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.
“And you’re not working anyway,” she adds. “You have no excuse.”
I haven’t told her about the consultant gig. I need to tell her. I’ll tell her next weekend. “I’ll be there.” We disconnect and for the next hour, I watch the people who come in and out, and I start to discover a theme. The mix is half college students and half from a big tech firm across the street.
I’m there a good hour when Lang calls. “The madam is a gorgeous bitch. We’re not going to get her client list without a drawn-out investigation. I’m headed to the station to review the data Chuck’s got together on Ava Lloyd’s murder. Want to join me?”
“I’m still in her neighborhood. I want to stay on this course. I’ll catch up on everything in the morning.”
“I’ll buy the pizza. I’ll see you at your place at ten.” He hangs up. I don’t call him back. I’m thinking about the security system being out at Summer’s place and the way The Poet navigates a path beyond cameras a bit too easily. The cameras were even out when Newman was murdered. Not for the first time, I wonder if The Poet killed him because Newman was getting my attention, not him.
I stand up and decide to pay a visit to the company across the street. I glance at my watch. It’s almost eight. I can’t imagine anyone will be