“Just be very careful. It’s early and downtown is dangerous. Do you have your mace?”
“Mom, the part of this conversation where I’m a detective hunting bad guys. You were on that part of this call, right?”
“Yes, well, that’s kind of the point, now isn’t it? You live a death wish. Do you have your mace?”
I don’t even try to understand why me carrying mace gives her some sense of comfort when someone could just shoot me, the way they did Dad. I say the words she needs to hear right now. “I always have it on my key chain.”
“Good. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Call me. Don’t make me call you.”
“I will,” I promise.
We disconnect and, unbidden, my mind flashes back to the long-gone past, to me as a teen, cowering in a closet:
I hug my knees to my chest and pray the shouting will stop, that my mother’s tears will dry. The sound of something crashing jolts me, followed by the front door slamming. Silence follows but I’m afraid to hope that it’s really over. Sometimes it starts all over again. Seconds tick by like hours and finally the closet door opens, and my mother kneels in front of me, and one of her eyes is swollen shut.
“Mom,” I cry, throwing my arms around her and then pulling back. “He’s a monster!”
“No.” Her hands come down on my arms. “No. You’ve got that wrong. He’s a hero who catches monsters. Sometimes the monsters mess with his head.”
I shove away the anger fused in that memory as several people step inside while the man with the scar exits. I don’t follow him. He’s not The Poet. The woman next to me throws bread to a pigeon, which is basically a rat with wings, and three more birds scurry toward us.
I stand up. The neon shoe guy runs past us again, and my gaze follows him this time. This is a populated street where joggers pass by on the way elsewhere. They don’t return. Hair prickles on my arms. He’s approaching an intersection and I dash forward, running after him. I’m gaining on him quickly when a group of walkers crowds me and forces me to pause and sidestep.
By the time I’m free, he’s disappeared. I sprint forward and stop at the intersection, scanning left and right, but he’s nowhere to be found.
Chapter 18
I search the streets surrounding the area, jogging in several directions with no sign of “Neon Shoe Guy” anywhere. Drenched now from the extra workout and the rapidly heating temperature, my desire to find that jogger hasn’t eased, but my opportunity has passed. Frustrated at my failure, I head back toward my building when Chuck calls me.
I answer, my gaze still flicking about, looking for the jogger who has managed to get under my skin, right along with The Poet. Perhaps because he was The Poet.
“What do you have for me?” I ask.
“Jesse Row’s a financial analyst who just took a job a few blocks from the coffee shop. He relocated here from Tennessee two years ago. Nothing stands out. No warrants. No arrests. His hobby is cats. He owns a couple of cats that he shows professionally and is a judge for some sort of cat organization. Don’t serial killers like to kill cats?”
“I certainly wouldn’t have one pet sit for me,” I say dryly, noting the woman on the bench is no longer on the bench, but the pigeons are still scurrying about. “He’s not our guy.” I’m already thinking about traffic camera footage that might give me a better picture of what set me off this morning, but if I say that to Chuck right now, Lang will get word, and he’ll be on my doorstep when I don’t want him there. I need to shower and think, without him hovering about in my apartment. “I’ll be in soon, but call me if anything else stands out.”
We disconnect, and I do one last visual scan of the area before I accept defeat and start the short walk home. I’ve just entered my building and made it halfway up the stairs leading to my apartment when I hear a familiar, gravelly voice yelling down at me. “Detective Jazz.”
I halt and glance up to the next level, to find Old Lady Crawford leaning over the railing, her tropical shirt a blinding mix of orange and yellow, her shoulders perpetually hunched forward.
“Sam,” I amend. “You know you can call me Sam.”
“I like Detective Jazz.”
My brow furrows with this reply. She never calls me Sam, but she’s a bit eccentric and I just go with the flow. Or perhaps there’s a problem and this is her way of telling me that she needs a detective? She does hold the self-assigned duty of “apartment mom.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Who was that man hovering around your apartment last night? Made me nervous. You kick out a new boyfriend or something?”
The hair on my arms is standing on end again. “What man?”
“You know what man, honey. He was at your door.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. You should know.”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Crawford,” I say, my voice calm but firm now. “What did he look like?”
“I couldn’t see his face. He had on a baseball cap with a hoodie over the top of the hat. The brim stuck out wide over his face. The hoodie was pulled down low.”
“How tall?”
She reaches way up over her head. “Tall.”
Of course, anyone is tall to her. I doubt she reaches five feet. “Hair?”
“Under the hat.”
“Clothes?”
“All black. Don’t you know anything?” She sounds irritated now. “Who was he? You know now?”
A killer, I think, but I’ve learned sometimes a lie is the kindest words you can speak. Now is one of those times. “One of the detectives I work with,” I tell her, at least for now. I don’t want to scare her. “I’ll get on him about scaring you. I didn’t hear him knocking. I must have had my TV too loud.” Adrenaline is coursing through me now, roughing up my nerves. “Better run and shower,” I say, managing to sound breezy and easy. “Thanks, Mrs. Crawford.”
I run up the stairs, unlock my door, and enter my apartment. I lock the door and then lean against the wooden surface.
I will not doubt myself again.
I felt his presence. I knew he was here.
And he was.
The Poet was here.
Chapter 19
I ran right past her this morning in my neon green sneakers. She was looking for me, and she knows me, she knows my face, but she just wasn’t ready to see me. But she knew. She felt me there, as she should have. I’m her master, her mentor. She’s ready to be pushed. She’s ready to understand. On some level, she already knows her duty. She performed well this morning. She exposed an abuser who must be dealt with. And I will reward her by ending his sin.