“She was very social,” he says. “She was always talking to someone.”
“Anyone stand out or seem to be a frequent visitor with her?”
“Just another girl. Her friend. They came in together.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Kelly, I think, but don’t hold me to that.”
A few minutes later, I stand just outside the door, sipping my skinny white mocha, and there’s a clear view of Ava’s house from here. The Poet’s arrogant and bold. I wonder if he stood here and watched us last night. I shiver in the heat of a hot day, and for the first time in weeks, that evil slithers over me and seems to crawl deep under my skin.
He’s here. The Poet is here.
What’s terrifying to me is that I know. That I’m connected enough to this evil to feel his presence.
Chapter 97
I walk toward the library, that sense of evil following me, a sensation that has me dialing Lang.
He answers on the first ring. “Kelly confessed. She and Ava worked for a private madam. I’m on my way to see her now.”
“I want to hear more, I do, but right now, I know this sounds crazy, but I can feel him here in the neighborhood. Get some plainclothes officers on the street.”
“Where are you?”
“I just left the coffee shop and I’m walking toward the library.”
“I’ll handle it and come join the party,” he says.
“No. If I’m right, and he’s following me, he’ll know you, too.”
“Fuck. Right. I don’t like leaving you out there with him and without me.”
“I have a gun and I know how to shoot it.”
“And a knee that you know how to use.”
“Only when it’s deserved.”
“Or when you don’t feel like letting another person explain themselves.” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “The autopsy is in an hour.”
I let the exchange go as well, glancing at my watch to read two o’clock. “I didn’t realize it was this late. No wonder I’m hungry. I’ll skip the autopsy. It’s going to be more of the same I can catch up on later. I need to stay here, where I feel like our killer is lurking about. Get me some officers on the street, please, and then call me back about Kelly.”
“Right, but only since you said please.” He hangs up without saying goodbye. I glance across the street and find ThunderCloud Sub. I love ThunderCloud Subs. I rush across the street and at the off-hour, I hurry inside where I show the photos to the staff with no success. I do, however, order a sandwich.
I’m waiting for it to be made when Lang calls again. I step to the end of the counter and answer. “Jackson and two other officers are headed to the area in street clothes,” he says. “We’re putting a rotation in the area. We also have traffic camera feed from last night and about a half dozen businesses so far. If we knew what the guy looked like beyond tall and fit and might be bald and wear a wig, we’d do a lot better with this.”
“I know.” A proverbial knife grinds through my belly. “It’s my fault. I was hyper-focused on Newman.”
“He was a bad dude and I thought it was him, too. Blaming ourselves does no good. We need to get The Poet. That’s all.”
“Right. We do. We will.”
We disconnect, and I pay for my sandwich and a bottle of water, throw out my coffee, and step outside, with that evil at my back again. Aware that The Poet is shadowing me, I head toward the library. It’s a short walk, and the minute I enter the library, it’s as if a weight is removed from my shoulders. He’s outside. I’m inside. I don’t know if that is comforting or disappointing.
I hurry toward the information desk and show several staff members the photos. No one knows Ava or any of the others, but the staff rotates for the evening. I’ll have to come back.
For now, I’ll do some poetry research, and I ask directions to the poetry section.
The library is a beautiful, massive building with pathways jutting left and right above. I’m directed to an upstairs level.
I find what I’m looking for in a quaint little corner on the third level, where I settle in at a small table with a cushy leather chair. It’s the perfect spot to work and eat, which might not be allowed, but I’m doing it anyway. I walk to the poetry shelf, grab a stack of books, and return to the table. I pull out my water and sandwich and, feeling a bit light-headed, I open my egg salad sandwich and treat myself to a big bite. It’s delicious and reminds me so much of the egg salad my grandmother used to make when I was growing up.
Chapter 98
I start shuffling through the books and looking for anything that stands out, though I don’t know why. The basic library collection is present, and anyone taking a literature class would study any number of these books. Not to mention the fact that Ava was a private tutor who’d use these books for that purpose as well. This isn’t helping.
I chat with Wade, who is flying out to Dallas for work tonight. Our personal drama will have to wait until his return. I’m relieved. I want The Poet to focus on me and no one else. We disconnect, and I still haven’t asked him about his investigation of the mayor, but I don’t think it matters right now. We don’t need him to get to Newman. I don’t need him to do my job now.
I replace the books I’ve been studying on the shelf and glance at my watch. The new shift just arrived. I stand up and hurry downstairs to the front desk again. My results with the evening staff are not much better than the day staff. No one remembers anyone in the photos I show them.
“What about regulars who visit the literature sections?”
I’m directed to a middle-aged woman named Maria, who’s walking by with a return cart. She looks through the photos and decides Ava might be familiar. She’s not sure. When asked about regular visitors, a man, in particular, she isn’t of much more help. “We get a lot of people in and out. I don’t often notice people.”
I leave frustrated. I step into a cooler early evening and decide to walk back to the coffee shop where I first felt the evil of The Poet today. Once I have my coffee, this time I sit down and just watch those coming in and out. I’m a few sips into my coffee when my mother calls.
“You remember your grandfather’s birthday party at the center is next weekend, right?”
“No. Did you tell me about this?”
“Twice.”
I don’t remember her telling me this. And I don’t want to go to this party with The Poet on my heels, but how do I not go? My grandfather might not be here next year. He might not remember me missing this party, but I will. Forever.