is no longer comfortable.
“What the hell is going on?” Lang demands, as I meet him in the middle of the parking lot.
“Aside from a murder? He was here. I stood all but face-to-face with him and then he ran. I wanted to shoot him, Ethan,” I say, one of the rare moments when I use his real name. “I really wanted to kill him.”
“You should have killed him. Why the hell didn’t you call me when you got the dispatch?” he demands.
“It all happened lightning fast.”
“And right here, blocks from your damn apartment. Why the fuck didn’t you call me?”
I hate when he curses at me, but considering all that happened tonight, whatever. “The victim, Lang. Focus on the victim. He’s the barista I talked to this morning after my run. My headphones came out and he heard the poetry I was listening to. He mocked it.”
“Holy hell,” he says, scrubbing his jaw. “And now he’s dead.”
“Yes. Now he’s dead.” A group of four officers exits the bushes, and Jackson is already there, greeting them. They aren’t going to find The Poet, but we’re going to go through the motions. Or they are. I focus on Lang and the bigger picture. “What happened with Roberts’s ex?”
“She was freaked out. She didn’t know he left. I had to take her to his house to prove it. She’s certain he would have told her that he was leaving.”
“And yet we have no body,” I say. “The Poet likes the show he puts on for us. It makes no sense. It doesn’t fit his profile.”
“Don’t start with this again. It’s not him. And it can’t be Newman if it’s Roberts and we both know you have a hard-on for Newman being our guy.”
“You’re right. I do, but our killer likes to leave his victims for us to view. We have no body for Roberts.”
“You’re making this too complicated. Roberts got too close to The Poet and The Poet’s smart enough to know that killing a cop brings heat he doesn’t want. He wants to keep playing his game. He got rid of the body.”
He wants to keep playing the game.
Lang’s right. He does.
“Bottom line,” I say. “We’re having this conversation for one reason. I let The Poet get away tonight.” I turn and start walking toward the crime scene that isn’t going to connect the dots to Newman Smith or anyone else. The Poet is too skilled to let that happen. I’m going to have to connect the dots, and I will. He’s not getting away alive again.
Chapter 42
I stand in the shadows right above the men in blue, on that same fire escape where Detective Jazz had spotted me earlier, watching the police officers scurry about like mice chasing cheese in all the wrong directions. But I’m not here for them. I’m here for her. I’m always here for her, so much closer than she realizes.
She knew I was here tonight, though, of course. Tonight she was expecting me.
I’d stood outside the bedroom window and watched her pull that poem from the sinner’s mouth. Watched her read the words I’d written for her, and I’d seen the understanding slip onto her lovely face. She understands the great works and the implications those words have on our world, on our very existence. After tonight, she must understand that she is a part of the delicate balance of the universe that begins with those words. She must know that I did her work for her tonight. She revealed this sinner to me. I did what we both knew had to be done.
He spoke against the great works, the poems that are the word of man that guide us all. I righted the balance of good and evil.
Detective Jazz shows herself now, appearing through the line of bushes, dividing the apartment building from the sinner’s house, pausing to talk to the officers with Detective Ethan Langford by her side. She and Detective Langford part ways with the officers and begin the walk down the sidewalk toward her apartment. I will allow him to remain in your life, for now, to hover and guard you for the same reason that I will go home and kiss my wife and kids tonight. These average humans we let in our lives allow us to look average. They shelter us to do our good work. As long as this Ethan Langford serves that purpose without getting in our way, he may stay on this Earth. Should that change, should