The Poet (Samantha Jazz)
Seconds tick by in which the room is silent, eight sets of eyes staring at me. Chuck stands up and claps. “Let’s go, people.” The room erupts into action.
I step out of the room and dial Lang.
“What happened?” he asks.
“You couldn’t warn me that you talked to him?”
“I guess it went like shit?”
“He basically said we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. I have a meeting with the ADA tonight. Get me something to use.”
“We’re on the ground by one thirty. A detective from the Brownsville PD is picking us up at the airport. Anything on the travel report?”
“Nothing, and no convention connection for Newman and the travel locations and dates of the murders.”
An announcement sounds over his phone. “I gotta go. I’ll call you when I’m on the ground.” He disconnects.
I walk back toward the conference room to have Jackson meet me at the door. “I grabbed the coffee shop security feed again, too,” he says. “They’re more than a little eager to help. I figured this killer is arrogant enough to walk right back in to the place where he chose a victim. I thought maybe we’d catch him with a hat or hoodie.”
He’s not picking away at my Spidey senses today, which is always a good thing. And he’s right. The Poet is arrogant enough to go right back to that coffee shop. “Good idea. Do me a favor and check out the security guard that was at my place last night, too, will you?”
“Of course. You want me to get started on the review of the security feed?”
“No. I’ll handle it.” My cell phone rings. “Just set it on the table. I’ll be right there.” I grab my phone again and rotate away from him to find Wade calling.
Stepping into Chuck’s cubicle, I answer. “Tell me something good.”
“He did fly to New York City, but not on the dates of the murders.”
“Close?”
“He was there within months of the first murder,” he says. “No Houston or Brownsville travel, but he’s close enough to drive to those. New York would be a long trip. Find a way to question the wife about the travel.”
“This from the man who knew I was getting chewed out for questioning the wife today?”
“Obviously you survived,” he says, “and I knew you would.”
“Can you send me the report?”
“Already in your email. And I have our tech team looking for traffic camera proof he drove to any of the places in question. That’s a big order, but we’re trying.”
“Thank you, Wade.”
“Thank me by seriously considering the FBI again. You belong here, Sam, and before you push back, I’ve got my class to get back to anyway. I have to go, but the name and number of the profiler I recruited to help you out is in your email, too. You also have contact information for the lead tech I have helping out. Gotta run.”
He disconnects, and I am ready to beat my head against the desk. I have murders. I have a killer. I have no proof. My mind goes back to my grandfather, and I’m not sure why it’s pulling me to him. I need to go see him. I stand up and then immediately lean forward, hands on the desk, with the punch of an idea. But I can’t go.
What if I lead The Poet to him and The Poet doesn’t see him as worthy?
Chapter 63
The profiler is Judy Garland.
For real.
Her parents loved the movie star Judy Garland and named their daughter Judy. No wonder she chose to spend her days hunting killers. She needed to be bigger than the name. I know Judy well. I hide out at my desk for our talk, which is an easy one. She was one of my mentors in profiling, and it doesn’t take long on the phone with her before we’re batting things back and forth and creating a solid profile that ultimately matches mine with a bit more detail.
“You didn’t need me,” she says. “Why am I on the phone with you?”
“A wise man once told me you’re never too good for a second opinion.” That wise man was also a foolish man, but I leave that part out. He was my father.
Once I’m done with Judy, I head into the conference room and join the team, where I set up my computer and begin scanning the security footage. In the meantime, half the team is working on Newman and the other half opening the door to other suspects. Roberts, Summer, and Gaines shared the same cable company. They all had DIRECTV. The rabbit hole of information could drag me under, but I’m not tempted. I remain focused. The security feed at my building is useless.
I pull up the coffee bar footage for first thing this morning, and I’m about ten minutes in from the time they opened the doors when I freeze-frame on a shot of a tall man walking in, wearing a hoodie and a baseball hat. The same hoodie and baseball hat my stalker had been wearing in the film by my door. It’s a bold move on his part, returning to the place where he’d chosen a victim. It’s also a stupid mistake. The barista might remember him. The camera might catch his face. His mistake will be our gain.