The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“According to her best friend, Kelly, Ava frequented the Twilight Coffee Shop, the library, and the campus, all right here in the neighborhood,” Jackson says, his freckled face stony, as usual, his red hair trimmed to the scalp. “She worked from home when she wasn’t in school.”

“What kind of work?” Lang asks.

“She was an English and math tutor,” Jackson replies. He hesitates. “And—”

I jerk my head around. “And?”

His lips press together. “I don’t want to assume improperly, but she had a lot of frequent male visitors.”

“Oh Jesus,” Lang grumbles. “If that means what I think it means, our suspect list just got enormous.”

“It’s unlikely he met her through an escort service,” I say. “He’s a meticulously clean, controlled man, but on the other hand, he is into bondage. He could have practiced such things with a hired escort. If she dared talk literature with him and spoke the wrong words, that would be her end.” I look between Jackson and Lang. “I like that angle. He had to learn the bondage somewhere.”

“I’ll call Chuck and the FBI tech and get them on this,” Lang says. “Well,” he adds, “unless you prefer to call your FBI team.”

I grimace. “Just call them. Don’t be a jerk.”

He smiles. “You snapping at me just like that—perfection. It works. Now it feels like old times.”

I laugh in spite of myself.

“I’m trying to find out if she worked for a service,” Jackson says, seemingly oblivious to our exchange.

“Talk to the best friend,” Lang suggests. “She’ll know, but if she’s involved, she won’t want to tell you.”

I glance at Lang. “She’ll tell you. All the pretty girls tell you.”

“That is true,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows and eyeing Jackson. “Where does she live?”

“By the Domain shopping center, but she works downtown for some senator at the capitol building.”

“But she was best friends with a call girl,” Lang says. “Interesting. What better place to get horny men with no morals than in politics?”

I snort. “Truth.”

Lang doesn’t linger on that truth. He’s back to Jackson now. “Take another officer with you and start digging around the campus.”

Jackson nods and takes off. “I’m going to hit the coffee shop and the library,” I say. “I’ll Uber it to the autopsy.”

“You sure? I can come back and get you.”

“I am. I think I want to spend some time in the neighborhood. I hadn’t done that with the prior murders.”

“All right,” he says. “Call me if you change your mind.”

I nod and head on out to the side street, where I pull up a collage of photos I made weeks ago of all of the victims, including the ones from other cities and states. I add one of Ava and then set out to ask if anyone knows any of the victims.

An hour later, I’ve visited ten businesses, and a few thought Ava was familiar, but none of the other photos rang a bell. I stop at the coffee shop, where I grab a coffee. The manager, a man in his mid-forties, knows Ava but no one else in the photos. “Did you see her talking to anyone here?”

“She was very social,” he says. “She was always talking to someone.”

“Anyone stand out or seem to be a frequent visitor with her?”

“Just another girl. Her friend. They came in together.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Kelly, I think, but don’t hold me to that.”

A few minutes later, I stand just outside the door, sipping my skinny white mocha, and there’s a clear view of Ava’s house from here. The Poet’s arrogant and bold. I wonder if he stood here and watched us last night. I shiver in the heat of a hot day, and for the first time in weeks, that evil slithers over me and seems to crawl deep under my skin.

He’s here. The Poet is here.

What’s terrifying to me is that I know. That I’m connected enough to this evil to feel his presence.

Chapter 97

I walk toward the library, that sense of evil following me, a sensation that has me dialing Lang.

He answers on the first ring. “Kelly confessed. She and Ava worked for a private madam. I’m on my way to see her now.”

“I want to hear more, I do, but right now, I know this sounds crazy, but I can feel him here in the neighborhood. Get some plainclothes officers on the street.”

“Where are you?”

“I just left the coffee shop and I’m walking toward the library.”

“I’ll handle it and come join the party,” he says.

“No. If I’m right, and he’s following me, he’ll know you, too.”

“Fuck. Right. I don’t like leaving you out there with him and without me.”

“I have a gun and I know how to shoot it.”

“And a knee that you know how to use.”

“Only when it’s deserved.”

“Or when you don’t feel like letting another person explain themselves.” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “The autopsy is in an hour.”