The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,31
you have to love Texas in August.
“Start driving toward Westlake. I want to catch her at work, away from Newman and her kids, if we can.” I punch in the number for Becky’s school, hoping to catch her before she leaves for the day.
Lang revs up the Mustang. “I’ll drive to Westlake by way of a fast-food joint.” He shifts to reverse.
My stomach growls its approval, but my call is a bust. “School doesn’t start back until next week. She’s off today.” I dictate her home address from Chuck’s text message. Lang detours to a drive-thru hamburger joint, and by the time we’re handed our food, the AC is cranking out cold air, Chuck has sent me a full file on Newman, and we’re on the highway.
In between stuffing my face with hot, salty fries, my splurge of the day, I scan a file and share important pieces with Lang. “His dad was a professor at UT Brownsville and get this—he taught literature.”
“Was?” Lang asks while we idle in standstill traffic. “He’s dead?”
“Yep.” I sip my soda and scrunch up my face with the bitter taste. “I hate Diet Coke. Everyone in this city has nothing but Diet Coke. Can a girl just get a Diet Sprite please?”
“The real deal spares you that problem,” he says, holding up his Coke.
“I hate real Coke, too.”
“You’re crazy.”
“So are you. We’re homicide detectives. It’s a part of the job.”
“Spoken like my booty call last night.”
“All righty then,” I say, and move back to the topic at hand: Newman’s father. “He died of a heart attack when Newman was in junior high. His mother’s dead as well. Fell and hit her head in her own home when Newman was twelve.”
“So, did Newman or his father bash her head in? That’s what I want to fucking know.”
“There is the question,” I say. “I’m betting on the father, who groomed his murderous son. Newman ended up in the foster system.” I shoot some questions off to Chuck by way of text while multitasking and downing the remaining bite of my grilled chicken sandwich. Sipping my nasty Diet Coke again, I read onward until I’m poking at my screen and glancing over at Lang. “He was in the foster system, and one of the kids with him complained that he abused her dog and then molested her. She ran away and was never seen again.”
“Ran away or she’s dead?” Lang queries.
I point a finger at him. “Good question.” I shoot off another text to Chuck.
“How did he end up a professor at UT himself?” Lang asks, working through this new bit of information. And why wouldn’t he? It’s not like the car is moving.
“A scholarship to UT, which I’m sure was aided by his father’s history there at the school. Not that he needed that aid. The man has a rocket-fueled brain. His IQ test and SATs were off the charts.”
“Really? How do they compare to yours?”
My brows dip. “That matters why?”
“Brains against brains,” he declares. “Like-minded gladiators fighting it out. It’s an interesting matchup.”
That like-minded comment hits a nerve that he should understand. It brings us full circle back to that “crazy” conversation. When you do this job long enough, you start questioning yourself, wondering how and why you’re capable of seeing what you see and still remain human.
Lang gives me a wink. “Don’t worry. You have the edge. You have me.” He flexes his biceps. “This does count for more than a guy like that likes to admit.”
I ignore his comment and glance at Newman’s scores, which are right in line with mine. That doesn’t say a lot to me. I’ve seen people with brains who should explode from their level of brilliance who simply couldn’t apply common sense to life. Brains matter, but far more important is how that person accesses and applies that knowledge.
The Poet has already shown us he’s the real deal, the full package: brains and execution. He’s more than a worthy adversary, which is why he’s a man willing to hide in plain sight. He will not be easy to take down, and he knows it.
Chapter 29
Lang pulls his Mustang into the driveway of Newman’s sprawling mansion of a house in the elite Westlake area of Austin. Both of us lean forward, giving the two-story beauty painted a bluish-gray a better look. Lang gives a whistle. “That’s a good two mil he’s living in. He must rake in the bucks at UT.”