The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Chuck’s hands flatten on the desk. “Wait. What? He who?”

“Newman,” I say. “They came from his department, and not long after we finished questioning him.”

He blanches. “They work—they work for The Poet?”

“Seems a good assumption you’ve made there, Chuck,” Lang confirms.

Chuck’s jaw drops. “Oh God. They were prescreened. That’s why they were allowed in. I never—this can’t—I didn’t think—”

“You were right,” Lang says, cutting him off and eyeing me. “He thinks he’s already beat us.”

“He doesn’t just think he’s already beat us. He’s taunting us. Those interns don’t know they’re here at the direction of a killer. He was simply using them to send us a message. We can’t get to him, but he can get to us, whenever, and however he wants to get to us, and do so in the blink of an eye.”

“Which is why he stood outside your door last night.”

“Yes,” I agree, cotton in my throat, thickening my words. “That’s exactly why he stood at my door last night.”

Chapter 33

Chuck shoots to his feet. “I should get rid of the interns right now.”

Lang points at him. “Sit. Wait.”

Chuck’s eyes widen and he settles into his seat.

“Good,” Lang comments. “Now. We need to talk through our next moves.”

Chuck’s response is to spew words, lots of words. “They told me they were told to ask for Detective Sam Jazz. They were sent here by The Poet. They’re his minions. They could be killers, too. They could—”

I intervene before he chokes on his own panic. “They are not killers, Chuck. We don’t even have actual confirmation that Newman sent them. Can you get that confirmation?”

“Not this late in the day.”

“Why don’t you just ask them, Chuck?”

“Right. Ask them. That’s okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “Ask them.”

He picks up the phone and punches a button. “Yes, hi, Lori,” he says, when whoever is on the other line answers. “Who sent you over to work for Detective Jazz? Okay. Thank you.” He hangs up. “Newman Smith. Now, do I send them home?”

“Not yet,” I say. “Just pause a moment.”

Chuck’s cheeks redden. “They work for a killer.”

“Newman’s using them because that’s what psychopaths do,” I explain calmly. “They manipulate and use people.”

Lang doesn’t go down that rabbit hole with him, either. “I’m with Jazz on this. Those interns are game pieces being moved around by a man who sees himself as a master of some sort. Right now, we need to think about how to handle those interns and what message that sends to The Poet. Just wait.” His attention turns to me. “If we send them away, we send one message. If we don’t, we send another. This comes down to how he perceives either message and how he responds. He’s a killer. Killers kill. So, I ask you, Jazz, based on your profile. Which move makes him kill again?”

Chuck gasps. “Sending them away could make him kill again?”

“Wait, Chuck,” Lang snaps. “Just wait.”

I’m not focused on Chuck. I’m focused on what Lang just presented, and he’s right. This comes down to a quid pro quo—this for that. Newman wants a certain response, and that response determines what we’re given in return. The weight of that question presses down on me. It’s a burden Lang has now made mine to own.

I stand up and walk to the board where I’ve written my profile. I read the words I’ve written: planner, organized, highly intelligent. I will the answer to come to me, and when I turn to face them again, it’s with a sense of helplessness. “I don’t know how he’s going to react to anything we do with the interns. What I do know is that any one of them could inadvertently update him on the case. Send them home. We’ll talk to the captain about getting you additional help, Chuck. I’ll talk to my contacts at the FBI and the DA and see what resources they can lend us as well.”

The door bursts open and the captain charges into the room, bristling with agitation, his muscles bunched up, a bear about to claw us until we scream. Or die. He looks like he wants to kill us all. Lang and Chuck shoot to their feet, and now we’re all just standing and staring at the captain, tension knotting between us. We’re all waiting to take our bullets.

“I assume we’re all here talking about Newman Smith?” he demands.

My brows furrow. “You know about Newman Smith?”

“Hell yes, I know about Newman Smith. He’s lawyered up, ladies and gentlemen. How about warning me before you go after one of the mayor’s biggest donors?”

Now I bristle, and not just a little. “With all due respect, Captain, I don’t remember being handed a list of the mayor’s donors and told to let them kill as they please. And I assure you that Newman Smith’s invisible résumé, the profile I had to create in my head, didn’t say ‘professor,’ ‘donor,’ and ‘killer.’ It just said ‘professor’ and ‘killer’ to me.”