“Words for the soul?” Dave asks with a snort. “More like a bunch of nonsense words thrown together to mean nothing, but to each their own.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” I agree, as he hands me back my card. “Much like analyzing someone’s bowel habits for a living. Which we both know is in your future.”
He laughs. “Got me there. Have a good one, Sam.”
“You too, Dave.” And when I would move on down the counter, the barista steps to the counter and offers me my cup.
At this point, I would normally leave, but today I claim the one open seat in the place. Thankfully, it’s well positioned in a corner, with a view of the shop. If The Poet’s here, if he can see me now, I want to see him, too.
I sip my coffee, which is exceptionally good today, cataloging the people in the room: a Japanese couple smiling and laughing; a couple of guys in suits, battling over some document in front of them; a couple of teenagers; a man with curly light brown hair who sits in profile to me on the other side of the shop—something about him niggles me. There’s also a bald man sitting with a beautiful blonde in a pretty pink dress. Bald would explain the lack of DNA at the crime scene. And he’d have my attention, but for one thing: the fact that the blonde has his attention, or rather that her breasts have his attention. He’s definitely not here for me.
That’s as far as I get before my cell phone rings with a call from my mother. I decline and use my camera to shoot a video of the room, and I’m not shy about it or quick. Yes, I’m bold like that when it comes to saving lives.
Once satisfied with my product, I shoot it over to Chuck, explain what it is, and once he confirms receipt, I stand up. Making my way to the trash can, I toss my cup and find that I’m still unable to get a good view of the curly-haired man. Looking for a better angle, I start a slow, even pace toward the door, past him, when he abruptly stands and gives me his back, effectively and perhaps intentionally, removing my vantage point. I rotate and watch him walk toward the trash can by the counter. He’s tall. He’s forty-ish, which qualifies as not too young or old. I’m not letting him walk out of the door without finding out who he is.
I pursue him and catch his arm. “Joe?” I ask, as if I think he’s someone else.
He rotates, displaying a slash of a red scar on his face, which appears to be more birthmark than recent injury. “No. Sorry. Wrong guy.”
And he is the wrong guy. At least he’s not the man the witness saw at the poetry reading, considering none of them mentioned a scar. But makeup might hide the scar, and he was at the back of the theater, with dim lights.
“Maybe I forgot your name?” I press. “You’re familiar.”
“I’m not exactly easy to forget.” His expression tightens and his eyes cut away before they find mine again, the slash of discomfort in his stare telling a story. He’s talking about the scar. “Name’s Jesse Row.”
Jesse Row, who I now realize feels perfectly normal and not evil at all. It’s a silly observation that has no factual merit, but in my gut, I know I’d know if he was the one. My hand, which hasn’t left his arm, falls away. “Wrong person. Sorry to bother you. Have a good day.”
I rotate away from him, exiting the coffee shop, but with no more peace of mind than when I sat down at the table. Either I’ve become paranoid in the wake of my father’s murder and beyond what is reasonable, or my tingling Spidey senses are right and The Poet is here. And—I hate everything about the self-doubt I’ve projected in that thought. Never, ever have I doubted my instincts, but here I am. Doubting. And that simply isn’t acceptable. I can’t afford to doubt myself because The Poet damn sure isn’t doubting himself.
Chapter 17
I text Chuck the name “Jesse Row” and a request for immediate information before I cross the street and sit on a bench, where I intend to do a little people watching. Chuck confirms receipt and the urgency. I’m about to text Lang when my mother calls again and this time, I answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“Honey, so good to hear your voice.”
The genuine joy in her voice stabs me in the heart. I’m such a bitch for avoiding her. “Sorry I haven’t checked in. I’ve thrown myself into my work. How are you? How are things in general?”
“Hard, still really hard, but as for how I am? Busy at the hospital. It’s good to be back to work.”
Where she’s a hospital administrator who faces death daily. I really need to be better about communicating. “Better right now, talking to you,” she adds. “Your grandmother and grandfather would love to see you, too.”
Except my grandfather doesn’t remember my name, I think painfully.
“We’d love it if you’d come out to the house soon.”
And I really can’t make things right with her right now.
The last thing I’m going to do is to give The Poet a chance to turn his attention to my family. That leaves me two options: honesty or hurting her more than my silence already has. I opt for honesty. “Right now, Mom, I’m working a sensitive case, trying to catch someone who I believe will kill again and quickly.”
“Oh my. You’ve dived right back in, I see.”
“I have,” I say, watching the bald man leave the coffee shop with the bosomy woman on his arm. “It’s actually been good to be back, Mom,” I say, still engaged in my call. “I needed this. I needed the same thing that I think you need, too—to stop feeling fear. These monsters don’t get to make us cower.”
“I don’t know how you do it. You were right there with him.”
But she wasn’t, and I think that is part of the problem. Her mind keeps trying to imagine the horror and then denying that it’s real. He died in my arms. For me, there’s no denial.
“When this is done, we’ll celebrate, because you brought me into this world, and I stopped him from killing again. Because you helped stop him.”
“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Stopping the bad guys from hurting people.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Your dad did that his whole life.”
There’s a twist in my gut, a stirring of anger that I smash and smash quickly.
A man jogs past me, his shoes a neon green, his baseball hat one of those sweat grabbing types that prevents me from seeing his face. The two men who’d been arguing over a document in the coffee shop exit while an elderly woman sits down next to me and a siren shrieks past us.
“Oh my, that’s loud. Where are you?”
“I’m out on my morning jog.”