The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Pushing to my feet, I run my hand through my hair and stumble forward, leaning over Lang to grab my phone. I fight a groan at the number and time, which is only six a.m. The drama I’d known would come this morning has arrived. “Morning, Captain.”

Lang’s eyes pop open with my voice and he sits up. “Shit,” he mutters, and there’s a sticky note stuck to his forehead that has some random address on it.

“My office,” the captain snaps. “Eight a.m.”

“I’m supposed to meet with an FBI profiler in San Antonio this morning.”

“Now you’re meeting me.”

“We have a lead on four connected murders, Captain. There may be more. Lang is going to fly out to Houston and—”

“My office. Eight a.m.” He hangs up.

At this point, Wade is standing up, his hair a tousled mess, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands on his hips. “What just happened?”

Lang pushes to his feet, his hair a disaster standing on end. Sometimes I do think he’s my real soul mate. “She just got called into the firing squad,” he says, running a hand over his two-day stubble and settling his hands on his hips as well. It must be the manly morning thing to do. “I’m going with you to see the captain,” he offers. “I’m not letting you take the fall for confronting Newman’s wife on your own.”

“Get on a plane and go solve this crime,” I say. “I can slay the dragon that is Captain Moore.” I glance at Wade. “My meetings in San Antonio—”

“I’ll connect you with the profiler by phone and get the techs working on everything we put together last night.” He glances at his watch as if he’s not certain of that statement. “Right. Last night. You have an open invitation to come to San Antonio and meet the resources that are yours and Lang’s to use. And I’ll get them started researching the toxins on the cases that don’t have them fully identified. If we can find another cyanide case for you, we will. We’re close to what could be a much more notorious serial killer than we first thought. Captain Moore is going to hear what you have to say.”

“It’s what I don’t have to say that worries me. I have no proof that Newman is our guy. None. Zero. Nothing. I need something to take to him and the DA’s office that at least gets us a warrant.”

“Tell him if he blows off Newman and he turns out to have victims across years and states, he’ll lose his job.”

“Right. I’ll be sure to threaten my boss’s job.”

Lang snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that one.” He motions to the door. “I’m headed out. I should probably go home and shower.”

“You think?” I ask, and he winks before heading down the stairs.

Wade steps closer. “You could just come to work for the FBI, where the resources are plentiful and the assholes—”

“Are not?”

He grins. “Better looking.”

I groan and turn for the stairs. Half an hour later, he’s showered and headed for the door, with a promise to call me the minute he receives the travel report on Newman. I lock up, and walk to the pantry then open the door, my eyes falling on the box of Frosted Flakes, my grandfather’s favorite. My heart squeezes and I grab the box, fill a bowl with cereal and milk, and head back upstairs.

I ignore the excess of taco smells, sit down at the desk, and put that favorite album of my grandfather’s on the record player. I start eating my cereal and searching my mind for what it wanted to tell me last night but did not. When my cereal is gone, I’m no closer to the answer. No wonder of course, considering the beating I’m about to take from the captain.

Maybe it’s time to go see my grandfather. He has moments of clarity even if he doesn’t remember them later. And he’s far more a master of poetry than I am.

Chapter 61

I swing by my apartment office with the intent of grabbing the security feed of my night stalker before heading to the station, but they aren’t open yet. Any other time, I’d run across the street for coffee and try again, but that’s not going to happen now. It will happen, though. It absolutely will. He will not frighten me away from life or my own neighborhood. It still needs to happen, just at a time when I can deal with the emotional baggage that Dave being dead will inevitably stir.

With that in mind, I head to my car, and once I’m on the road, I swing by a Starbucks drive-thru. My order includes the green tea drink the captain drinks and two venti skinny white mochas for Chuck and me. While waiting for my turn at the window, I text Tabitha and Chuck to coordinate the security feed pickup.