The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“Considering that attitude, Detective Jazz,” the captain pretty much growls at me, “I now know why he referred to you by name. He doesn’t like you.”

“Is a killer supposed to like the detective trying to stop him from killing again?” I snap back.

His stare, now wholly reserved for me and me alone, turns a dark, hellish shade of anger. “Don’t push me, Jazz.” His voice is low, lethal. “You won’t like the outcome. Do you have evidence against him?”

“Not yet, but—”

“Then stay the hell away from him!” He bellows that order.

Chuck clears his throat and raises a hand, a schoolkid afraid of the teacher, but clearly more afraid of a killer. “Captain.”

The look the captain casts in his direction is impatience bordering on scathing. “What can I do for you, Chuck?”

“Newman sent over interns from his class and told them to ask for Detective Jazz.” Chuck announced this as if it saves me and us, as if it changes anything the mayor wants from us or Newman.

The captain proves that as untrue as I mentally had predicted. “His attorney made me aware of that action. His way of reminding us of his many levels of support for our department. Treat him accordingly.”

“An arrogant killer with the mayor wrapped around his finger,” I state. “How absolutely lovely.” I give him a sour smile.

“Enough, Detective Jazz,” the captain snaps, and with that, he turns and walks out of the room.

Lang takes a step forward. “I’ll talk to him.”

“No,” I say, pointing at him and passing him by on my way to the door. “I’m going to.” I charge after the captain, well aware of how early I am off of mandatory leave and how quickly I could be sent home. But I don’t care. I didn’t take this job to be pushed around by the captain, let alone by a serial killer hiding behind an innocent family and his money.

Chapter 34

The hour is late, the administrative staff all but cleared from the building, which leaves the captain’s path toward his office clear. Mine as well as I pursue him, my steps thundering on the floor right along with my temper. I’m right behind him when he enters his office, stepping into the small space before he can shut the door. Actually, he doesn’t try. He knows I’m here.

He rounds his desk and I’m already there in front of it and him, in full confrontation mode. “I thought you weren’t like my father, Captain.”

He looks down his nose at me with the same arrogance I’d expect from Newman. My father didn’t lead with arrogance, but I remind myself that he also didn’t manage with honesty. I’m starting to wonder if Moore is just a different breed of bad. “What does that mean, Detective?” he demands.

“Since when do we let killers go free just because they make political donations?”

“You made a scene at the school.”

I laugh and not with humor. “Really? Because I’ve made so many scenes in my career?”

“You just came off the loss of your father.”

“That’s how this is? You simply decide behavior that doesn’t fit my own personal profile to be true, because my father died and I might be what? A new person now?”

He flinches, just barely—it’s there and I see it—but it doesn’t stop him from punching back. “You’re making a scene right now.”

“I’m defending myself when I shouldn’t have to defend myself. I’ve earned more respect than this. I did not make even a small scene while interviewing Newman. If he told you that, he’s lying. There’s more going on here than you’ve taken the time to understand. I want to know why.”

“I was there, too,” Lang says, joining us and shutting the door. “He didn’t mention me, did he?”

“No, Langford, he did not,” the captain confirms. “Apparently, for once you kept your mouth shut.”

Lang snorts out laughter. “In case you don’t know me and her, I’m not the calm one. She is. That asshole is playing a game with Jazz. Her neighbor saw him lurking around last night. He showed up at her apartment and just stood outside her door for God knows how long.”

The captain’s gaze jerks to mine. “Is that true?”

“The security feed shows a man in a hoodie and a baseball hat,” I say. “We believe it was him.”

His expression tightens. “So you don’t know it was him. We can’t name him without proof. That’s basic police work.”

He’s right. We have nothing on Newman aside from his personal interests and arrogance, neither of which is illegal. If not for Roberts’s MIA status, I’d be ready to walk out the door and get to work proving he’s The Poet, but Roberts is missing. This conversation can’t end without tackling that topic.

“Look, Captain,” Lang grinds out. “Jazz took this case—we took this case—when Roberts left town with too much abruptness to make sense.”