“Not yet, but—”
“Then stay the hell away from him!” He bellows that order.
Chuck clears his throat and raises a hand, a schoolkid afraid of the teacher, but clearly more afraid of a killer. “Captain.”
The look the captain casts in his direction is impatience bordering on scathing. “What can I do for you, Chuck?”
“Newman sent over interns from his class and told them to ask for Detective Jazz.” Chuck announced this as if it saves me and us, as if it changes anything the mayor wants from us or Newman.
The captain proves that as untrue as I mentally had predicted. “His attorney made me aware of that action. His way of reminding us of his many levels of support for our department. Treat him accordingly.”
“An arrogant killer with the mayor wrapped around his finger,” I state. “How absolutely lovely.” I give him a sour smile.
“Enough, Detective Jazz,” the captain snaps, and with that, he turns and walks out of the room.
Lang takes a step forward. “I’ll talk to him.”
“No,” I say, pointing at him and passing him by on my way to the door. “I’m going to.” I charge after the captain, well aware of how early I am off of mandatory leave and how quickly I could be sent home. But I don’t care. I didn’t take this job to be pushed around by the captain, let alone by a serial killer hiding behind an innocent family and his money.
Chapter 34
The hour is late, the administrative staff all but cleared from the building, which leaves the captain’s path toward his office clear. Mine as well as I pursue him, my steps thundering on the floor right along with my temper. I’m right behind him when he enters his office, stepping into the small space before he can shut the door. Actually, he doesn’t try. He knows I’m here.
He rounds his desk and I’m already there in front of it and him, in full confrontation mode. “I thought you weren’t like my father, Captain.”
He looks down his nose at me with the same arrogance I’d expect from Newman. My father didn’t lead with arrogance, but I remind myself that he also didn’t manage with honesty. I’m starting to wonder if Moore is just a different breed of bad. “What does that mean, Detective?” he demands.
“Since when do we let killers go free just because they make political donations?”
“You made a scene at the school.”
I laugh and not with humor. “Really? Because I’ve made so many scenes in my career?”
“You just came off the loss of your father.”
“That’s how this is? You simply decide behavior that doesn’t fit my own personal profile to be true, because my father died and I might be what? A new person now?”
He flinches, just barely—it’s there and I see it—but it doesn’t stop him from punching back. “You’re making a scene right now.”
“I’m defending myself when I shouldn’t have to defend myself. I’ve earned more respect than this. I did not make even a small scene while interviewing Newman. If he told you that, he’s lying. There’s more going on here than you’ve taken the time to understand. I want to know why.”
“I was there, too,” Lang says, joining us and shutting the door. “He didn’t mention me, did he?”
“No, Langford, he did not,” the captain confirms. “Apparently, for once you kept your mouth shut.”
Lang snorts out laughter. “In case you don’t know me and her, I’m not the calm one. She is. That asshole is playing a game with Jazz. Her neighbor saw him lurking around last night. He showed up at her apartment and just stood outside her door for God knows how long.”
The captain’s gaze jerks to mine. “Is that true?”
“The security feed shows a man in a hoodie and a baseball hat,” I say. “We believe it was him.”
His expression tightens. “So you don’t know it was him. We can’t name him without proof. That’s basic police work.”
He’s right. We have nothing on Newman aside from his personal interests and arrogance, neither of which is illegal. If not for Roberts’s MIA status, I’d be ready to walk out the door and get to work proving he’s The Poet, but Roberts is missing. This conversation can’t end without tackling that topic.
“Look, Captain,” Lang grinds out. “Jazz took this case—we took this case—when Roberts left town with too much abruptness to make sense.”
Good. He’s on track now, right where we need to direct this conversation. Then he opens his mouth again and goes sideways. “Then we had one confrontational interview and that was with Newman,” he continues. “That same night, some guy hangs out by Jazz’s door, and we think he followed her during her run this morning.”
We’re officially back to no proof and my gut feeling, which will go over about as well as no proof and gut feelings ever do, which is never.
The captain’s gaze swings back to me. “Talk.”
I dodge the part where I never actually saw anyone following me. “We’ve collected the security footage available that tracks my running path. I’m about to go through it all now.”
Lang swings us back to Roberts. “Bottom line, Captain, Jazz took over the case from Roberts. Now Roberts is missing and Jazz has this freaky shit going on.”
The captain grimaces. “He’s not missing. He’s not due to be in Houston for two weeks.”
“His phone isn’t pinging,” I say. “He left suddenly. It feels off, Captain. What did he say when he resigned?”
His expression tightens. “He called it in. He already had the job in Houston lined up.” He looks between us, the hard lines of his face pierced by a hint of worry he isn’t quite ready to admit. “Have you gone by his house?”
“Yes,” I say. “And the good news is that he packed up and left. That supports the idea of him leaving of his own free will. I want to believe that’s what happened.”
Lang moves in closer, stepping to the end of the desk between us, the anger in the air between us all shifting to a calmer, conversational energy. “You need to hear what Jazz has to say about this Summer murder.”
The captain gives me a stern, judgmental look that screams of distrust, but I don’t hold back. I tell him everything. My theories about a killer I now call “The Poet” to include my profile, which fits Newman like that perfect winter glove that always manages to hide and never be found. Lang jumps in here and there and drives home the odd behavior of the wife. I finish my report with, “I called the FBI and asked for a profile to back mine up, and a ViCAP report.”