The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,30
strategically right.
Newman offers a convincing blanch. “What? I’m sorry.” He sets his bag down. “Murder? I thought they just hung the kid up naked in the frat house.”
“Just hung up naked, huh?” Lang comments.
“No. No.” Newman is holding up his hands now. “I didn’t intend to be dismissive, but the kid was alive. Murder is a whole other level of perversion.”
Perversion.
This word bothers me for reasons I’ll analyze later. “I understand you have an interest in poetry?” I interject.
He blanches all over again. “Forgive me if I’m suffering whiplash right now, but these comments and questions are all over the place. What are we talking about?”
“We’re working a case that might require a poetry expert,” I say. “We pulled your name up as a possible option.”
He narrows his eyes on me, blades of irritation spiking his stare. “I’m not falling for your bucket of tricks, Detective. What do you want? What do you really want?”
“You know what we want,” I say and turn the question back on him. “What do we want?”
“Obviously to talk about a murder in a bookstore. So why don’t we just do this?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Tell me the date and time of this murder. I’ll give you my alibi. You confirm my alibi and then go do your jobs and find the real killer.”
“August fourteenth,” Lang supplies. “All day. All night. We need every detail.”
He shoves his phone back in his pocket. “I don’t even have to look at my calendar. August fourteenth was my son’s birthday. I spent the day with my wife and family. All day. All night.”
“She’ll confirm this?” I ask.
“Of course, she’ll confirm.” His tone is arrogant and impatient. “What else?” He glances at his watch, a Rolex. I make a mental note to inquire about his paycheck. “I have a class to get to,” he presses.
Lang snorts with disgust. “And we have a dead man who’s going to his own funeral early. How old is your kid?”
Newman presses his lips together. “Twelve. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Where did you take him for his birthday party?” I ask.
“We stayed home. We’re done here.” He loads his bag on his shoulder, turns, and walks away.
My takeaway: he didn’t ask questions the way most people would ask questions. He didn’t want to know who the victim was. He didn’t want to know why we homed in on him. One might assume that he didn’t have to. He already knew.
Chapter 27
Detective Jazz seeks the answers only I can give her, that only her master and teacher hold in my palm.
Why else would she be drawn to the campus, where learning is nothing if not monumental? She clearly understands the teacher/student dynamic in play but doesn’t yet understand that these students, the ones who walk this campus, are not relevant to anyone or anything at all. She is the only student of any relevance at all, the student I once was, and to some degree will always be, to the great works.
She wasn’t ready for the truth, though, she’s not ready for the truth, and I’m growing impatient. In her haste to remove the veil of secrecy, she’s ignoring important details—a mistake, and neither of us can afford her mistakes. I’ll expect more of her in the immediate future. She must rise higher. She must study and learn the lessons that I’m teaching her, instead of scratching away at an itch she will never reach.
One thing is clear after today; she wants my attention. She needs my attention. She needs to know that I am not just watching, but watching closely, and that learning will be rewarded, while mistakes will be punished. It’s time to ensure this lesson is learned. Tonight, she’ll know that I’m right here. She’ll know that I’m watching her, that I’m listening to her needs. She’ll know that I’m guiding her work.
She’ll know that failures have consequences.
Chapter 28
Lang and I leave our head-on collision with Newman with two agreed-upon points: we aren’t done with him, and the man’s an arrogant asshole. By the time we’re in the scorching hot car, I’ve snagged the name and employment information on Newman’s wife.
“Newman and Becky Smith have been married for ten years. They have a twelve-year-old and a seven-year-old. Becky is forty-one and an elementary school teacher.”
“I bet he treats her like dirt under his shoe, too,” Lang grumbles, starting the engine, and I burn my hand on the seat. God,