The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“Agent Jazz now,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here.” He holds up a bag. “I grabbed dinner for a late night. I quit my security job and picked up some much-hoped-for overtime here at work. How’s your problem there at the apartment building?”

“He seems to have moved elsewhere.”

“Good,” he says. “Stay safe. Gotta get back to work.”

He steps around me and enters Brooks Enterprises.

Chapter 100

Lang calls when I’m on my way home and cancels pizza. Roberts’s ex-wife is freaking out and he’s going to calm her down. Better him than me. She’d thought he was silent because he was sour about their breakup. Our questions told her there’s more to this. I don’t know how you calm her down without lying and telling her there’s no real problem here. Clearly there is. Roberts has been gone too long, silent too completely. And I hate lies. They’re unfair. They make the truth harder later.

Instead of pizza with Lang, I sit on my couch and eat popcorn while looking through my security feed that is now weeks neglected. Halfway through, I dial my mother. “Well, isn’t this fresh and new,” she greets me. “You calling me instead of me calling you. That makes twice. Miracles do happen.”

“I will not reply to that uncalled-for comment.”

She laughs. “I see how you are.”

“Do you remember Nolan Brooks?”

“Nolan. Hmmm. I think I do.” My memory jolts. “Oh right. His dad was that one who died in the boating accident, right?”

“He did. Does his mother still live around there?”

“Oh no. She died, too. Heart attack, I think, but I can’t be sure. I think there was a bit of trouble for her after his father died, though that’s expected.”

“Trouble how?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a vague memory. Why?”

“I ran into him today. He’s the owner of Brooks Enterprises. The Brooks Enterprises. The one that is now running a streaming service and cable network.”

“That’s impressive.”

We chat for a few more minutes, and I finish reviewing the security feed. There’s nothing there. It’s almost like when Newman Smith died, so did my stalker. I supposed he could have been Newman. Newman hated me. Then again, he could have simply been the living, breathing puppet for The Poet, now deceased and therefore off duty.

Later, when I finally go to bed, I crank down the air, aware of the dark clawing in my mind. I try to blank my mind, but it doesn’t work. I tumble into my personal hell, but this time, I’m back reliving the night my father died. We’re fighting, shouting at each other, and then Richard Williams is right there, behind him. I’d looked into his angry eyes, screamed my father’s name, but it was too late.

In slow motion, it seems I’m calling 911 and trying to stop the bleeding. I’m shouting for help. I’m shouting at a man standing in the distance, just out of view, wearing a hoodie and baseball cap. “Help! Help us please!” But he just turns and walks away.

Chapter 101

I think of that nightmare often over the next few days. Of course, The Poet was not present when my father died. I found out Richard Williams was dead yesterday. I’d twisted two monsters into one in my sleep. But still, the nightmare haunts me.

The next few days go by in a whirlwind of frustration for me that barely leaves time for such nonsense.

I make my return to the station and have an awkward encounter with the captain. The chief just stays away. Our team begins a suspect list, and it’s not long. I have Nolan Brooks and my security guard checked out, though we’d already looked into Daniel. Both fit the age and family profiles, but not much else. I vow not to remain hyper-focused on any one person, but the Nolan encounter bothers me. His offices have been in that plaza for a decade. So he didn’t just pop up suddenly. I simply found him.

Wade is now on a manhunt across several states for a cop killer who’s struck three times, so my nights are spent alone—well, once I kick Lang out. I decide Lang and I might have made a great married couple. We’ve become excessively good at avoiding what’s wrong between us. So much so that I start to wonder why it matters. I can’t change the deal he made with my father, and I’m no longer with the APD.

Ultimately, we’re at the stage of every case that becomes frustrating. We’ve gotten some results on random cases back from the lab, but nothing that adds up. We’re working ten different angles from the madam to careful eyes on the employees at Brooks Enterprises. We know that the last two victims of The Poet were close together, which ups the pressure. These investigative matters all take time, and we all feel the ticking of the clock.