors flickering to life and guiding me past all the damn pretty little flowers. The world is full of pretty things that hide horrible, nasty secrets. This house, this place, and perhaps even this woman fit that description. I step onto the porch and ring the bell. I wait a few seconds and ring it again. And again.

Finally, the curtain moves, and then the door opens. Becky Smith stands there, wearing sweats and a tank top, her hair disheveled, her eyes puffy.

“Why are you here?” she demands.

“Are you okay?”

She folds her arms in front of her, a protective stance typical of someone hiding something. “I’m fine. What do you need?”

“There was another murder.”

Her expression tightens, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that, but what does that have to do with me?”

“I just need to confirm what your husband told me about last night. Then I can make this go away for you and him. And for your kids.”

She swallows hard. “We went to a party.”

“At the campus. Yes. I know. He told me you had a fight, much like the one you had tonight, I assume. You left and were quite upset.”

“I—yes.”

“Can you confirm the nature of the fight?”

Her teeth scrape her bottom lip. “Why is that important?”

“What time did you get home?”

“Eight thirty, which I know because I let the babysitter go home.”

“And what time did your husband get home?”

“Later.”

“What time?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Maybe I can help. He left the event and hurried home after you. He was home half an hour after you, which would make his arrival here at nine.”

Her lashes lower, her teeth digging into her bottom lip this time.

“Is that correct?” I press.

“Yes.” Her gaze lifts to mine. “Yes. It’s correct.”