“What we all understand is that he’s obsessed with you,” Evan says. “We want you back and you need to come back and finish what The Poet started.”
“I’ll make this easy for everyone,” Wade interjects. “I’m claiming jurisdiction. And, since Sam is now on contract with the FBI, I’m placing Sam in charge of the case.” He glances at me. “If you want the case.”
My spine straightens and I give a nod. The Poet wants me. He’s going to get me, the better me. The one that isn’t muddied up with emotions. The one he can’t beat.
Chapter 92
Wade sidesteps the captain and calls the chief on the way to the scene, informing him that the FBI is taking control of the crime scene and all related cases, and that I’ll be taking the lead over his detectives. The call is short and terse, and when Wade disconnects, he offers no input. In other words, I won’t like the chief’s reply. Oh, how brutal the reality of how little the title “godfather” really means, at least to the chief. I don’t ask Wade for details. The chief no longer deserves that emotional reaction from me. I’m focused on this case and the woman who lost her life tonight and deserves justice.
A few minutes later, Wade pulls his Texas Mercedes—AKA his pickup truck—to a meter a block outside the crime scene tape to avoid the congestion of people and law enforcement.
The crime scene is on a property set up as one of a half dozen row houses, each with their own little gated front and backyard. The area is a fun, quirky, campus-friendly area with little coffee shops, bars, restaurants, and even businesses set up in a little circular neighborhood with the school a mere three blocks down.
I let Wade do his thing, flashing his badge and declaring his authority and mine. Wade has a way about him, too. He assumes ownership and power, but he’s not cocky and arrogant like Evan. In fact, over and over, he says to one person or another, “Keep doing what you do well. We’re here to help make your jobs easier.”
Of course, all FBI agents aren’t like Wade, and my encounters with the arrogant assholes that act like gods are perhaps why I’d shied away from the job. Tonight, seeing him in action, I’m reminded that we choose how we walk and talk, and even how we chew our bubble gum. As a consultant, I can always walk away.
We cross the yard and walk up the stairs to a cute little porch where Officer Jackson stands guard. His presence is a little off-putting when the police force is a healthy size and the number of officers so plentiful. “I see you follow guard duty better when I’m not around,” I comment.
“Detective Jazz,” he greets. “We missed you.”
“Agent Jazz now,” Wade corrects. “She’s with us now and is the agent in charge of this crime scene.”
I’m an acting agent and consultant, and I’m pretty sure I’d like to keep it that way, but I don’t push back. “How is it that you’re always at The Poet’s crime scenes?” I ask.
If the question rattles him, he doesn’t show it. “Detective Langford called me. He’s pulling our team back together.”
It’s a good answer. One I accept. For now.
“CSI is working now,” he says. “And the medical examiner is already present.”
“Hazel?”
“Hazel,” he agrees. “Detective Langford asked for her.”
Officer Jackson motions to someone, and Wade and I are offered jackets. “You’re going to want these.”
Because the house is turned to ice, I think. I don’t know why The Poet freezes out his victims, aside from punishing them. He wants them to suffer and it’s the only way he sees to get that result without getting messy.
“Let me guess,” I say shrugging into my coat, as Wade does the same, “An anonymous caller reported the crime?”
“You guessed right,” he confirms.
“What do we know about the victim?” Wade asks.
“Her name is Ava Lloyd. She’s twenty-three. And interestingly enough, considering what we know of The Poet, she’s an English major.”
Who somehow insulted poetry in some way, I think. I give him a nod, and at this point, Wade and I both have on gloves. I reach for the door and step inside to a brutally cold room. Lang is front and center in the living area, standing with Hazel, both in APD jackets, both inspecting a naked woman tied to a chair.
Lang, of course, is yakking as usual and doesn’t seem to know we’re present, while he yaps on, telling a joke.
“A man was recently flying to New York. He decided to strike up a conversation with his seatmate. ‘I’ve got a great FBI joke. Would you like to hear it?’ The seatmate says, ‘I should let you know first that I’m an FBI agent.’ ‘That’s OK,’ the man says. ‘I’ll tell it really slow!’”