The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,122

families and friends. We need to look for any class that includes an analysis of The Annotated Waste Land with Eliot’s Contemporary Prose by T. S. Eliot. And find out if any of the other victims, in any city or state, took a class that included that book in their curriculum.” My brows dip with a thought. “Ava offered private tutoring. Maybe she used it herself in her curriculum. Find out if CSI has anything that might indicate poetry in her curriculums, especially this work.”

I certainly used it, I think. I highlighted it in my poetry club for its unique structure and content, but I did so because I was inspired by my grandfather’s love of the work. Someone might have inspired her to love it as well.

“Got it,” he says. “Got it all. I’m on it.”

“And look for any families she’s connected to who might know and love poetry.” I hesitate. “Or jazz.”

“About that. We’ve exhausted the jazz shops as leads across the state. No one noticed anyone who stands out as someone we’re looking for.”

“Of course not,” I murmur. “Thanks, Chuck. I know it’s Saturday and I just keep on keeping on with you.”

“Because The Poet keeps on keeping on.”

We disconnect, and I’m aware that I’m perhaps barking up the wrong tree with this work of poetry, but it feels right. Then again, so did Newman. I shove aside that negative thought. Lang is right. That gets me nowhere. Newman was a pedophile. I wasn’t wrong about him being a monster. I’m not going to start doubting myself or I won’t be able to do this job.

Fortunately, to do that now, I don’t have to analyze The Waste Land. I’ve spent hours on end with my grandfather studying this particular work and poet. My gut says that I’m onto something here until I start looking through the rest of the poetry books. Ava signed out most of them, not just The Waste Land.

I want to scream.

Instead, I stand up and head down to the information desk and flash my badge. “I need a list of anyone who checked out a poetry book in the past two years.”

A deer-in-the-headlights look greets me, and a woman who identifies herself as the manager finally says, “We need a warrant.”

Frustrated, I head back to my seat and make the call to Evan to get the warrant. “One of the victims checked out the poetry book,” I say. “Don’t tell me it’s not enough. Get me the warrant.”

“It’s going to be Monday.”

“We both know you could rattle cages now.”

“This isn’t big enough to do that,” he says.

“So much for you helping this time.”

“You have the FBI behind you now.”

I grind my teeth. “Let’s hope he doesn’t kill again before Monday.”

I hang up and shoot a picture of all of the signatures in the books, pausing when I return to The Waste Land and scan the second signature card, where I find the name of the veterinarian in Brownsville. I wasn’t wrong. We’re onto something here. Adrenaline surges through me and I dial Evan again. “Two of the victims.”

“Two?”

“That’s right. Two. Get me my warrant.”

“I’ll rattle cages.”

I hang up. Or maybe he does. It doesn’t matter. I just want my warrant and I want it now.

Standing, I return the books to the shelf and gather my things, hurrying to my car. Once I’m behind the wheel with the air cranking, I dial Lang. “You’re invited to my grandfather’s birthday party. We need to talk.”

“Will there be cake?”

I grimace and hang up.

Chapter 104

I’ve barely hung up with Lang when a thought hits me and I call him back. “I’ll bring you cake. I have to go to this party, Lang. It’s important to my grandfather, but I have a time-sensitive situation.”

“What does that mean and what do you need?”

“The library is going to close for the day before I’m done with my grandfather’s birthday party that I don’t want to rush away from. We need their security footage. Look for anyone who might be on our radar or anyone who frequents the poetry section. Both Ava and our Brownsville victim, who went to school here, signed the signature card in a poetry book that has a judgment theme.”

“I’m headed there now. I’ll call you once I get the footage.”

We disconnect, and my mind races. Our perp could be someone we haven’t even considered. It’s likely someone we don’t even have on our radar. I dial Chuck and update him, making sure he knows how important