The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Evan sets his glass down and leans forward. “That’s not enough for a warrant.”

I set my glass down. “The right judge will look at this file and get me a warrant.”

“You want me to go judge hunting,” he assumes.

“Damn straight I want you to go judge hunting,” I confirm. “Two people died here in our city in a week. I don’t want to wait for three, do you?”

“Newman’s a donor for the mayor’s campaign,” he says.

“Which emboldens him,” I conclude.

“Which is why you can’t expect me to go after him with nothing.”

A muscle ticks in my jaw. “His wife came to me.”

“His wife’s filing a restraining order against you,” the smart-ass reminds me.

“She’s scared of him,” I argue. “He forced her hand.”

“Which you can’t prove. You can’t prove anything.”

The air around us is downright crackling now. “If he kills again, that blood is on your hands.”

“No, sweetheart. You do your job. I do my job and I do it well. You haven’t done your job. If he kills again, it’s blood on your hands.”

That’s it. I’m done playing the game, at least his way. I glance at my watch. “Gotta go.” I stand up and grab my bag. “I have a meeting with a reporter in half an hour. I figure it’s better to let the world know about The Poet—that’s what I’m calling this serial killer—in my own words. I’ll be sure to let her know that we’re not able to stop him from killing because he’s one of the mayor’s donors. I’ll make sure she spells your name right. I know you want the credit.” I start to turn.

“Wait,” he bites out.

I angle toward him and arch a brow.

He taps the table. “Sit.”

I don’t move.

“Please,” he adds.

I sit, but I don’t settle my back on the seat. My bag stays on my arm. He fills my wineglass. “Stay.” He grabs the file. “I’ll read it. We’ll talk about it.”

I settle my bag on the seat and reach for my glass. “I’ll watch.”

He laughs. “You’re tough.”

“So is The Poet.”

His smile fades and he nods, flipping open the file. A glass of wine later, he glances up at me. “He taught a class called Abstract Poetry and Criminology.” He glances down and back up at it. “‘Poetry: words that speak to the soul of a serial killer’? Seriously?”

“And how poetry connects you to the mind of a killer. Don’t forget the part about poetry being death by words.”

His lips press together and he closes the file again. “It’s all circumstantial.”

“The right judge—”

“I’ll try.” He scrubs his jaw. “I’m going to catch hell, but you have my word that I’ll try.”

I believe him. And that leaves me with nothing to say but, “Thank you. For the wine and the help.”

A few minutes later, I step outside the bar, and the rain was nothing but a lie. It’s gone, leaving the night a wide-open space for murder and mayhem.

“Watch your back,” Evan calls from the sidewalk.

We all need to watch our backs, I think, climbing into my car, shutting the door, and flipping the locks.

Chapter 68

I head home in a moonless, starless night, and once again, I don’t park in the parking garage.

A part of me is angry over this decision. I’m angry I have to make it. I’m angry The Poet forced me to make it. I’m just not stupid enough to rebel. Another thing my father taught me: pride is your prison. You know where it gets you? He’d asked me when I’d made a stupid rookie mistake. Dead, he said. It gets you dead. Now he’s dead and I’m feeling the reality of just how easily the end can occur. I alert patrol that I’m home and then head to my building. Thunder rumbles promising a storm ahead, while the building security is, at present, as absent as the rain.

I text the office manager: Tabitha, did you fire the security company already?

Once I’m near my building’s entrance, I feel the weight of this day heavy on my shoulders and I crave the moment that I’m inside my apartment. I’m just reaching for the door when Tabitha returns my call. I pause outside to avoid drawing attention to myself in the building, specifically from Mrs. Crawford.

“I’m sorry,” she says, skipping a formal greeting. “I’m working to get a guard back in place. The company we’re using appears to be having staffing problems.”

“What happened to the guy who was here last night?”

“His wife had a miscarriage.”

This niggles at me in all the wrong ways, but it’s easy enough to confirm. And I will be confirming.

“They’re supposed to have someone out in the next couple of hours.”

I glance at my watch that reads ten thirty, and I’m doubtful. “Text me when he’s in place.”

“Yes. Sure,” she says. “Is there something I should know?”