The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“You remember your grandfather’s birthday party at the center is next weekend, right?”

“No. Did you tell me about this?”

“Twice.”

I don’t remember her telling me this. And I don’t want to go to this party with The Poet on my heels, but how do I not go? My grandfather might not be here next year. He might not remember me missing this party, but I will. Forever.

“And you’re not working anyway,” she adds. “You have no excuse.”

I haven’t told her about the consultant gig. I need to tell her. I’ll tell her next weekend. “I’ll be there.” We disconnect and for the next hour, I watch the people who come in and out, and I start to discover a theme. The mix is half college students and half from a big tech firm across the street.

I’m there a good hour when Lang calls. “The madam is a gorgeous bitch. We’re not going to get her client list without a drawn-out investigation. I’m headed to the station to review the data Chuck’s got together on Ava Lloyd’s murder. Want to join me?”

“I’m still in her neighborhood. I want to stay on this course. I’ll catch up on everything in the morning.”

“I’ll buy the pizza. I’ll see you at your place at ten.” He hangs up. I don’t call him back. I’m thinking about the security system being out at Summer’s place and the way The Poet navigates a path beyond cameras a bit too easily. The cameras were even out when Newman was murdered. Not for the first time, I wonder if The Poet killed him because Newman was getting my attention, not him.

I stand up and decide to pay a visit to the company across the street. I glance at my watch. It’s almost eight. I can’t imagine anyone will be present, but it’s worth a try.

I hurry across the street to a four-story glass building with a sign on the door that reads Brooks Electronics, which is well-known in the city. I reach for the door, surprised when it opens, and step into a cozy lobby with rich navy high-back visitor chairs, a Thomas Kinkade painting, and a high-end wooden reception desk.

“Hello!” I call out. “Hello!”

A tall, good-looking man in a suit, with sandy blond hair enters the lobby. “May I help you?”

I’m stunned to realize this man is no stranger. I know him.

Chapter 99

“Nolan?”

“Samantha?”

“Oh my God,” I say, shocked to be in the company of a boy I’d grown up with. “I can’t believe it’s you. How long has it been?”

“Forever,” he says, laughing, rushing forward to shake my hand. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you. So do you.” I motion to his expensive suit. “You’re Brooks Enterprises.”

He offers a charming, humble smile. “I am. I graduated from MIT and had the trust fund my father left me. The rest is history. How are you here right now?”

I reach for my badge. “I’m with the FBI. I’m investigating a murder.”

“The one here in the neighborhood?”

“Yes. Did you know Ava Lloyd?”

He pales. “Oh God,” he murmurs. “It was her.” His jaw clenches. “I’d hoped the whispers were wrong.”

“Yes. You knew her then?”

“In passing. I go to the coffee shop on the corner often and so did she. I met her. We said hello, again though, only in passing.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe she’s dead. How can I help?”

“We’re just doing some basic canvassing right now. May I get a list of your employees, or are you going to force me to get a warrant?”

“I’d be happy to give it to you, but let me check with legal and make sure I’m not opening myself up to a lawsuit. It shouldn’t be an issue, though.”

“Understood.” I’m a little weird about knowing him, considering The Poet’s interest in me, but I don’t feel off with him. His surprise at seeing me reads genuine, but a little more digging won’t hurt. “You want to grab some coffee?” I ask, despite the fact that I will never sleep again if I drink more coffee.

“I’m leaving for the weekend for Dallas with my wife and kids. We’re headed to Six Flags. I’ll be back Monday, though.”

“How many kids?”

“Two.”

“How old?”

“Grade school. I dread the high school dating thing.” He gives me a knowing look. “I’m going to be one of those dads.” He eyes me and prompts, “What about you? What’s your story?”

“No kids. My job doesn’t really allow it.”

“That’s too bad.”

I offer him my new card, which Wade had made with remarkable speed. “Call me when you hear from legal.”

“I’ll get with you when I get back, Monday most likely. Maybe Tuesday.”

“Thanks, Nolan.”

“It’s really nice to see you.”

“You as well.” I turn and exit, turning right toward the coffee shop again when another familiar face steps in front of me. It’s Daniel, the security guard from my apartment, who I haven’t seen for a while now, but then, I haven’t exactly been home much either. “Detective Jazz.”