The Poet (Samantha Jazz)
It’s a lie that disappoints, that makes her complicit in ways I’m not yet ready to turn on her. Especially since I don’t know if that lie comes from a place of fear, love, or guilt.
“Is that all?” she asks. “I’m tired. I need to get the kids to bed and me as well.”
“Let me look at my notes.” I grab my phone and pretend to scan for information. “Hmmm,” I murmur, glancing up at her. “I got that wrong. He left the school at nine thirty.”
“Oh. Yes. Well with the bustle of the sitter and kids, it just felt sooner.”
“We don’t show him arriving home until well after midnight.”
Her eyes sharpen with anger. “Are you playing games?”
“I just want to know where he was until one in the morning.”
“You need to leave.”
“You’re afraid of him.”
“I’m not afraid of my husband.”
“Two people are dead and the cop who worked this case before me is missing.”
She quite obviously bristles, her spine stiffening. “Why are you blaming my husband?”
“You know why.”
“He’s—”
“Dangerous, and I don’t want you or your kids to be next. You do know that by protecting him you’re complicit in his crimes, correct?”
She swallows hard. “I don’t know anything about any crimes.”
I reach in my bag and pull out a swab, which I hold up. “Then you won’t mind providing me a DNA sample.”
A flicker of something flashes in her eyes—fear, I think. I’ve hit a nerve. “I need to talk to my attorney.”
“Why? Did you kill someone?”
“I did not kill anyone. You need to leave.” She tries to shut the door.
I catch it. “If you’re afraid—”
“Let go of the door.”
“Mrs. Smith—”
“Let go!” she shouts, and this time, I let the door go.
It slams in my face.
My cell phone rings with Lang’s number. I answer it on my way down the sidewalk. “He’s on his way back. Get out of there.”
Chapter 53
Lang and I end up at a bar that’s within walking distance from my apartment while an unmarked patrol car keeps tabs on Newman. Apparently, Lang had followed him on a grocery run for milk and toilet paper, to which Lang had joked, “We’re so close, he’s shitting himself.” He’s classy like that and I love him for it.
At present, we’re sitting across from each other, tucked away in a back-corner booth. Garth Brooks is blasting through the speakers, with a neon Texas sign on the wall, while we contemplate our survival rate once Newman calls the mayor and the mayor calls the captain. I sip my cucumber jalapeño martini. “You weren’t there. I was. No sense in us both going down.”
“We’re a team, Jazzy,” Lang says, tipping back his Corona. “Live together, die together.”
“I do love that you were there tonight.”
“I hate that you didn’t trust me enough to just tell me where you were going. What happened to live and die together?”
“You say that, I don’t.”
“Jazz—”
“My father happened, Lang. He pushed the limits of right and wrong and when wrong won, he took down some good people.”
“Two detectives were fired after the Internal Affairs investigation finally concluded last month. And they wouldn’t have gone down if they were good people.”
“And five from patrol. Change the subject.”
He studies me a long moment and then says, “I talked to the captain up in Houston.”
“And?”
“He knew Roberts from the police academy. Roberts called him and wanted a job. That’s all it took.”
“You think The Poet forced him to make the calls?”
“Or Roberts was trying to throw off whoever he might be running from.”
I sigh. “We didn’t change the subject at all. You still think this could be connected to my father?”
“I don’t know. Your father never confessed his sins to anyone.”
“He didn’t have to.” I down half my drink. “My godfather told me plenty.”
“The chief gave you the dirty on your father?”
“That’s right.”
“When?”
“A few nights before my father died. The chief wanted to make sure I was clean before the shit hit the fan. I was embarrassed and angry. I respect him. He’s family. My father was like a brother to him. I tried to keep it all to myself but failed. That’s why I was fighting with my father the night he died. I confronted him.”
“Fuck. I thought you overheard your father talking and figured out he was dirty.”
“Technically, I did. The chief played a recording of my father celebrating the murder of a suspect.”
“Holy hell. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Aside from the fact that I didn’t want you to know anything you’d have to report to IA?” I finish off my drink. “I told you—it’s embarrassing. I mean, Lord help me, in his own way, my father was much like The Poet. He had a God complex. If he couldn’t take down a bad guy the right way, he found a way to hurt them. He got power hungry and started trading deals with the wrong people.”