“Really,” my grandma says. “Take them. Enjoy them. That would please him.”
The idea that there might be something in those memories that could be a trigger I can use to solve this case has me pushing to my feet. “I’m going there now.”
My mother catches my hand. “Oh God. You’re working that case I heard about, The Poet, aren’t you?”
“Mom—”
“I thought you quit.” Her tone is sharp, accusing even.
“I’m consulting for the FBI. We need to catch this guy.”
“I thought the press conference said they had the killer isolated and there was no mass population danger.” The sharpness is gone. The worry is back.
My lips press together. “They lied. He’s hurt a lot of people. A lot more than the public knows.”
Her lashes lower and then lift. “Just don’t get killed.”
“I won’t.” I don’t promise. We both know I can’t promise.
My grandmother stands up and hugs me, her head coming to my chest. She’s the kind of person who lights up lives and deserves to be protected. The kind of person I do this job for. She gazes up at me and pats my cheek. “I hope something in that attic helps catch him.”
“Me, too, Grandma.” I kiss her and my mother before gently placing a kiss on my sleeping grandfather’s forehead. My heart squeezes. God, how I wish I could talk about this case with him. Instead, I’ll have to settle for his memories as inspiration to catch The Poet.
I’m heading for the door when my mom calls out. “Oh, honey.”
I turn. “Yes, Mom?”
“I put your stuff from that poetry club you taught in a box with the stuff from Grandpa’s poetry club.”
I blanch. “Grandpa taught a poetry club?”
“You don’t remember?” my mom asks. “He had the kids over all the time. Random students he mentored.”
My heart is racing now, adrenaline shooting through me. “I don’t remember this. I mean he helped me set mine up, but I didn’t know he ran one, too.”
My mom waves a hand. “It was after school while he still taught. Maybe it wasn’t a club. Like I said. Mentoring.”
“Yes,” Grandma agrees. “And tutoring. He didn’t have a club. Your mother’s confused. You’d think she was as old as me.” She laughs. “Your grandfather loved mentoring and tutoring more one-on-one. There’s lots of fun stuff in the boxes. Enjoy, honey.”
I nod and turn away, certain now that The Poet’s obsession with me is really an obsession with me and my grandfather.
Chapter 105
The first thing I do when I get back to my car is to return my gun and badge to my person where they belong. The drive to my family home is a short one, down a country road. The house is sprawling and white, a real mansion in its day—that I should have questioned. My father was a detective. Detectives don’t buy mansions unless they’re doing something other than being a detective.
I hurry into the house and lock up behind me, the scent of cinnamon clinging to the air today. There’s always some delicious scent in this house with my grandmother living here. I hurry through the cozy living room of overstuffed brown furnishings and shelves of books and trinkets, to the hallway where I pull down the attic stairs. Hurrying up them, it’s a bit like the scene from Christmas Vacation where Chevy Chase is under a slanted ceiling, enjoying boxes of memories. I find the record player, plug it in, and play a Louis Armstrong album.
After some searching, I find the boxes my grandmother referenced, filled with my grandfather’s books on poetry and jazz. I start reading, smiling often, and I go through a journal that’s in his own writing, but this isn’t what I need, not right now. I dig through the boxes and find my poetry club materials. Underneath them, I find my grandfather’s tutoring files. I do vaguely remember random students coming to the house. There are years of tutoring and mentoring notes. The students even had what he called, oh God, “master patches.”
My heart is about to explode in my chest right now. There are notes about my grandfather’s most impressive students. I flip the page and start reading a bit about each. I’ve read the notes on the first four, vaguely remembering them, when I flip to number five and go cold. The name is Nolan Brooks.
Cotton thickens my throat and I grab my phone, dialing Lang. “It’s Nolan. Pick him up now.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Lang, I went to school with him. I knew him. My grandfather knew him.”
“Holy shit. I’m going after him now.”
“I’m getting protection here for my family and then coming in.” I hang up and dial Captain Moore.
“Agent Jazz, what can I—”
“I know who The Poet is. This is personal. It’s about me and my family. I need them protected now. Call the Georgetown PD and get me help here now. Actually, I need them to meet me at the Sun City Retirement Center. Ethan Langford knows the rest of the story. I have to get to them.”
“I’m calling now. I’ll call you back once they’re on the way.”
“Thank you.” I hang up and rush down the stairs, dialing my mother as I do. She doesn’t pick up. I redial, running for my car. Again, my mother doesn’t answer.
I climb inside my vehicle and start the engine. My mother calls me back.
“Listen to me, Mom. The Poet, the killer I’m hunting, is Nolan Brooks, someone Grandpa tutored. He’s dangerous. He’s obsessed with me and Grandpa.”
“I remember Nolan. He was a nice young man.”
“He’s not a nice anything. I’m coming to you with police support. Where are you now?”
“Oh my. Oh my.”
“Mom—”
“We’re still with your grandpa.”
“Stay where you are.”
“Yes, I— Yes, we will. I’ll get security.”
We disconnect, and I can’t drive fast enough. My heart won’t calm. My cell rings and I answer without checking caller ID to hear the captain’s voice. “Georgetown PD has two cars on the way now.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Langford told me what’s going on. Be careful.”
“Yes.” That’s all I say. I hang up. If Nolan knew I was onto him, what would he do? Who would he hurt? I bring the retirement center into view and whip into the parking lot. Relief washes over me as the police cruisers pull in behind me.