The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

I make my way through the many members of law enforcement now on the property and head into my building. I make it all the way to my door and halt when I find it open. Tension ripples down my spine. I know I left it open. What I don’t know is if anyone, namely The Poet, might be inside waiting for me. And I’m unarmed.

“Detective Jazz.”

At the sound of Officer Jackson’s voice, an odd mix of unease and relief fills me. I rotate to place the door and him both in profile. “What are you doing here, Jackson?”

“Anything you need me to do. I’m on your team, remember?” He eyes my door. “Is that supposed to be open?”

“I left it open. I’m unarmed. Can you search the apartment for me?”

“Right away.” He draws his weapon and hurries into the apartment without any hesitation. It bothers me, but then, I’m back to the obvious. The Poet wants me so on edge that I see him everywhere. Even in a little boy.

Chapter 72

I don’t stay in the hallway.

I follow Officer Jackson into my apartment, both of us streaking my hardwood floors with mud. Weapon drawn, Jackson scans the living room and kitchen and then walks toward my bedroom. I calmly enter the kitchen and open my special drawer. Anyplace I keep a gun right about now is special. I remove my personal Glock 43, a compact number that sits just right in my hand. I round the counter again and enter the living room as Officer Jackson is about to head upstairs to my war room.

“I’ll take care of that room.”

He eyes my weapon and then me. “You sure about that?”

“Positive. Thank you.”

He hesitates. “I’ll wait right here.”

“No,” I say, the idea of going up those stairs and being trapped in that room with anyone behind me not a good one. “I got it.”

He hesitates again and then harnesses his weapon, rotating to fully face me. “You want me to leave.”

I’m not big on denial. Reality is reality and I keep things real. “I need some time alone.”

“Understood. If you need anything—”

To turn back time a few hours, I think, but I say, “Thank you. Just help me catch this guy.”

“Understood.” He walks to the door and I follow him and, despite one unsearched room, relief rolls off me as he steps into the hallway. I shut the door firmly behind him and flip the locks. I needed him out of here, but I waste no time standing there rejoicing his departure. That unsearched room calls me, and I pause at the bottom of the stairs. If The Poet is here waiting for me, I’m ready to play.

My cell phone rings. It’s Lang with his impeccable timing. I decline his call for about the fifth time tonight. My Glock and I walk straight up the stairs to find the room empty and smelly, compliments of bags left behind after our taco takeout. Those bags and The Poet need to be taken to the trash, but neither is going anywhere right now. I walk downstairs and hurry into the bathroom, where I set my Glock on the counter. My cell phone rings and this time when I spy Lang on the caller ID, I answer.

“What the hell, Jazz? I’ve been worried.”

“I had investigators and hell suffocating me. I needed to get past at least some of that.”

“Right. I heard. What happened?”

I give him a quick recap, and just explaining it all is cutting, but necessary. I’ll have to repeat everything at the station, probably ten times over. His response when I’ve spit it all out is, “Holy hell. You didn’t kill that boy. You know that, right? He killed that boy.”

The twist of my gut says differently. So do the facts. The Poet didn’t kill that boy, I think. I did. I pulled the trigger. “I’m about to shower and head to the station to give my official statement.”

“I’m coming back.”

“No. You will not. You stay your big ass there and you find what we need to catch him. I have never wanted to catch him more than I do now.”

“Sam—”

“I mean it, Lang. Stay. Work the case. Focus.”

Silence fills the line. “What’s your plan to cover your ass?”

“I have the security feed Wade installed. It’ll show the grown man at my door. It’s clear I was set up. I’ll be fine.”

“Right. Right. I know you will. You’re tough as hell. Call me after the interviews.”

“Yeah. I’ll call.” I hang up without another word. I just need a minute alone.

I set my phone on the counter next to my gun and strip, tossing everything I’m wearing into the trash. The hot shower that follows is a blessed relief and somehow, I force the night’s events from my mind. I can’t risk breaking down now, not until everything that has to be done is done, and I’m alone.