The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

This was murder.

Someone killed this monster before I could claim that honor. That’s my other secret, the one I’ll never admit to anyone. The one I also faced quite vividly in that San Antonio hotel. I wanted him dead, gone forever so he could hurt no one else. Beneath my calculated, thoughtful investigations, with facts and knowledge as my preferred choice of weapons, my desire for this man’s expiration was as complete as any desire any woman might possess. Perhaps the secret is the real root of my rapidly fading nausea. This one got to me. This killer was under my skin, and his death was what I wanted. Perhaps I’m more like my complicated father than I like to believe. I don’t feel regret that The Poet is dead. I feel joy.

Perhaps that’s how The Poet made me his victim. He turned me into my father.

Chapter 83

Voices sound all around me and I step back out of the vehicle where I lean around the door to find uniformed campus security, in a set of four, rushing toward me. “Lock down the campus,” I call out to them.

“Who the hell are you?” a tall man wearing glasses demands.

“I know who she is,” the chubby guy next to him snaps, his ruddy face set in a scowl directed at me. “She’s that cop who’s been harassing Newman.”

“Focus,” I order, sirens sounding nearby. “Newman is dead, and we need to rule out a shooter. Secure yourselves and the campus. Now!” This earns me shocked expressions and dropped jaws. It does not earn me action. “Now!” I shout again. This time all but one of them—a thin man with gaunt features—moves.

I grab Mr. Thin Man by the arm and look him in the eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Mark.”

“Will there be security feed for the parking lot?”

“Yes. Yes. There is. There will be.” His voice vibrates, teeth all but chattering. The man does not belong in a uniform.

“Where’s the camera room?” I ask.

“Just—it’s—inside—inside the doorway.”

“Go there now and watch the film. Find out who was in the car other than Newman. Call the police immediately with the description of anyone you identify. Then come back here.”

He nods, head bobbing like a bobblehead, but he doesn’t move.

“Go!” I shout.

His eyes fly wide and then he does the same, rotating and rushing away.

Behind me, a car screeches to a halt, and I turn to find Lang climbing out of his now parked Mustang. I scowl in anticipation of the hell he’s about to give me and sure enough, hell begins.

“What the hell are you doing, Jazz?” he demands, because that’s his word in situations like this: hell. Drama is also his thing, which is why, predictably, his door remains open, and all two hundred and ten pounds of angry, muscled man hunches into linebacker position and charges toward me. “Talk,” he orders, once he’s planted himself in front of me.

“Newman arrived to the campus in his minivan and then his brains exploded,” I speak quickly, eager to get back into action. “I called it in, which you know, since you’re here and—”

“Ya think? You’re not even released back to full duty, so yeah. I came to save your stupid ass. Holy hell, woman, you’re going to get us both fired.”

“Focus, Lang,” I snap, not bothering to point out the trouble he could have gotten me into with Newman’s wife. “We have an active crime scene.”

“Thank fuck it’s a suicide or you might be a damn suspect.”

I grit my teeth. “Except that he died in the driver’s seat and the passenger side door is open.”

“In other words,” he says, his hard features bunching up, “it might not be a suicide.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“And you were here? Jesus, Jazz.” He curses and scrubs an overly square jaw that hasn’t seen a shave in about three days too long. “Tell me you don’t have your weapon with you.”

“I’m going to kick you,” I say. “And enjoy it. We don’t have time for this.” My hands fly to my sides. “Where would I hide a weapon?” I show him the mace in my hand. “Aside from this, I’m not armed, but someone needs to be holding a weapon and searching for the shooter. You’re the first active officer on the scene. If someone else gets shot, it’s on you.”

He draws the Glock from his shoulder holster. “I hate that you’re attached to this shit, Jazz. Go home,” he orders, only to curse again, which isn’t unusual. In our five years of partnering, I know his dictionary, even if I don’t subscribe to it myself. “No,” he amends tightly. “Damn it, you can’t go home. You called this in. Stay right here and do nothing or I swear to God, I’ll lose my job for killing you. Or maybe I’ll get a medal. I hope like hell there’s security feed to prove you didn’t do it.”