The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,50
give it back. Talk complete. Why are you here?”
“Langford called. He told me about your visitor last night, the guy hanging out by your door. I grabbed a high-tech invisible camera and installed it by your door.”
I grimace. I should have known. Lang gave up too easily downstairs. “He knows you’re here?”
“Yes. He knows I’m here.” He eyes the gun in my hand, now pressed to his chest. “Are you going to shoot me?”
“Did you bring wine and chocolate?”
“I did, in fact, bring wine and chocolate, Godiva and that Italian blend you love so much. And I have that late-night pizza joint on autodial, ready to call.”
He wins. I lower my weapon.
Apparently, I’m not shooting anyone tonight, though I think I probably should have. I open the drawer to the entrance table and slide my gun inside. The minute the drawer is shut, he pulls me to him and wraps his arms around me. I’d forgotten how good it feels to have someone who doesn’t think you’re weak just because you’re feeling beat-up in the moment. He pulls back and gives me a keen inspection. “Pizza?”
This man knows how well pizza replaces the acid burn of a bad night. I’m suddenly not as angry as I was moments before. “Please.”
“Good. I’m starving. I’ll order the pizza. The wine’s on the counter.”
A few minutes later, he’s showing me my new state-of-the-art camera and security system, complete with a monitoring system that he installs on my phone.
“Thank you,” I say, and a bit later, when we sit down at the coffee table with wine and pizza, I add, “You aren’t staying the night.”
His lips quirk and he says nothing. He just sips his wine.
“He killed a man tonight who just had a conversation with me this morning, Wade.” And there it is. The words I’ve suppressed because speaking them somehow makes them far more real. It’s out now, though. This isn’t like any other case either of us has ever experienced. This killer is killing for me. “You can’t stay.” My voice is softer now, but it vibrates with emotion I can’t afford to feel.
He ignores that declaration and takes a bite of his pizza. “You do know I’ve studied serial killers, right? Use me. I have a training class I’m teaching this week. Beyond tonight, my schedule is limited.”
I take a bite of pizza and consider his offer. He really is well versed on this topic, which comes from his obsession with a long-uncaptured notorious serial killer before I even met him. Wade found him. He caught him. It made his career. Since then he’s consulted on cases across the country. I’d be a fool not to go over this case with him.
“Off the record,” he promises. “This is just me and you, discussing a case like the old days.”
“Okay. Yes. Please. Let’s talk it out.”
“Let’s do it.” He refills our wineglasses.
I tell him everything about The Poet and my certainty that Newman Smith is our man. “He taught a class that connected serial killers with poetry, but that’s circumstantial. Right now, I can’t prove he’s our man.”
“He fits your profile,” he says. “And I talked to Langford on my way over here. He told me that you think The Poet might have followed you this morning and that’s how he picked Dave.”
“I know he did.” I share the story about my audiobook and Dave hearing the poetry on my phone. “The killer is more than just obsessed with poetry. He’s protective of it as well.”
“Well then, I’ll praise Shakespeare and I’ll be safe.”
“Funny you say that. The poem he left tonight was from Shakespeare. ‘Sonnet 60.’”
“Any idea what it means?”
“As I said to someone else, you could ask five scholars that question and get five different answers, but as to what it means to The Poet, I need some time to process. He was at that coffee shop. I took a video of the entire place.” I hand him my phone and show him the video. “But none of those people were close enough to hear my exchange with Dave.” I grab my computer and he moves the now-empty pizza box to the floor.
“How do you know one of these people wasn’t at the end of the bar when you were talking to Dave?”
“I’m self-aware, and I don’t remember him being there.” I pull up the footage from the coffee shop and find the spot where I’m talking to Dave, frowning.
“This footage is limited,” he points out. “You can’t see