The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,49
he stray from his duty, then he too will be gone.
Chapter 43
Lang and I travel the short distance from the crime scene to my car in silence. We did our talking at the crime scene, while working the evidence. That’s how we operate. That’s how we make partnering up work. We both leave every crime scene without allowing ourselves to feel the emotion we could. We both need time to compartmentalize. It’s survival, as necessary as breathing.
Lang eyes my car parked on the street. “What’s with the street parking?”
“The road by the crime scene was a nightmare. This seemed a logical spot to park.”
“Right,” he says dryly. “You moving that into the garage?”
“I don’t exactly like the idea of enclosed spaces right about now.”
“Good decision.” He motions to his car right across the street. “My head was in the same place.”
I snag my keys and click the remote to unlock my trunk before walking to the back of the car, Lang sticking by my side. I trade out my field bag for my briefcase, but I leave the flats on and just shove my heels into my bag.
Lang shuts my trunk. “I’ll walk you to your door.”
I fold my arms and plant my feet. “You’re not staying. I need to be alone.”
He scowls, towering over me, a puffed-up, protective bear, and I can feel the tug-of-war inside him. I try to make it just a little easier on him. “I can’t let him win. You staying with me tonight amounts to him winning. I know you know how that feels.”
Understanding slides over his features. He gets it. He gets me. Sometimes after the worst crime scenes, we need to battle our fear and beat it, or we can’t go on. That has to be done alone. “We’ll compromise,” he offers. “I’ll walk you to the door of your building.”
I’m a little surprised at how easily he caves, but also relieved. I wasn’t going to let him stay. I also wasn’t looking forward to the battle that can erupt between the two of us when we bump heads. I nod and we start walking, again in silence. There is much we both will have to say about tonight’s events, but those words will wait for tomorrow.
It’s not long before we arrive at my building and prepare to say our final goodnight. Lang’s way of doing so is an order. “I’m calling patrol to let them know you’re walking up. And pull the damn trigger next time.”
Regret fills me with those words. The Poet will kill again. I could have stopped him. “I will,” I promise, reaching for the door and making quick work of entering my building. The walk is more tedious than normal, the stairwell tight but well enough lit, but I’m suffocating in the small space. I check my watch to find it’s now nearing midnight and, as would be expected, not a peep can be heard but for me and my tired feet.
Relief fills me at the sight of my door, and I slide the key into the lock. I’ve barely cracked the door open when the glow of light tells me that someone is inside. Instinct kicks in and I drop my bag, pull my weapon, and kick the door open the rest of the way.
Chapter 44
I step inside the door and a man is suddenly in front of me, holding up his hands.
Wade.
It’s Wade. Wade is here.
“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, like calling me baby will somehow save his life. Men do that a lot. Call a woman “baby” and “sweetheart” to calm us down. Does that ever work? It damn sure doesn’t for him. I’m suddenly pissed. Burning alive and hot under the collar.
I slam the door shut with my foot and walk toward him, shoving the gun into his chest. He’s a good-looking man, and at thirty-eight, a younger Brad Pitt look-alike. His looks can’t save him now. Not when his suit jacket is gone, flung over the table by the door, his blue tie that matches his blue eyes hanging low and loose. He’s made himself comfortable, and while it would be a shame to mess up his pretty face, I think I could do it right about now.
“What are you doing in my apartment, Wade?”
“I still have a key. You know that.”
“I don’t remember you keeping my key.”
“And you still have my key, which you haven’t used in months, but we can talk about that later.”