this case was his last case,” he continues. “Your case now. So here’s my question and it’s damn important, so listen up. If the killer was here tonight, did you stumble on him, or did he follow you?”
Chapter 11
I sit at the coffee shop across from Detective Jazz’s apartment and watch her Ford Focus pull into the parking garage. She knew I was there tonight. Already she validates herself as a protégée, and by doing so, justifies everything I’ve done to bring us together.
The man she, and those around her, knew as Detective Roberts had to go. His departure was necessary. He, and his identity, were the sacrificial lamb for the greater cause. He stood between me and her, and that simply couldn’t happen. Disposing of him properly demanded a rather complex execution, but it was necessary. I had to ensure that he simply vanished, gone and, eventually, as all basic humans are, forgotten. Of course, I arranged for his record to be dirtied up, the details of which will soon be discovered. Details that will make him look like he’s sinned horribly, and done his badge a disservice, thus assumed to have run to avoid persecution.
A fade to black also ensured the FBI wouldn’t nudge their way into the mix. And while I’d be quite entertained by their efforts to flex their weak muscles, they’d potentially remove Detective Jazz from the puzzle. And that isn’t an option.
Detective Jazz must be prepared for the future. She must be taught how to step into her shoes as the future master, as I have my predecessor. She must learn to protect the poems that are the bible to our world. She must learn how to punish those who do not respect that bible. It’s time, and I’m quite enjoying my mentoring.
My lips curve and I sip my coffee. I do believe I’ll join her for her morning run.
Chapter 12
When murder is your job, you have to find a way to compartmentalize or you go insane. For me, that means flipping a switch off in my mind. That usually happens right now, as I enter my building and walk up the stairs toward my apartment. Tonight, it doesn’t. I could blame it on Lang and his conspiracy theories about The Poet following me, but the truth is, I haven’t managed that little trick since the night my father was murdered.
I reach my door, head inside, and lock up, but I stop there, leaning on the door’s wooden surface. Standing there, I will myself to dispel the tension that I normally leave outside in the stairwell. This is my safe place, the apartment my grandfather persuaded me to buy seven years ago when I made detective. Brilliant man that he was before the dementia took over, he said the new downtown community would double in value. It quadrupled. Now I have something instead of nothing, but I’d much rather just have him back whole again.
I stand at the door another full minute and decide I’m still here for a reason and that reason is The Poet. I don’t know if he followed me tonight, but he’s under my skin and I can’t shake the odd sensation of an evil that felt familiar. So much so that I cave and search my apartment, which doesn’t take long. I have an open concept living room and kitchen, a master bedroom, an upstairs secret loft-style room, and a bathroom.
Once I know I’m alone, I prepare dinner. That means I sit down on my couch with my file, a glass of red wine, my favorite blend, and a bag of popcorn. My faithful TV dinner is just not appealing. The gun I’ve set on the table next to me, however, is. I’m only on sip two of my wine, the edge of this evening still clear and present, when Lang calls.
“Are you home?”
“Yes, Papa Lang, I am indeed home. You do know I’m a detective and taking care of myself, right? And,” I add, “I’m capable of kicking your ass.”
“Should I come over and you can try?”
I kick off my shoes, heels that are somehow still on my feet. Another “girl power” statement. I can run in them and use them as a weapon quite effectively, should it become necessary; even I can admit that’s a practiced skill. “Go service your booty call,” I say, and I hang up.
I sip my wine and will myself to call my mother. I’m resisting her and I know it’s not fair,