The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“It’s a yoga studio. I can’t go alone.”

“There’s zero logic to that statement.”

“I don’t want to go alone.”

“Lang—”

“Just drive. We’re not going to the yoga place, anyway. Officer Jackson’s following her. He’s been following her for days. She goes to Lola Savannah’s for coffee after every yoga session.”

“Are you trying to get me kicked off the force?”

“I’m trying to catch this guy,” he says. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Damn it, Lang,” I grumble, but I don’t stop driving. He’s right. I do want to catch this guy.

I pull into the coffee shop and park. “What time is she supposed to be here?” I ask, glancing at my watch. It’s five thirty.

“Five forty-five.”

“I’m waiting in the car.”

“We have time to set up inside. You can sit with your back to us. I’m on Bluetooth. We’ll each take an earpiece and be on a call so you can coach me if I need coaching.”

“Like you ever think you need coaching.”

“Well, as charming and good-looking as I am, I want to get this guy, Jazzy. He’s obsessed with you. You are not going to become one of his victims. You hear me?” He reaches into the back and pulls something from his bag, producing an envelope.

“What’s that?”

“All she has to do is sign this and we get our surveillance.”

“You thought this out.”

“I talked to Evan. He got me what I needed.”

“You talked to Evan? I thought you two hate each other.”

“Not as much as we hate this asshole.”

“If I go in, are you going to tell me why you two hate each other?”

“The night we arrest The Poet, and we will, I’ll tell you,” he promises. “Let’s go.” He pops open his door.

I inhale and despite my best judgment, I step out of my vehicle. Lang smirks with his achievement, walking toward the coffee shop door. I let him smirk. If this works, he deserves to smirk, gloat, and repeat.

A few minutes later, with coffees in front of us, Lang and I are sitting at a small wooden table right behind a display of coffee and near the pickup bar. The pickup bar is where Lang plans to approach Becky Smith. Lang can see the door. I have to inch back a bit, but I can as well. I just have to be careful not to be seen. We’re both wearing a Bluetooth earpiece and he’s called me to connect us. I’m on the line when Jackson calls him to tell him that Becky has just pulled up to the coffee shop. Lang ends that call and then calls me. We’ve already tested the range of the Bluetooth. He can walk all the way to the door without me losing him.

Lang waits until Becky finishes placing her order and then inclines his chin at me. “Mrs. Smith?” he says, just on the other side of the display. I inch forward and I can see her face between two bags of coffee.

“Yes?” she asks, and I don’t miss the dark circles that frame tormented eyes. Her eyes go wide. “You.”

“Yes. Me. My name’s Ethan Langford.”

“You mean Detective Ethan Langford.”

“Yes. And I promise you I will not approach you again if you just give me two minutes.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I think you’re scared, and I want you to know that I can protect you.”

“Like all the women who end up dead or deformed who trust the police to protect them?”

“That’s an admission of fear and his guilt,” I murmur to Lang.

“I don’t know about anyone but you and me. And I’m not a man to fail someone I vow to protect. I’d lose my badge rather than lose you to him.”

“You can’t touch him. The mayor and his money and—”

“Sign a form that lets us do electronic surveillance. He’ll never know. And if there isn’t anything for us to find—”

“There is. There is. I just—I’m afraid—he knows I know. He keeps his computer locked up.”

“What do you know?”

“Just—things.” Her voice trembles. “Bad photos of naked people.”

My heart starts to thunder in my chest. This is it. This is what we’ve been waiting for. Lang holds up the envelope. “Sign this for me. We’ll get the photos. We’ll get you out. Please.”

“I don’t think I can.”

I stand up and walk around the coffee display. “Move, Lang.”

He steps aside, with both of us in profile. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I need to say this to you. He tricked me into killing a young boy, a thirteen-year-old boy. I don’t want him to get the chance to hurt someone else.”

Tears well in her eyes. “The boy I read about in the paper?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Him.”

She breathes a hard breath, and her gaze shoots to Lang. “Give me the paper.”

Lang hands her the paper and a pen. She leans over to the bar, signs it, and hands it back to him, but she’s looking at me. “I didn’t want to file the restraining order. He found out I called you. I had to save myself.”