of night,” I argue.
“He’d have to make the drive, which isn’t short, and enter his house.” He holds up a finger, “Then,” he adds, “he’d have to tuck himself into his bed with his wife, kiss her or bitch at her, whatever his thing is, and all before the police knocked. His wife would ask questions. She’d be suspicious that he races in the house, into the bed, and the police knock right afterwards.”
“Maybe they sleep in separate beds. That’s how the Golden State Killer managed to sneak out.”
“Or this isn’t him,” Lang says. “The guy who killed your father is still missing. It could be him.”
“He could have killed me that night. He didn’t even try. And why would he want to taunt me? He didn’t even taunt my father, who put him in jail. This isn’t him. Why are you even going to him?”
Lang runs a hand through his hair. “This whole Roberts thing. That’s what you have in common with Roberts. Your father. And we never got the asshole who killed your father.”
“Roberts and I have the Summer case in common. You’re letting Roberts be a distraction, and maybe that’s exactly what The Poet wanted. What better way to distract law enforcement than making one of our own disappear?”
Daniel steps into the frame of the open door. “Anonymous caller,” Daniel announces. “The report came from an anonymous caller. Male.”
My gaze shoots to Lang’s. “To my point. Just like the call last night. It’s the same person.”
Daniel motions to the security feed on my computer. “Did you catch him on camera?”
I bristle uncomfortably with what could be seen as a logical observation and question from a member of law enforcement. But he’s not law enforcement and I don’t know him. At all. It’s time for Daniel to mosey on downstairs, and I’m about to say as much, but Lang isn’t quite ready for him to go adios. “What I want to know, Daniel,” he says, “is how you snagged a security job with that tattoo on your arm. How long you been in a gang?”
There’s a barely perceivable stiffening of Daniel’s spine.
“Most people aren’t cops who know what it means. I got out a long time ago.”
“When?” I ask. “Because that particular gang is known for its brutality.”
“When I was eighteen, fifteen years ago now. Right after my pops got shot.”
“He was in the gang, too,” I assume.
“He pulled me in,” he confirms, which isn’t uncommon. These kids follow their fathers and siblings into a destructive future. “That was in San Antonio,” he continues. “After that, I got sent here to Austin to live with my grandma. She whipped my ass into shape.”
This all sounds reasonable, but I find myself pushing for more. “Where’s your mother?” I ask.
“She died when I was twelve of an overdose.” His tone is flat, his expression unreadable, and I feel the cut of a young child losing his mother.
Lang shows no sympathy. “In other words, you have a sealed juvenile record.”
“Look me up, man,” Daniel challenges. “I have no record.”
“And yet you’re a robocop, not a real one?” Lang snaps back.
“My girlfriend’s pregnant. This is my second job. I’ve been at this only a month.”
“What’s your day job?” I ask.
“Dell tech support.” His fingers curl into his palms. “Why do I feel like I’m being questioned for a crime? I was in my uniform, doing my job.”
Lang motions to his tattoo. “That gang you’re representing on your body there is a slaughterhouse of killers, therefore that tattoo is always going to get you attention.”
Daniel’s expression tightens and when footsteps sound behind him, he’s quick to seize an escape. “I better get back downstairs.” He backs away, into the hallway, and Wade steps into my apartment, but I’m still focused on Daniel.
I’m bothered by our exchange with him. But isn’t that The Poet’s point in standing at my door and at Dave’s bedroom window in a hoodie and baseball hat? For me to see monsters in every corner?
No. Not monsters. He wants me to see him everywhere.
Chapter 56
Three months earlier…
I sit at the end of the bar, in a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant where Captain Jeremy Jazz chitchats with a pretty blonde waitress half his age. He touches her arm and gives her cleavage a deep, lingering inspection, the kind of inspection a married man should save for his wife. His objectionable behavior doesn’t come as a surprise. I’ve spent what is most of my life watching him sink deeper and deeper into a