The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“You can do it,” he says. “Go tiger.”

“You are not a cheerleader, nor do I want to imagine you in a skirt.”

“But I have cute knees.”

“I’m hanging up.”

I disconnect as thunder rumbles overhead, and “Zach the Flash,” the local weatherman, predicts rain. The man spends too much time picking the funky ties he wears rather than offering advanced notice. The only positive about rain is that murder rates go down during downpours. Hopefully, it buys me a night without a visit from The Poet.

A few minutes later, I’m parked at a meter close to the door of the Cru wine bar, an elegant, quiet spot that plays soft piano music and allows conversation. I enter the bar, which is set up with clusters of wooden tables and an overabundance of dangling lights. The hostess greets me, but I’ve already spied Evan at a corner table by the window. He stands, and I motion in his direction, letting the hostess know I’m on my way there.

Evan remains on his feet, awaiting my approach, a man many call the proverbial tall, dark, and good-looking in an expensive gray suit and red tie. A suit over his pay grade, and I know for a fact that he doesn’t come from money. Every decision he makes is about money, though, about his future and where the case can lead him. Therefore, every word I speak has to consider his motivation.

I arrive at the table and Evan offers me his hand. I’m not a big handshaker. I don’t like germs. I blame my mother and her medical background. And it’s really not that odd in my job. Gloves are a necessity in my line of work. That said, when you deal with the DA’s office, you play the game. I shake his hand, and he motions to the bottle of wine already on the table. “I seem to remember you enjoy a good blend.”

It’s not every ADA who buys a detective wine, but this isn’t a date. I’ve worked with Evan. We won a big case together. I know him. He likes wine. I’m just along for the good fortune of enjoying the bottle he wanted himself. “I do enjoy a good blend,” I agree, and we both claim our seats.

Evan fills my glass. “I see you didn’t bring your partner.”

“He’s in Brownsville, working the case.” I sip the wine, a smooth, sweet blend with not a hint of a bite. It’s the only smooth thing about this day. “Good choice,” I say before I shift back on topic. “And I wouldn’t bring Ethan, anyway, since you two hate each other. That would be rather foolish of me.”

“Indeed it would.”

“Why don’t you like each other?”

He arches a brow. “He hasn’t told you?”

“Just wanted your version.”

He laughs a low rumble of thunder in his chest. “Good try, Detective. Clearly, he didn’t tell you. He did something right for once. I hear you got in some trouble with a suspect.”

“You mean Newman Smith? The one showing up at my door every night, in a hoodie and hat to hide his face, while scaring my neighbors? I think he found out his wife was meeting me, and she saved herself by turning on me. I’m honestly worried about her. She’s scared.”

“Can you prove he’s the one showing up at your door?”

“Not yet. We’re getting there.”

“And he’s our guy on the Summer case? You said there was another murder.”

“One more locally,” I say, reaching in my bag to grab the file I put together for him earlier. I set it in front of him. “One in Houston and one in Brownsville. There are two out of our jurisdiction in New York State as well. We believe there will be more when we pull the records all together.”

“You can prove they’re connected to our cases?”

“Not yet. We’re close.”

He doesn’t even bother to open the file. “What do you have for me?”

“He ties them up. They’re naked in a chair, legs and body bound, hands free. He uses whatever threat he uses, we don’t know what, and offers them a cyanide pill. In several, painful minutes, their bodies shut down. He cleans their mouths and leaves a poem inside. The second murder was the barista at the coffee shop I frequent. He spoke to me about poetry, and not nicely. He was punished.”

Evan reaches for his glass and leans back in his seat. “He punishes them for hating poetry?”

“He judges them unworthy. In fact, in his earlier murders, he carved the letter U into their chests.”

He sips his wine. “What about Roberts?”

“Missing. We believe he got too close.”

He taps the file. “What is in that file that helps me help you?”

“Newman was raised in Brownsville, where we’ve located another victim and where we believe he sourced the cyanide. His mother died mysteriously. He was then sent to foster care, where he abused animals, and a girl he lived with disappeared.”