“That means you have nothing good to tell me.”
“I’ll pretend I’m not insulted,” he says, but moves on. “Nothing from Roberts here in Houston, and I’m with the detectives on the suffocation case here. We’re not getting anything from the physical evidence. We’re about to start working the poetry angle and look for a way these victims connect the dots.”
“I’m going to pick up the poetry books I got cleared from the lab a few minutes ago,” I say. “The DNA samples on the glasses matched the voluntary samples. The books had random DNA, as would be expected of a reusable item, but nothing that matched our database.”
“He’s smart,” he says. “He took anything he touched with him.”
“That’s what I think, too, but the bottom line here is that we have nothing which means I have to try something.”
“What about our warrant?” he asks. “We need to get to his creepy secret hiding place. You know he has one. These assholes always do.”
“Not going to happen. We need more, and I’m not exactly in a place to turn to his wife now.”
“But I am. There’s no restraining order against me. We’ll see if I can get to her when I get back.”
“I’m on desk duty.”
“I’ll take the lead.”
“And how exactly are you going to get to her and not end up with a restraining order, too?”
“With my good looks and charm, baby.”
“Okay well, in case your good looks and charm don’t work on the married woman, I’m headed to San Antonio tomorrow to work with the FBI team Wade put together for us.”
“Without a weapon, I assume?”
“Without a government-issued weapon.”
“Good. I know what happened last night, but don’t let that make you hesitate. Shoot that bastard if you get the chance.” He hangs up.
Wade steps in front of me and presses his hands on the island. “I need to go into the office. You know you can stay here. I have a kick-ass security system.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going to stay here at my place, now are you?”
“No. I’m going to do what I just said to Lang and go to San Antonio and work with the FBI. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He studies me for several beats. “You know that’s not what I meant, but I suppose it is.” He pushes off the island. “When are you leaving?”
“I’ll head up this afternoon.”
“I’ll have your credentials waiting for you. Where are you going to stay?”
“In a high-security hotel that I bill to the department.”
He grunts and grabs his briefcase. “I’ll be there tomorrow.” He heads for the door, and moments after the door opens and closes, I hear the security system arm itself. I don’t pretend that computerized alarm protects me or anyone else from killers like The Poet. I will, though, because as Wade said: we have jobs because it’s a brutal world. And I’m going to do mine.
Chapter 78
I’m in San Antonio for five days.
The Poet doesn’t kill anyone in those five days, which would sound positive if I didn’t feel as if he were waiting for my return.
“The Incident,” as Lang and Chuck call that horrid night at my apartment, also fades from the headlines after those five days. That’s how important a life is to the media. It earns a mere five days of attention. The boy has yet to be identified. Maybe he’ll never be identified, but it’s not a part of this story that I can linger on while I’m hunting this monster. The problem is that I achieve very little in San Antonio besides shuffling through the excess unproductive data, and Lang achieves less in Houston.
On day six, Lang is set to return to Austin, and I’m scheduled to return as well for one of several obligatory therapy sessions to earn my reinstatement. The Poet won’t wait for me forever anyway, and I’m not going to catch him hiding in the FBI offices, shuffling papers. I return to my home city just in time for my session, and shortly after, pick Lang up at the airport.
“Miss me?” he asks, tossing his bag into the back seat of my car and settling into the passenger seat.
I claim the driver’s seat and buckle up. “You called me constantly,” I remind him. “How could I miss you?”
“With all your heart?”
I snort. He laughs. “I need food,” he says. “Take me to a drive-thru and I know just the spot.”
He’s up to something. “You’re up to something.”
“I’m craving a certain burger. What’s wrong with that?” He motions me onward.
I drive, not sure what trouble he’s getting us into because that’s his plan: trouble, not a burger. Or trouble and a burger, knowing Lang. When we turn onto Bee Caves Road, the location of Becky Smith’s yoga studio, I know what he’s up to. “I can’t be with you when you talk to Becky Smith.”