He opens the door and I file in first, starting the climb up the narrow steps. Lang follows, and once we’re at my apartment door, we both reach for our weapons without pulling them out. I check the knob and the door is locked, which means nothing. An intruder could have locked it with himself inside.

I unlock it and pocket my keys. Lang doesn’t even consider hanging back. He goes in and I follow. I let him search the place and I set my bag on the floor before kneeling beside the computer Wade left on the entry table, where I start tabbing through the feed. And there he is. The man in the hoodie. He was at my door, standing there with his back to me.

Lang finishes his search, holstering his weapon.

I hit the space bar and freeze the feed. “I found him on the footage, at my door again.”

“It wasn’t Newman,” he says.

“Of course it was Newman,” I argue.

“Nope. He’s at home. Patrol knocked on the door and did a wellness check. He came to the door.”

Chapter 55

I glance at the security footage, at the frozen image on the man in the hoodie, a chill running down my spine, before I refocus on Lang. “It was Newman,” I insist. “That’s Newman on my security feed. Him being home for the wellness check means nothing. He was here and rushed home, plain and simple.”

“What time he was here on the film?”

“A full half hour. That’s how bold and fearless he is. He left an hour ago.”

“That’s a tight ride to Westlake,” Lang points out.

“It’s a full hour and there’s no traffic at this time of night,” I argue.

“He’d have to make the drive, which isn’t short, and enter his house.” He holds up a finger, “Then,” he adds, “he’d have to tuck himself into his bed with his wife, kiss her or bitch at her, whatever his thing is, and all before the police knocked. His wife would ask questions. She’d be suspicious that he races in the house, into the bed, and the police knock right afterwards.”

“Maybe they sleep in separate beds. That’s how the Golden State Killer managed to sneak out.”

“Or this isn’t him,” Lang says. “The guy who killed your father is still missing. It could be him.”

“He could have killed me that night. He didn’t even try. And why would he want to taunt me? He didn’t even taunt my father, who put him in jail. This isn’t him. Why are you even going to him?”

Lang runs a hand through his hair. “This whole Roberts thing. That’s what you have in common with Roberts. Your father. And we never got the asshole who killed your father.”

“Roberts and I have the Summer case in common. You’re letting Roberts be a distraction, and maybe that’s exactly what The Poet wanted. What better way to distract law enforcement than making one of our own disappear?”

Daniel steps into the frame of the open door. “Anonymous caller,” Daniel announces. “The report came from an anonymous caller. Male.”

My gaze shoots to Lang’s. “To my point. Just like the call last night. It’s the same person.”

Daniel motions to the security feed on my computer. “Did you catch him on camera?”

I bristle uncomfortably with what could be seen as a logical observation and question from a member of law enforcement. But he’s not law enforcement and I don’t know him. At all. It’s time for Daniel to mosey on downstairs, and I’m about to say as much, but Lang isn’t quite ready for him to go adios. “What I want to know, Daniel,” he says, “is how you snagged a security job with that tattoo on your arm. How long you been in a gang?”

There’s a barely perceivable stiffening of Daniel’s spine.

“Most people aren’t cops who know what it means. I got out a long time ago.”

“When?” I ask. “Because that particular gang is known for its brutality.”

“When I was eighteen, fifteen years ago now. Right after my pops got shot.”

“He was in the gang, too,” I assume.

“He pulled me in,” he confirms, which isn’t uncommon. These kids follow their fathers and siblings into a destructive future. “That was in San Antonio,” he continues. “After that, I got sent here to Austin to live with my grandma. She whipped my ass into shape.”

This all sounds reasonable, but I find myself pushing for more. “Where’s your mother?” I ask.

“She died when I was twelve of an overdose.” His tone is flat, his expression unreadable, and I feel the cut of a young child losing his mother.

Lang shows no sympathy. “In other words, you have a sealed juvenile record.”

“Look me up, man,” Daniel challenges. “I have no record.”

“And yet you’re a robocop, not a real one?” Lang snaps back.

“My girlfriend’s pregnant. This is my second job. I’ve been at this only a month.”

Tags: Lisa Renee Jones Thriller
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