The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Keeping a wide distance, I pretend to go left, cutting fast in that direction, only to immediately go right. I’m about to turn the corner, to walk right into the shadow I’d seen from my car, but instinct halts me. Instinct yells for me to wait, not to go alone.

“Damn it,” I murmur, dropping back toward my car.

But I know the killer’s here. I feel him, evil crawling along my skin, trying to shove its way under and inside me. I’m suffocating in evil, in him. I feel his eyes on me, his stare, a burn that comes straight from hell. He can see me. I can’t see him. That is not a matchup that ends well for me.

A car pulls into the street a few feet away, and I catch a glimpse of Lang in my peripheral vision. He’s smart and sharp enough to approach silently, weapon drawn. He’s halfway to me and I motion left, back toward the darkness and that shadow. He motions right. Another patrol car is pulling up behind his Mustang and just that quickly, I feel the shift in the air. I feel the evil coil and withdraw.

Damn it, again. We’re losing him.

Fear gone now, I cut the corner around the building, flattening on the concrete wall, shining my light along the empty space. I don’t wait here for him to escape from the rear. I run toward the back wall and pause, easing around the corner as Lang charges toward me.

We’re clear. The killer is gone, but I have a crazy sensation of the familiar. Like this is not an evil I’ve felt only once.

Chapter 9

It doesn’t take long after Lang and I give the go-ahead for the cavalry to light the bookstore up like Christmas. Or for us to decide we’re going inside, just to be sure The Poet isn’t seeking shelter there.

We converse with several officers, one of whom was a first responder on the initial crime scene. Officer Jackson is a tall redhead, a man in his thirties only two years out of the military and into the force, who is all muscle and stony-faced expressions. I know him from another case. He has a future. He’s one of the good ones, and he’s quick to contribute. “The front doors are glass and locked. No one got in or out from that location without breaking the glass that’s intact.”

“All right then,” Lang agrees. “The rear entrance is our hot spot.”

Decision made, and with a car illuminating the building and officers backing us up, Lang and I approach the back door, which is predictably secured. Lang breaks the lock and flips a light on. We’re greeted with two sets of stairs, one going up and one going down. The archway to the left of both leads into the bookstore.

Officer Jackson joins us. “Hold the stairwells,” Lang orders, and with Jackson’s nod, Lang and I enter the store.

Side by side, we halt just inside the cozy little store, complete with wooden tables, a full bar, and rows of books. “Dude had a hell of a selection of IPA’s,” Lang murmurs, like a selection of beers is a dead man’s legacy.

I scowl at him and then start walking. From there, we divide and conquer, checking every row of books, and when we’re all clear, I seek out a longer look at the poetry section, which is quite extensive. Considering the poem left in the victim’s mouth, these books should have been bagged into evidence. They will be before we leave here tonight.

Lang and I reconvene with Jackson in the entryway. “Get the poetry section into evidence,” I instruct Jackson. “All of it. Every book.” My attention turns to Lang. “Ready?”

He motions to the upper level. “Your case. You want the apartment? Where the murder happened.”

“The murder began with planning. I’ll take the theater. I want to be where the killer was, in the order that he was there.”

“All right. Have it your way.” He eyes Jackson. “Hold the fort, man.” Jackson nods, and Lang heads up his set of stairs.

Weapon and flashlight in front of me, I start down my set of stairs, traveling well-lit territory into what appears to be a black hole below. Nerves quiver inside me, but they drive me forward. They make me want to strip away the unknown. I end my path at an open doorway. Aware that The Poet could be waiting inside, I shine my light in a quick scan of the space in front of me and reach to the inner wall, where I easily find a light switch. Once the room is glowing, I find exactly what I’d expected from a scan of the crime scene photos: a circular stage sits in the pit of the room, with theater-style seating chairs stacked around it. There are no hiding places, no room for a large man to conceal himself. The room is empty but for me, at least right now.