The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Obviously, he does know we’re here. I glance at Wade, who smirks. “He’s always been an ass,” he says. “That’s not going to change.” He clears his throat. “Detective Langford.”

Lang turns and smirks himself now. “Agent Wade Miller.” His gaze shifts to me. “And Agent Jazz. Didn’t know you were here.”

Hazel rotates away from the body to greet me. “Good to see you, Detective, I mean, Agent Jazz. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Hazel. What do we have?”

“It’s what we don’t have,” she replies. “I’m not going to find a mistake this guy made.”

“CSI is offering the same feedback,” Lang says. “But there is one interesting difference to this murder.” He motions with his head, and together, he and I step in front of the body of the once-beautiful brunette. That is until The Poet poisoned her and then used what looks like lipstick, most likely her lipstick, to draw a huge U on her face.

“Looks like he wanted us to connect him to the Houston and Brownsville murders,” Lang comments. “And he found a way to avoid the mess you say he doesn’t like.”

“U is for ‘unworthy.’”

“The question is,” he says, glancing over at me, “if the poem was meant for you, is he telling us that she was unworthy? Or are you, Jazzy?”

Chapter 93

I stand at the coffee shop not far from the house where Ava Lloyd’s body waits for Detective Jazz’s inspection. Correction: FBI Agent Samantha Jazz. Agent. I like the ring of this new title. It suits her. It allows her more power, more freedom. I’d followed her and Agent Wade Miller to the neighborhood where Ava Lloyd’s house still hosted her chilled body, watched her rush toward the crowd and the yellow tape. And now I stand here, just outside the coffee shop, sipping an espresso, enjoying the chaos that I know only she will understand as perfect order.

I wonder if she knows now the cold is part of the sinner’s punishment. I wonder if she’s figured out I force them to sit there, naked and freezing, when I make them choose life or death. When I make them choose to take the pill or let me shoot them in the head.

Of course, they all choose the pill. They believe it gives them a chance to survive.

It does not.

Sadly, my time here must be cut short. I walk to the trash can and toss my cup, focused on necessary progress. Progress that started with the expiration of Newman Smith, who’d served a purpose, a barrier between myself and Agent Jazz when she wasn’t yet ready to see me in herself. A man easily disposed of when the time was right, a child molester who I knew Agent Jazz would judge unworthy, which she did. She simply wasn’t ready to pass ultimate judgment, the eternal judgment, which was expected. Progress takes time.

She’s obviously comfortable with judgment but still resists delivering proper punishment. That’s coming for her the way she came to me tonight. Agent Jazz had chosen Dave. The book had chosen Ava. These were not random choices, and it’s time she comes full circle. It’s time she opens her eyes and sees me the way she used to see me.

I walk a few blocks to my BMW and climb inside, making the short drive to South Austin, where Richard Williams is presently staying in a rundown trailer park. I owe him payment for Newman’s murder, and tonight, I’ve planned a little bonus for him that he’s not expecting. Because he’s a stupid embezzler. The trailers are broken down and spread apart and, as I have twice in the past, I drive to a wooded area just past his particular trailer, where I leave the money in our drop spot of a gutted tree. Tonight, his extra prize is an expensive bottle of whiskey.

Once I’m parked behind one of the neighboring trailers, one with a view of Richard’s front door, and a for rent sign in the window, I step out of my car and head to my trunk, where the tools for my judgment await me. I tuck my hair under a skintight cap and apply a layer of wax over my eyebrows and lashes to prevent shedding. My shirt is removed, my chest and arms bare of any hair. My wife says she likes me like this. Why would I deny her what she likes? My gloves are rolled into place. I pull a scrub shirt over my head and scrub pants over my pants. Booties go on my feet. Next, I remove a throwaway phone from my trunk and dial his number.

“Who is this?” he demands, but he knows. Of course he knows. He’s expecting me and the money I’ll gladly sacrifice to terminate him and the problems he represents.

“The task is complete,” I state. “I left you an extra gift for a job well done.”