“I’ll meet you there.” He hangs up.
I call back. “Damn it, Lang.”
“I’m meeting you.”
“I’ll come to the office.”
“Come now or I’ll come and get you. We have an appointment to meet with Dave’s landlord after lunch. We’re trying to get some kind of camera feed around his house but coming up dry. His house sits off the road too far.”
Of course it does, I think. “I’ll be in the office.”
I hang up again and head to the door, where I happily retrieve my weapon and place it on my person. A few minutes later, I’m in my car, and with Dave’s house so near, it’s impossible not to drive by the crime scene. I idle in front of his house, police tape drawn in all directions. One conversation changed his future. One conversation with me. They say the killer goes back to the scene of the crime. I feel like the killer. He made me feel like the killer.
Anger ripples through me and I pull around and start driving.
Lang calls yet again. “Where are you?”
“Jesus, Lang. I’m on my way. Work the case. Is Officer Jackson there?”
“He is. That shit that went down last night still bugging you?”
“I think we need to be careful. Hazel suggested that a good place to get cyanide would be overseas where drugs are easily accessed. She also suggested someone ex-military might have stockpiled cyanide. Jackson is ex-military.”
“Wait. Now you think he’s The Poet?”
“Not really, but I’m not prepared to ignore any possibility, are you?”
“No.” His voice is tight. “I’m not.”
“And can you make sure he turned in all the DNA samples from Summer’s crime scene to forensics?”
“He did. I talked to them this morning.”
“At least there’s that. Any word on Roberts?”
“The captain called Houston. They haven’t heard from him, but they’re doing some digging for us. Where are you?”
“I’ve been sitting in front of Dave’s house, thinking.” Which isn’t a lie. I was. I’m just not now.
“Sitting there, inviting The Poet to show up?”
“If only it were that easy, Lang.”
“Yeah. If only. Hurry up.”
I hang up without saying goodbye, but I don’t turn toward the station. I turn toward the college campus and the building where Newman Smith works.
Chapter 46
It’s creeping up on ten a.m. when I park my car in the visitor parking of the faculty lot of the university, in a space that allows me a view of the faculty building door. For several seconds, I sit there, nervous energy thrumming through my fingers on the steering wheel. Newman was bold and arrogant enough to threaten the mayor once. He’ll do it again, which means I have a tiny window before we’re shut out completely.
I autodial Chuck, who answers on the first ring with a formal, “Chuck Waters. How can I help you?”
Clearly, he didn’t look at his caller ID, which works out just fine right now. “Don’t tell Lang I’m on the phone or I swear to you, you will never get another chocolate bar from me.”
“I talk to him as little as possible,” he says. “And I know my priorities. Chocolate wins. What do you need?”
“What’s Newman’s class schedule this morning?”
Keystrokes clack in my ear before he says, “He’s out on break in half an hour. Then back at one.”
“Thanks, Chuck. You’re Superman.” I disconnect, and wonder what a killer does with his break time the day after a murder. I plan to find out, but right now, I have a short half hour to get a look at his vehicle.
Decision made—albeit perhaps not a good one, but I’m committed to it either way—I open my door and climb out into what is now a low throb of hot sun beaming down upon me, and promising to burn hotter. I hate the heat, but at least I’m alive to bitch about it. Dave is not. After walking to my trunk, I once again exchange my briefcase for my field bag. I never leave my briefcase and notes out where they can be stolen. Men like Newman will do anything to save themselves.
Sliding the strap to my bag across my chest, I walk toward Newman’s parking spot, scanning for anyone who might notice my attention to his vehicle. My audience is limited, and I step to the side of his minivan, a vehicle choice that is all about his sick façade of being the perfect family man. I think of Newman’s kids, who are victims in their own way, of their father’s monstrous actions. Kids who will be traumatized when his true self is exposed. I only hope they don’t grow up to be just like their daddy.
Kneeling beside the rear tire, I shoot photos of the gravel caught between the hubcap and the rubber. I don’t remember gravel at Dave’s place, but there could be a nearby parking lot that does have gravel, and that offers us an opportunity to place his vehicle in the area. I push the limits I technically have with Newman at this point and grab a handful, scooping a tiny sample of the gravel and then slipping it into my bag. I then walk the full circle of the vehicle and stop at the driver’s door, where I contemplate a swab for DNA. At this stage, it won’t be admissible in court, but I’ll get another later after I prove he’s our guy.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
At the sound of Newman’s voice, cold and calm at my shoulder, and my back where I never want him, I whirl around to find him standing close, a few steps from contact, too damn close. He’s wearing a yellowish-gold bow tie, the color of the flowers in his garden. I wonder if his wife picked it out, if that symbol of family and home helps her pretend that he’s not a monster. Because she knows. I saw it in her eyes. I know she knows.
I hold my ground, and he holds his, intelligent green eyes locked on my face. Evil lives in the soul behind those eyes. “What are you doing?” he repeats.
“Waiting for you.”
“More like lurking around my vehicle.”
“Semantics. You people like semantics, right?”
“You people?”
Killers, I think, but I say, “Professors.”
His lips quirk. I’ve amused him. “Is that how we’re playing this game?”
“We,” I say, “are not playing a game at all.”
“Aren’t we?” he challenges.
“Where were you last night?”
His brows sink into a scowl. “Last night? What does last night have to do with anything?”