“We’re going to need to rerun the report to get that information.”
“Right. Okay. Yes. I didn’t give you that information when you were running the report.” I shrug out of my jacket and kick off my heels. “There’s suddenly a lot to do.” I give Wade a pointed look. “And just so you know, I’m perfectly fine with you staying over and working all night.”
He laughs, a deep, warm laugh, the kind of laugh that disarms humans and killers alike. I like that laugh, but even more so, the savvy skills hidden beneath it. “Good to know,” he says, “especially since I’d already assumed as much. I’ll order food.”
“Perfect.” I stand up, walk around the table, and head up the stairs to the attic, then flip the light on as I enter a compact room with an angled ceiling. The realtor pitched this space as a giant closet or small bedroom minus a window. I’ve since learned that this “closet” is the best place for photos of dead bodies and crime scene data if I plan to have guests. Not that I have many of those who aren’t jaded members of law enforcement. I did at one point, back a few years ago when I tried a dating app. Traffic ticket advice and talking about episodes of CSI were far less appealing than solving crimes.
I’ve kept the space basic by necessity of size, with nothing but a built-in pale wooden desk against the far wall and a giant cushioned hammock couch framed by two simple side tables. That hammock was hell for Lang to get up here because he’s so big and the room is so small.
My eyes catch on a record player on the desk. It triggers something in me, and I walk around the hammock to get a closer look. Next to the player is a collection of jazz albums I’ve traded back and forth with my grandfather for years. It’s a special thing we’ve done, as granddaughter and grandfather and best friends. A pinch of guilt finds my chest. I haven’t been to see him at the nursing home since Dad died, but he doesn’t know; not that his son is gone or that I haven’t visited. He doesn’t remember much of anything, and that’s hard to swallow. A different kind of pinch finds its way to my chest this time: pain and loss. I lost him before I lost my father.
I grab one of the albums, Chet Baker in Tokyo, one of his favorites. He loves jazz, and not because of our last name, which he’s always thought was a fun gift passed down through the generations. A name I was blessed with because he adopted my father when he was ten. I fade back in time, sitting in Grandpa’s den, otherwise known as his “jazz room.”
“My dear Samantha,” he’d say. “Jazz and poetry speak to the soul in the same deep and profound way as do many of the great literary works, of course.” He’d held up a glass of whiskey and added, “But jazz, poetry, and good whiskey are magic together.” Something stirs in my mind about the case with this memory, something I try to reach out and grab but can’t quite manage.
Footsteps sound behind me, and I tuck that away in that place where I ping-pong things until they become more accessible. I set the album down and turn as Wade joins me and says, “I ordered from that late-night taco place you like.”
“Perfect,” I say, walking to the wall of whiteboards and corkboards, and use an eraser to wipe away notes I had left from a prior case Lang and I had worked a few weeks back. I glance at Wade over my shoulder. “Can you ask Lang to grab our case file from my briefcase on the way up?”
Lang pokes his head in the door. “I heard. I’ll grab it.” He points at Wade. “You got me ten tacos, right?”
“Yes, Lang,” Wade replies heavily. “I got you ten tacos, though no normal human can eat ten tacos.”
“Well, there you go.” He flexes his muscle and taps it. “Superman.” He drops his arm. “The tacos are small. I am big.” He disappears.
I return to wiping the board, and then grab a pen and write three columns: Austin, Houston, Brownsville. Then I move on to another column: Types of poison. A thought occurs to me and I turn to Wade. “Did the two victims have a poetry or academic connection that the report found?”
Lang steps into the room with the file in his hand. “Just in time. I’m waiting for that answer as well.”
“And a shower,” I say, turning to eye his disheveled appearance. “Seriously, after we eat you have to go home and shower and change.”
He sniffs his underarm and shrugs. “I keep clothes in the car. I’ll use your shower.” He motions to Wade. “Back to the question.”
“The Brownsville victim was a female veterinarian, well established in her small city. The Houston victim was male and a science instructor at UT.”
“I can see Summer and the instructor starting to form a victim profile,” Lang says, sitting down on the floor against the wall, near the stairs. In other words, the closest spot to get to the food first. “He was an intellectual like Summer, but a vet? I guess technically that could be intellectual. Maybe they have a college connection?” He lifts a finger. “Dave was a medical student.”
“Dave was a barista who took my order and made offensive remarks about poetry,” I argue. “That’s our victim profile. Each of these people somehow disrespected poetry in his presence.” I wave my eraser between them. “Why do I believe this? I’ll tell you. Aside from my obvious firsthand experience with Dave’s disparaging remark about poetry, Summer had the poetry books for the reading stored under the seats. One of my interviewees told me the entire reading was like being in church. That made me think. The poetry book was like a bible to The Poet. Summer disrespected the bible.”
“That seems like a stretch,” Lang says.
“It doesn’t,” I argue. “It’s not. He’s had an encounter with each of these people. We have to locate the right camera feeds and we’ll find him.”
“Don’t count on much in Brownsville outside of the border areas,” Wade says. “There isn’t much there but mom-and-pop shops. Face-to-face interviews will be critical.”
“I already talked to Martin,” Lang says. “He’s all in to head to Houston and Brownsville tomorrow with me.” I open my mouth to argue and Lang shuts me down. “You’re going to San Antonio tomorrow. And Dave’s murder is still fresh, the most critical for working a case. You work the present-day crimes. I’ll come at this from behind.”
I hesitate, fighting my deep-rooted control freak need to go along with him, but I finally concede with a short nod that he’s right. I need to stay.
“On another note,” Wade says. “There are three of the older cases that caught my eye, which I want you to look at. One man and one woman. They were all suffocated with a plastic bag and tied to a chair. Their hands, feet, and body were bound, but the cases are old enough and similar enough to warrant attention.”