The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,10

him.”

I glance at Lang, and he nods, silently telling me that he can hear what’s being said. “And this doesn’t feel off to you, Captain?” I ask.

“This is a tough job, something you know better than most these days. Maybe he hit a wall. He needed air, but the good news is we have you. Go get our killer.” He disconnects.

I slide my phone back into my pocket and fold my arms. Lang does the same.

“Do you think this is related to the Summer case?” I ask.

“I told you, I worked with Roberts. I can’t imagine a monster scary enough to spook Roberts. He clearly made a decision to leave. He’s got another job in the department.”

“I agree that yes, it looks that way, but that could be by design. We need to speak to him.”

He motions to the car, clicking the lock, and we start walking. “You keep working the case. I’ll blow off my booty call for tonight and hunt down Roberts.”

We both head to our sides of the car. “Booty call?” I ask incredulously, joining him inside. “Really, Lang?”

“That’s her description, not mine.” He starts the car and cranks the air. “She says that if I fall in love with her or some ridiculous shit like that, one of the killers I’m chasing might want to kill her to get back at me. And if she loves me and I end up dead, she’d be destroyed.”

His booty call story has managed to hit a nerve, and I cut my gaze. “Our world does start and end in murder.” A bitter taste gathers in the back of my throat, my mind going to my father. Ironically, he wasn’t killed for his bad deeds, but his good ones. That ex-con just wanted to pay him back for locking him up a decade earlier.

“We might as well just accept fate and date each other,” Lang jokes, baiting me and not by accident. No doubt, he read my reaction and knows what it’s about. “We’re together all the time anyway,” he adds. “Two badges, one heart.”

I shake my head at his silliness, and silliness is his intent. We spark together, but it’s the kind of spark that sets the wrong kind of fire. The kind you run from, not to. “Funny thing,” I say, “is that I tried dating someone in law enforcement and it didn’t work. I don’t need a repeat.”

“I won’t comment on what happened between you and FBI Agent Wade Miller. I’m going to focus on the here and now, you and me. You know you want my body.”

I snort-laugh, something I’ve often wanted to do when someone is lying to me, but save just for Lang. I also point to the steering wheel. “Drive. We have a killer to catch and a detective to find safe and alive.”

“You’re right. You’re right. Getting naked is proven to be the best way for two people to hate each other.” There’s bitterness to those words that tells me, yeah, he’s joking around about his love life, but being labeled as a booty call bothers him. He’s human. How can it not?

We’re about halfway to the station, and I’ve long ago shifted back to the case when something Lang said earlier pops into my head: I can’t imagine a monster scary enough to spook Roberts. And therein lies our problem. Just because we can’t imagine that monster doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist.

Chapter 6

The drive from Roberts’s house to the downtown medical examiner’s office is not kind. Lang and I end up in a crush of rush hour traffic. When the six o’clock hour comes and goes, I still hang on to hope that the ME on the Summer case might still be at work, but it’s clear that I need to call ahead. I scan the file for a name and groan. “Great. Trevor Richards is the ME.”

“Sourpuss bastard,” Lang mumbles, before adding, “He’s likely gone for the day, and if he’s not, he’s not going to wait for you. Chocolate won’t work on that man.”

Considering Trevor is a sourpuss, he’s right of course, but I’m not deterred. “I have to try. I have his cell number.” I tab through my numbers and punch the autodial.

“Detective Jazz,” he greets. “Whatever you want, this is a bad time.”

I decide to make it a good time by continuing onward. “I’m calling about the Summer case. I’m taking over for Roberts.”

“It’s been a long week,” he grumbles, but then, he always grumbles. He’s forty-something,