The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“That was our son’s birthday,” she says quickly. “We spent the day as a family. We were all together.”

“Together doing what?” I ask.

“We were here.” She motions to the house behind her. “We had a little family party, just us and the kids.”

“From what time to what time?” Lang queries.

“All day and night,” she says. “We barbecued in the afternoon by our pool, and then ordered pizzas that evening, which we ate while watching Jumanji.”

“What time did you go to bed?” I ask.

“It was a Saturday, so the kids were up late, playing Monopoly. They love Monopoly. Newman and I both had papers to grade.”

“All right then,” Lang says. “What time did you go to bed?”

“I fell asleep at about ten o’clock. I think Newman was up a little longer. His papers are far more in-depth than mine.”

“Would you have known if he left?” Lang asks.

She bristles. “Of course. He didn’t leave.”

And yet, so often that’s exactly what happens in the family cover situations. The family sleeps. The killer simply slips away. “Do you have security cameras that can confirm no one left the house after ten that night?” Lang asks.

Her lips press together. “We don’t have security cameras.”

Lang arches a brow. “Nice house. You might want to protect it and your kids. We’ll check with the neighbors. I’m sure they’ll have cameras.”

She folds her arms in front of her. “We probably should get cameras.”

“One last thing,” I say. “We’d like to glance at your husband’s poetry collection.”

“You want—you want to glance at—no.” She holds her hands up. “No, I’m not inviting you inside to freak out my children. No.” Her jaw sets hard. “If you need anything else, we’ll find a lawyer.”

“We’ll leave,” Lang says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a card he then offers her. “Call if you think of anything we might need to know, anything at all.”

She swipes the card from his hand. “I will.”

I give an incline of my chin. “Have a nice evening, Mrs. Smith.”

Lang and I head back to the car, and once we’re settled inside the Mustang, with the engine running, Lang blurts out the last thing I expect. “She looks like you.”

I ignore that comment and focus on our information gathering. “She admitted he has a poetry collection. And she believed we were here about her husband. She knows he’s a monster. We can break her.”

“Agreed,” he says. “Now back to my prior point. She looks like you.”

“So do millions of other women with brown hair and green eyes.”

“Even her facial structure resembles yours. He was following you, Jazz. I don’t like where this is headed.”

Chapter 30

Lang pulls out of the driveway, and the lecturing has already started. “We’re going to have a serious talk about your safety. We have a killer who’s taken too much interest in you. When these monsters get personal, cops die.”

Like my father, I think. He’s talking about my father. And he keeps talking. And talking some more. I can feel heat rushing up my neck. I tune him out, turn him into white noise. He’s pushing buttons that I don’t want pushed.

Focus, I think. Follow the system and catch the killer.

I grab my phone and call patrol, arranging a hunt for the neighbors’ security feeds, and when I’m done, Lang has stopped talking, thank you, Lord.

Still focused, still following the system, I glance at one of my lists I made last night and pinpoint what comes next. I pull out the case file and look for the District Attorney assignment for this case.

“The ADA is Evan Adams, whom you hate for reasons you won’t share,” I say as if Lang hasn’t been lecturing and I haven’t been ignoring him. “The good news is that he and I get along. We successfully charged and got a conviction together, recently.”

“The bad news, outside of that bastard being involved?”

“Well, since you hate him and I suspect that’s over a woman, you may know this, but he’s good-looking and talented, which for him translates to arrogant and ambitious.”

“I know all of that and then some. He won’t charge if it’s risky, but if bodies start dropping, he might well pressure us to charge too early.”

“Exactly,” I say. “He’s a double-edged sword; one could almost call him an organized killer, much like The Poet. I’ll call him. I’ll go see him and try to get ahead of this problem.”

“Back to you looking like Newman’s wife.”

I sigh and flip a page in the file.

“Sam,” Lang presses.

We’re on the highway now, idling in unmoving traffic again. There’s no escaping this conversation. “I heard you, Lang.”

“Did you? Because I don’t think you did.”

All my cool, calm focus slides right out of view. I whirl on him. “Ethan,” I snap. “I hear you. I, of all people, am pretty damn clear on how dangerous this job is. I have never taken my safety or anyone’s safety for granted, nor do I plan to start now.”