My teeth grit. I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I’m certain it’s no place good. “I loved my father,” I correct, and it’s true. I loved him. He was my idol. Until he wasn’t, but the love didn’t go away.
“And hated him,” he corrects in turn. “Interesting thing to me,” he continues, “is that just three months after he died, The Poet came into your life.”
“You gave me the case.”
“You became obsessed, and obsession became a monster that you couldn’t control with this one. Almost,” he pauses for effect, the blow he’s about to deliver hanging in the air before he throws his punch and adds, “as if you needed someone to hate more than your father. And what do you have to show for that hate? A dead boy and a lawsuit.”
I feel his words like a blade stabbing in my chest, a bull’s-eye in the center of my body that kills a piece of me that isn’t coming back. I’m not coming back.
“You may leave now, Detective Jazz.”
And I do. Without another word, I leave, in more ways than one.
Chapter 87
I could hate the captain for throwing that boy in my face, but I don’t. It’s not that simple. I don’t think it will ever be that simple ever again. The truth is that when you work in homicide, there are moments when you fear that you are no longer human. Too cold. Too immune to blood and gore. Too much like the killers you hunt. Then there are those opposing moments when you pray to God that you can hold yourself together.
When I step out of that security booth, with the captain’s words burning holes in my mind, I’m not having one of those familiar “please God” moments. Instead, there’s a cold seeping inside me and a decision about my future brewing hot and quickly chilling. I do have a “thank God” moment when Lang gives me one look and says nothing. Regardless of why we partnered up, we have spent more time together than most spouses. He knows that I’m in what we have declared our ground zero, that place where we must gather ourselves, find ourselves, ground ourselves, or else we self-destruct.
Lang motions down the hallway toward an exit I don’t know. I fall into step with him, still trusting him on some level when he doesn’t deserve that trust. Or maybe he does. I need out of ground zero before I assess where I stand with Lang. For me, that means distance. I need distance from the recent events scratching holes in my soul.
We exit the building through a side door, and I don’t ask how Lang’s Mustang is conveniently waiting for us. I don’t care. I climb inside the passenger side and settle into my seat. I’m starting to compartmentalize, a skill that is both underrated and necessary in this job. I’m no longer fighting my demons with labels like “my father” and “The Poet.” They’re boxed up. I’ve shut the lid. They’re clawing at the lid, but their destructive effect is postponed until a later date. I don’t have to analyze why they’re in the same box. Despite the captain’s desire to shock me with some stunning revelation I already know. I’ve known for a long time. But it’s not what he thinks. It’s not about displaced hate. It’s about the only two monsters I’ve faced and failed to defeat.
Lang climbs into the vehicle and I don’t look at him when I say, “Take me home. I’ll drive myself to the station.”
“Jazzy—”
“Take me home, Lang.” I glance over at him. “I’ll self-report and give my statement. As we’re both aware, I’m far more by-the-book than you are. I’ll do what I’m supposed to do.”
“I protected you in there.”
“I asked you not to lie, but apparently, you offer my dead father more respect than you do me. Don’t say a word, either. If you know me at all—”
“If I know you at all? Really, Jazz? You know what? You’re right. Why would I say a damn thing when you think I’d take a bribe from your damn father? He loved you, Jazz. He threatened me with my damn life if I didn’t protect you, and I do mean that literally.”
I don’t say a word. That’s the thing about being in a job like this one; too many people tell you lies. Honesty becomes everything.
Five minutes later, Lang pulls up beside my building and I get out without saying a word. In a measured pace, I walk to my building to find Daniel, our ex-gangster security guard from the other night, by the door. “Good morning, Detective Jazz.”
I’m about to walk past him when my gaze lands on his hairless arm. I halt abruptly, a gut feeling churning inside me before my gaze jerks to his. His brows dip. “Something wrong?”
I wait to feel that familiar evil, but there’s nothing there. “Why do you shave your arms?”
He laughs. “Kind of girly, right? I’m having the tattoos removed. I have to shave.”
A breath I don’t know I’m holding slides from my lips. What am I doing? Newman is dead. This is over. Or it will be soon. Supported by the fact that Lang was right when he said The Poet was obsessed with me. He was also too smart to ensure I got shut out of the case, which is exactly what happened tonight.
Unless he was part of the team and the other half of the team decided I was a problem.
“Detective Jazz?”
At Daniel’s prod I snap back to the moment, a scold to the crazy places my head is going.
“Good decision on the tattoo removal,” I say, and I hurry inside the building and to my door.
Once I’m inside, I fight the urge to search my apartment. He’s gone, dead, there is no need. With that in mind and the fact that I won’t be questioned for hours, I head into the bathroom and take a long, hot shower. Once I’ve dressed in my standard pantsuit with a pale blue blouse, I gather my work bag and stick my badge inside. My personal weapon is left behind this time, as I’m going to be questioned in a death investigation. I then do what I should have done days ago.
I face down the demons The Poet has left in his wake. I walk across the street and grab a coffee, but I’m not wearing my badge when I do. It stays in my bag. I just can’t seem to make myself put it back on.
Chapter 88
I call Nicole, who is still acting as my union attorney, while waiting in line for my coffee, and she agrees to meet me at the station. Once we’re there, the captain is already there too. My attorney heads to the interrogation room to meet with him, Evan, and Detective Martinez, who’ll be taking my statement. I head to my desk to check my messages, when Chuck catches me in the hallway.
“Is it really over?” he says.
There is a clawing sensation in my chest that defies my full agreement which I cannot offer. Instead I say, “It appears that way.” I do my best to give him a reassuring smile. I’m pretty sure I fail. “Great work, Chuck,” I add, offering him a heartfelt compliment. “I mean, Superman. And you really are Superman.”