The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,13

to catch him will be lost.

Once I’m outside my vehicle, I point a flashlight and my service weapon toward the black hole at the side of the bookstore. There are no hiding places besides the building: no trees, no dumpster. No other car. There is also only one streetlight, and it’s not working, which feels a bit like the security system that was offline the night of the murder. I scan the scene for movement and find nothing. I could dismiss what I saw as wind or a squirrel, but that Spidey sense thing isn’t going to let me be that foolish.

Keeping a wide distance, I pretend to go left, cutting fast in that direction, only to immediately go right. I’m about to turn the corner, to walk right into the shadow I’d seen from my car, but instinct halts me. Instinct yells for me to wait, not to go alone.

“Damn it,” I murmur, dropping back toward my car.

But I know the killer’s here. I feel him, evil crawling along my skin, trying to shove its way under and inside me. I’m suffocating in evil, in him. I feel his eyes on me, his stare, a burn that comes straight from hell. He can see me. I can’t see him. That is not a matchup that ends well for me.

A car pulls into the street a few feet away, and I catch a glimpse of Lang in my peripheral vision. He’s smart and sharp enough to approach silently, weapon drawn. He’s halfway to me and I motion left, back toward the darkness and that shadow. He motions right. Another patrol car is pulling up behind his Mustang and just that quickly, I feel the shift in the air. I feel the evil coil and withdraw.

Damn it, again. We’re losing him.

Fear gone now, I cut the corner around the building, flattening on the concrete wall, shining my light along the empty space. I don’t wait here for him to escape from the rear. I run toward the back wall and pause, easing around the corner as Lang charges toward me.

We’re clear. The killer is gone, but I have a crazy sensation of the familiar. Like this is not an evil I’ve felt only once.

Chapter 9

It doesn’t take long after Lang and I give the go-ahead for the cavalry to light the bookstore up like Christmas. Or for us to decide we’re going inside, just to be sure The Poet isn’t seeking shelter there.

We converse with several officers, one of whom was a first responder on the initial crime scene. Officer Jackson is a tall redhead, a man in his thirties only two years out of the military and into the force, who is all muscle and stony-faced expressions. I know him from another case. He has a future. He’s one of the good ones, and he’s quick to contribute. “The front doors are glass and locked. No one got in or out from that location without breaking the glass that’s intact.”

“All right then,” Lang agrees. “The rear entrance is our hot spot.”

Decision made, and with a car illuminating the building and officers backing us up, Lang and I approach the back door, which is predictably secured. Lang breaks the lock and flips a light on. We’re greeted with two sets of stairs, one going up and one going down. The archway to the left of both leads into the bookstore.

Officer Jackson joins us. “Hold the stairwells,” Lang orders, and with Jackson’s nod, Lang and I enter the store.

Side by side, we halt just inside the cozy little store, complete with wooden tables, a full bar, and rows of books. “Dude had a hell of a selection of IPA’s,” Lang murmurs, like a selection of beers is a dead man’s legacy.

I scowl at him and then start walking. From there, we divide and conquer, checking every row of books, and when we’re all clear, I seek out a longer look at the poetry section, which is quite extensive. Considering the poem left in the victim’s mouth, these books should have been bagged into evidence. They will be before we leave here tonight.

Lang and I reconvene with Jackson in the entryway. “Get the poetry section into evidence,” I instruct Jackson. “All of it. Every book.” My attention turns to Lang. “Ready?”

He motions to the upper level. “Your case. You want the apartment? Where the murder happened.”

“The murder began with planning. I’ll take the theater. I want to be where the killer was, in