I heave a leaden sigh. “Right. Agreed.” Though I know, we both know deep in our guts, that there is no hope. There is just justice, served by us, and if we have our way, served quickly. “Call me and let me know what happens.”
“I’m coming back here to take you home. I’m sleeping on your couch.” He winks. “Don’t worry. I won’t get naked.”
“No. I don’t need a babysitter, and please stop saying the word ‘naked.’”
“You said it first in the car.”
“Stop.”
His mood shifts, sobers. “Roberts is proof we’re all vulnerable to the bad guys.”
“And I am prepared.”
“You think he wasn’t?” He doesn’t give me time to reply. “There’s no coming back from cyanide. If you’re not here when I get back, I’m coming over. Come on, Jazzy, I’ve slept on your couch before. All jokes aside, I’m a gentleman.”
“I know you. I trust you, but I have a patrol backup.”
“This guy’s bold enough to send those interns and claim the deed. I’m coming over.” He throws a bag over his shoulder. “End of story. If you go home, you text me. Otherwise, I’ll see you back here to follow you home.” He pauses at the door. “Anything on the security footage?”
“Just starting it now.”
“Call me if you find the bastard,” he orders, and with that, he exits the conference room.
I stare after him and decide this is exactly why we can never, ever date. We’re friends and I don’t ever want to lose that. Well, that and he’s a damn slob. Turning my attention to my computer, I grab a chocolate bar from my bag and open it up. Armed with the good stuff, I pull up the data folder Chuck emailed me with the security footage.
The folder has fifteen total files. I force myself to start reviewing the recordings during the timeline that I jogged rather than jumping to the coffee shop. I want to experience every portion of my run and coffee visit in the order they occurred to ensure I spy anyone who recurs. And I know who was in the coffee shop. The question is, were any of them with me during my run?
I take my time, jotting notes about who I see where, but no one recurs, and no one looks familiar.
I’m just reaching the coffee shop portion of the recordings when my cell phone rings with Wade’s number. Eyeing the clock, which reads eight thirty, I welcome the break. “Hey,” I greet him. “Any news?”
“I’ll have your report the day after tomorrow. The profile will take longer, but you know that.”
“I do. Thanks for doing this.”
Another call buzzes in. “That’s Lang, I think. Give me just a minute.” I click over to hear, “Jazz. It’s Officer Jackson.”
The captain worked fast. I open my mouth to tell him we’re pulling him into the Summer case and I never get the chance. He jumps ahead of me and says, “We have another victim. Same story. Tied up. Paper sticking out of his mouth. I called it in to dispatch and told them to call you, but I thought you’d want to know directly.”
My heart sinks. I was right. He didn’t waste a second and we weren’t fast enough to stop him. The Poet’s killed again. “Yes,” I say tightly. “Thank you. Text me the address. I’ll be right there.” Adrenaline surges through me and I hang up, reconnecting with Wade. “I’ve got another murder. Same guy. I have to go.”
“Call me.”
That’s all he says, and that’s because he gets this job and me. Questions are for later, and I do appreciate that part of Wade. “I will,” I promise and disconnect right as dispatch is buzzing my phone. I accept the call, packing up my bag as I do. By the time I’ve confirmed I’m headed to the crime scene, both dispatch and Jackson have texted me the address.
I stare down at it and I go cold. It’s three blocks from my apartment.
Chapter 37
I step into a hot, muggy August night, my feet lightning fast across the pavement, my skin instantly sticky. It’s the kind of night that suffocates you in the death and violence of a crime scene. Right now, I’m suffocating in the idea that the location of this murder was to taunt me. I’m suffocating in the promise that The Poet murdered for me. I wonder if the Summer murder was for Roberts, the prelude to his murder, the promise he was next.
I’m edgy as I slide into my car, the feel of my weapon at my hip far more comforting than usual. Not that The Poet will come after me tonight. No. He’ll want me to live out this night in hell while he basks in the glory of his most recent kill. That hell is what turns a short drive into eternity.
Once I’m within view of my destination, I discover the road is blocked off, lights flashing, people gathering. At this point, I’m literally three blocks from my apartment. I decide to just park at my building. I make a U-turn, and in a minute tops, I’m pulling into a spot street side to my building, rather than in the garage where I’d normally park. I’d like to say that’s a convenience thing, but it’s not. I’m smart enough to feel safer on the busy street than in a closed concrete box. “I’m a detective” is not supposed to be an excuse for being stupid.
Once I’ve killed my engine and climbed out of my car, I walk to my trunk and exchange my work bag for my field bag and toss on a pair of flats I keep for just such occasions. I lock up and start walking, the street humming with life, people bustling about here and there, the little Italian joint I love on the corner, overflowing with people who will not be disappointed as they wait for a table. It’s always surreal to me, the way life goes on, without any realization of the life now gone.
I’m just passing a small apartment complex one block down from the crime scene, when the prickling sensation of being watched pulls my gaze left and right, with no source discovered. I’m just passing a small, yet-to-be-remodeled-and-developed complex when that sensation heightens and has me looking upwards toward a fire escape. The shadows shift and I swear someone fades into the darkness.
My hand settles on my weapon, but the street is busy and I resist my instinct to pull my weapon for fear of creating panic. Instead, I reach into my bag and remove my flashlight, scanning the fire escape to find no one present. I’m on edge, I tell myself. That’s all this is. I’m so damn on edge. I’m letting him get to me, and that pisses me off. I need to be at the crime scene, not playing peek-a-boo with an empty fire escape.
I slide the flashlight back into my bag and charge forward, the curious crowd of about thirty or more gathering at the roadblock overflowing to the sidewalk not far ahead. Preparing for the crush, I palm my badge and lower one shoulder, bulleting forward and holding my credentials in the air. “APD coming through,” I call out, repeating those words about half a dozen times before I’m at the first barricade, flashing my badge one last time at an officer, who motions me forward.