“But I am. There’s no restraining order against me. We’ll see if I can get to her when I get back.”
“I’m on desk duty.”
“I’ll take the lead.”
“And how exactly are you going to get to her and not end up with a restraining order, too?”
“With my good looks and charm, baby.”
“Okay well, in case your good looks and charm don’t work on the married woman, I’m headed to San Antonio tomorrow to work with the FBI team Wade put together for us.”
“Without a weapon, I assume?”
“Without a government-issued weapon.”
“Good. I know what happened last night, but don’t let that make you hesitate. Shoot that bastard if you get the chance.” He hangs up.
Wade steps in front of me and presses his hands on the island. “I need to go into the office. You know you can stay here. I have a kick-ass security system.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going to stay here at my place, now are you?”
“No. I’m going to do what I just said to Lang and go to San Antonio and work with the FBI. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He studies me for several beats. “You know that’s not what I meant, but I suppose it is.” He pushes off the island. “When are you leaving?”
“I’ll head up this afternoon.”
“I’ll have your credentials waiting for you. Where are you going to stay?”
“In a high-security hotel that I bill to the department.”
He grunts and grabs his briefcase. “I’ll be there tomorrow.” He heads for the door, and moments after the door opens and closes, I hear the security system arm itself. I don’t pretend that computerized alarm protects me or anyone else from killers like The Poet. I will, though, because as Wade said: we have jobs because it’s a brutal world. And I’m going to do mine.
Chapter 78
I’m in San Antonio for five days.
The Poet doesn’t kill anyone in those five days, which would sound positive if I didn’t feel as if he were waiting for my return.
“The Incident,” as Lang and Chuck call that horrid night at my apartment, also fades from the headlines after those five days. That’s how important a life is to the media. It earns a mere five days of attention. The boy has yet to be identified. Maybe he’ll never be identified, but it’s not a part of this story that I can linger on while I’m hunting this monster. The problem is that I achieve very little in San Antonio besides shuffling through the excess unproductive data, and Lang achieves less in Houston.
On day six, Lang is set to return to Austin, and I’m scheduled to return as well for one of several obligatory therapy sessions to earn my reinstatement. The Poet won’t wait for me forever anyway, and I’m not going to catch him hiding in the FBI offices, shuffling papers. I return to my home city just in time for my session, and shortly after, pick Lang up at the airport.
“Miss me?” he asks, tossing his bag into the back seat of my car and settling into the passenger seat.
I claim the driver’s seat and buckle up. “You called me constantly,” I remind him. “How could I miss you?”
“With all your heart?”
I snort. He laughs. “I need food,” he says. “Take me to a drive-thru and I know just the spot.”
He’s up to something. “You’re up to something.”
“I’m craving a certain burger. What’s wrong with that?” He motions me onward.
I drive, not sure what trouble he’s getting us into because that’s his plan: trouble, not a burger. Or trouble and a burger, knowing Lang. When we turn onto Bee Caves Road, the location of Becky Smith’s yoga studio, I know what he’s up to. “I can’t be with you when you talk to Becky Smith.”
“It’s a yoga studio. I can’t go alone.”
“There’s zero logic to that statement.”
“I don’t want to go alone.”
“Lang—”
“Just drive. We’re not going to the yoga place, anyway. Officer Jackson’s following her. He’s been following her for days. She goes to Lola Savannah’s for coffee after every yoga session.”
“Are you trying to get me kicked off the force?”
“I’m trying to catch this guy,” he says. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“Damn it, Lang,” I grumble, but I don’t stop driving. He’s right. I do want to catch this guy.
I pull into the coffee shop and park. “What time is she supposed to be here?” I ask, glancing at my watch. It’s five thirty.
“Five forty-five.”
“I’m waiting in the car.”
“We have time to set up inside. You can sit with your back to us. I’m on Bluetooth. We’ll each take an earpiece and be on a call so you can coach me if I need coaching.”
“Like you ever think you need coaching.”
“Well, as charming and good-looking as I am, I want to get this guy, Jazzy. He’s obsessed with you. You are not going to become one of his victims. You hear me?” He reaches into the back and pulls something from his bag, producing an envelope.
“What’s that?”
“All she has to do is sign this and we get our surveillance.”
“You thought this out.”
“I talked to Evan. He got me what I needed.”
“You talked to Evan? I thought you two hate each other.”
“Not as much as we hate this asshole.”
“If I go in, are you going to tell me why you two hate each other?”
“The night we arrest The Poet, and we will, I’ll tell you,” he promises. “Let’s go.” He pops open his door.
I inhale and despite my best judgment, I step out of my vehicle. Lang smirks with his achievement, walking toward the coffee shop door. I let him smirk. If this works, he deserves to smirk, gloat, and repeat.
A few minutes later, with coffees in front of us, Lang and I are sitting at a small wooden table right behind a display of coffee and near the pickup bar. The pickup bar is where Lang plans to approach Becky Smith. Lang can see the door. I have to inch back a bit, but I can as well. I just have to be careful not to be seen. We’re both wearing a Bluetooth earpiece and he’s called me to connect us. I’m on the line when Jackson calls him to tell him that Becky has just pulled up to the coffee shop. Lang ends that call and then calls me. We’ve already tested the range of the Bluetooth. He can walk all the way to the door without me losing him.