The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“Hello there,” he says in his best flirty voice that has me groaning and rolling my eyes.

“The security footage?” I say, and then, because I can’t help myself, I say, “And do you make it a habit to flirt with tenants’ boyfriends?”

Tabitha’s cheeks flush. “Oh God. Oh sorry.”

“Jesus, Jazz,” Lang grumbles.

I don’t set the record straight. I’m kind of enjoying this. “The security footage,” I say tartly. “We’re here for the security footage.”

“The tech support team is working on it,” Tabitha assures me. “And I’m sorry. I would never—”

Jeez, I think. “He’s like a big brother. Take him. Have him. Remind him to shower for the rest of us to remain sane. We don’t want to wait for the tech support team wherever they are. Can I access the feed from here in your office?”

Tabitha blinks and looks between us. “Ah. Yes. We do have a booth in the back room, but I don’t know how to operate it.”

“We do,” Lang says, sounding a bit tart now, too. “Take us there.”

“Of course,” she agrees, hurrying away and waving for us to follow.

And so we do. We follow like good little soldiers while Lang shoots me a look meant to freeze hell. Just another day in the neighborhood. I smile. He doesn’t. We really are good friends. Everyone doesn’t know that about us.

Once we’re offered access to the booth, which is more of a closet, Lang sits down at the computer and keys the screen to life. I lean in close, hovering over his shoulder while Tabitha hovers by the door. “No feed for your apartment entryway,” Lang says.

“Almost like he knew, isn’t it?”

Lang gives a sharp nod. “Exactly what I was thinking. I’ll check the building and the parking lot.” He glances up at me. “What timeline are we thinking?”

“It had to have been nine when I got home, but I got the impression from Mrs. Crawford that he was at my door for an extended period.”

He keys in a time stamp and then starts tabbing through timelines that seem to never end, to the point that I grab a chair and settle next to him. We hit the midnight hour and we have something: a man walking toward my building doorway in a hoodie. He opens the door and goes inside without ever looking up. I glance at Tabitha, who’s still at the door. “Our building doors should have codes.”

Her lips purse and she shifts her weight on top of her extremely high red stilettos. “I know. Mrs. Crawford expressed the same quite vocally this morning.”

“I’m searching the parking lot now,” Lang says, tabbing through the feed and then tabbing some more. “I can’t find where he came from.” He glances up at me. “It does seem like he had some inside knowledge of the security system here.”

I dismiss that idea without questioning Tabitha. “He wouldn’t have known I existed until I took over for Roberts. And that just happened.”

“Right,” he says, but we stare at each other a long moment before he says, “Unless he did.”

Chapter 23

Lang and I exit the apartment office and I immediately try to head off the blowup I know is coming. “I already asked Chuck to look for a connection between Roberts, my father, and this case.”

“What do you know that I don’t know? Spit it out. I’m not playing these bullshit games with you, Jazz.”

“Games? I’m not playing games. There’s nothing you don’t know. Absolutely nothing.”

“And yet you called Chuck, not me, this morning?”

“Because I knew you’d freak out and I needed to think, not fight.”

“What don’t I know, Jazz?” he repeats.

“Other than my theories?”

“Tell me,” he orders.

“Roberts’s abrupt departure made you ask about his friendship with my father. And Roberts is connected to this case. If The Poet knows me—”

“The Poet,” he says thoughtfully. “I like it. Maybe we can turn him into The Dead Poet. Isn’t that a book or something?”

“Dead Poets Society is a movie.” I get back to what I was saying. “If The Poet knows me, it’s logical that we look for a link to my father. I asked Chuck to search for a connection to all of us.”

“In other words, this isn’t a random serial killer. It’s someone with a vendetta against your father.”

“Who’s dead.” Those words punch and cut, but I press forward. “It doesn’t quite add up, and I really don’t think that’s what’s going on here, but it has to be considered.”

“One way or another, he knows you and the security setup of your building.”

“I know that.”

His lips thin. “I have a few more questions for Tabitha.” He turns around and walks back into the office. I don’t follow. He’ll get more out of her than I will.

I punch in Chuck’s number before I end up punching Lang.

He answers on the first ring. “Jazz.” He sounds so damn relieved. It’s as if my mother has called the entire precinct and assured them that, my badge and gun be damned, I can’t take care of myself. “Everything okay?”