The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,120

better make this friendly. I’ll go alone.”

He pushes back, but we have our hands full, and our time is better spent divided. It’s a few hours later when I exit the station and run smack into the chief. “There she is,” he says, his tone doting as usual and yet somehow cold. “Agent Jazz herself. How are we coming on the case?”

I bristle with the question that assumes his authority but smash my reaction. “Too slowly.”

“We calmed the public with that early press conference we had about a single suspect, but I’ve had a reporter snooping around again. We won’t silence this for long.”

“If necessary, the FBI can hold a joint press conference with your team.”

His eyes flare with anger, but his expression is unchanged. “If necessary. Just catch him already.” He steps around me.

I turn and call out to him before he enters the building. “That’s all? You have nothing else to say to me?”

He pauses and turns back. “You left without talking to me. I let you. End of story.” He heads into the building.

I’m left with the slap of his words, uncertain what just happened. Then again, I don’t think anything just happened. I’m just figuring it out now. Actually, I don’t understand at all, but I don’t have the time and energy to waste trying to find out. I have a killer to catch. The cranky chief and ex-godfather can wait.

Chapter 102

I arrive at the coffee shop right on time for my meeting with Nolan. I already have my much-needed white mocha with an extra shot when he arrives a few minutes later. He waves on his way to the counter and orders for himself as well, and I watch him joke with the barista in his expensive blue suit that he’s paired with an emerald green tie. He’s good with people, charismatic, successful. A man who has it all and no reason to kill anyone.

He joins me while we wait for his own brew to be made, sitting down across from me with a charming smile. “Good to see you again. I believe this is what you need.” He offers me the large envelope he’s been holding since he walked in.

“Thank you. We do appreciate the help.”

They call out his order and he stands up and grabs it, but not before I notice that he isn’t wearing a wedding ring. But then, not all men do. He returns and sits down. “Follow in your dad’s footsteps, did you?”

“I did,” I say.

“How is he?”

“Dead.”

His eyes go wide. “Oh. Well. I’m—”

“Don’t say sorry. I’ve heard that too much. I can’t remember. What does your father do for a living?”

“He was a programmer. I, too, followed in my father’s footsteps.”

“And how’s your mother?”

“Dead.”

I don’t blanch with his similar reply to mine. This job prepares you for about anything. “I see,” I say simply. “How?”

“Heart attack when I was in college. I met my wife shortly after. She helped me get through it. Oh, how are your grandparents?”

“Good. Well,” I reluctantly add, “my grandfather has dementia. But otherwise good.”

“Ouch. That’s rough. He was a brilliant mind, if I remember correctly. Why does it always happen to them?”

“I don’t know.”

We’re solemn for a moment and then he brings up one of our old teachers. That leads us to talk about a few of the other students, and I’m surprised by how hard I end up laughing. “Those were good times,” I say, relaxed now.

“Except for that one incident. The boy who died.”

Unease I can’t explain slides down my spine. I know the incident. Of course I do. We lived in a small town and, while I was home sick the day of our poetry studies, one of my girlfriends told me about another student, poor awkward Henry, being mocked during his reading, and then beat up after class. Later, his bully ended up dead. Why even bring this up? “The murder,” I say, looking for a reaction.

“That’s what they said way back when. All I know is we were all different after whatever it was happened.” His cell phone rings and he grabs it. “Wifey.” He holds up a finger. “Hey, honey. Yes. Yes, I can bring home milk. Yes, I can help with homework. I’m on my way. Love you, too.” He disconnects. “Well, this has been fun. I’d better run.” He motions to the folder. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I will.”

I watch him leave, and I’m bothered by the talk of the boy who died,