The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Fortunately for me, once I’m in the building, I discover that Antonio Lopez, one of my preferred investigators, is present and working at this late six p.m. hour. He’s my go-to guy when I can manage as much, for a reason: he’s smart and dedicated. He lives to be a part of the solution.

Eager to rally his help, I hunt him down, and it’s not long before I’m standing outside the glass of the evidence room, watching as he studies something under a microscope. I pound on the window, and he gives a little wave and hurries in my direction, yanking off his gloves as he does. He tosses them in a trash can and then exits the lab to join me in a small exterior office.

“Hola, Detective Jazz,” he greets, his hands shoved into his lab coat. “What can I do ya for?”

I could chitchat, and I often do with Antonio, but not this time. Not with that clock ticking in my mind. Tonight, I get right to the point. “I have a potential serial killer and a missing detective. I need answers.”

His eyes go wide, as I’d expected. “What detective?”

“Detective Roberts.”

“Roberts? He was just in here, riding my ass about a case.”

“The Summer case?”

“Yes, Summer. He was all-in on that case. And now—he’s gone?”

“Missing. We’re concerned it’s related to the investigation. I’ve taken over the Summer case, and we now have a second victim, Dave Gaines.”

“Holy hell.” He scrubs a lightly stubbled jaw, his hands settling on his hips. “What can I do?”

“I recognize that you’re backed up and we’re weeks out on most of our DNA results. But I need a few items pushed to the front of the line. If that can’t happen, I need to see if the FBI lab can help.”

“I’ll make it happen.” He points to the desk and grabs a pen and paper. “What do you need above all else? I’ll get the right people to do the right things, fast.”

I give him a list he jots down that includes the voluntary DNA samples we collected from guests at the Summer poetry event, forensics testing on the glasses collected from the Summer crime scene, the poetry books used at the event, and the actual notes left in the victims’ mouths.

“Do you understand what the poems mean? Do any of us?”

“I’m a bit of a poetry expert, actually. That’s why I need to see those poetry books rushed, to make sure there’s not something there that might tell us where Roberts is or who the next victim might be. Something only a poetry scholar will understand.”

“Scholar? You’re a scholar?”

“I’m pretty darn close,” I say, but I don’t explain. I don’t talk about my past or my life in general. I focus on my present reality and my job. “Let’s hope that knowledge helps us catch this monster.”

“I need three days for the testing.”

I push back. “It’s been that long, longer even, since Summer was murdered.”

“It’s been three minutes since I promised you to rush this. We’re buried in demand, but I’m going to move you to the front of the line. At least on these pieces of the puzzle. I’ll get what you need done, but it’s going to take three days.”

I stop pushing, but I do step into that little bit of trouble I knew I’d entertain when I came here tonight. The trouble I wanted Lang to avoid. I reach in my bag and hand him the sample I’d technically, illegally, taken from Newman’s tire. “I took that from the vehicle of the suspect in both cases this morning, which is relevant because the second murder was last night. No, I did not have a search warrant, but I did it anyway. This test will get thrown out in court, but if it places him at the scene of the crime, we’ll get him. He’s not easy to catch. He’s that good at hiding.”

It’s these risk/reward decisions law enforcement has to make to save lives that I hope he understands. Yes, I’m standing firmly in the gray area where my father lived, where he justified bad to achieve good. But I’m visiting only out of desperation. I tell myself it’s not the same. I tell myself this isn’t how it started for my father.

Antonio studies me for a long, hard moment, perhaps weighing the impact of that gray for himself, but he ultimately gives a nod. “I’ll make it a priority.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I do appreciate this. And I owe you.”

“Just find Roberts and catch this killer.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

Find Roberts and catch a killer. If only it were as simple as it sounds.

Chapter 52

I park my car outside the reach of a streetlight, a block down and in view of Newman’s house, and I dial Chuck.

“Jazz,” he answers, his voice a huff of exhaustion. “Hey.”