The Axeman's Jazz (Skip Langdon Mystery Series #2) (The Skip Langdon Series)

by Julie Smith

  It was the music that was responsible, and a little bit the impromptu, outlaw, defiant nature of the thing. A kind of people’s JazzFest overlaid with black humor.

  But Skip’s mood darkened as Alex headed Uptown. She had an uneasy feeling about the route they were taking. Her horror mounted as he turned onto a familiar street. Jesus! She was right. They were going to Cookie Lamoreaux’s. How on earth did those two know each other?

  “Alex, I’ve really got to pee. See you inside, okay?” She jumped off the hog and left him to secure it, O’Rourke to take over if he got on it and split. She would know lots of people here, stood a major chance of getting her cover blown.

  Sure enough, Cookie himself, three sheets to the wind, was standing on the porch trying to get a breath of air. The evening was so close she wished him luck. The sounds of a full and very good jazz band emanated from the old house.

  “Detective Langdon! I’ve been waiting for you.”

  She put a finger to her lips, raced up the stairs, kissed him on the mouth, and whispered, “I’m not a cop tonight, okay? Pass the word. It’s important, Cookie. Pretty please.”

  “Kojak! You undercover or something? This sounds serious.”

  “It is.”

  “You mean the Axeman’s here? At Chez Lamoreaux its l’il ol’ self? Fabulous, Officer. Just fabulous. You mean we’re at the Axeman party?” He thought a minute. “But he can’t be. We got the band and everything.”

  “Cookie, I’m not kidding. Here comes my date and he just can’t know. Listen, I’ll owe you. I’ll do something big for you. I’ll fix all your tickets.” The way she fixed Conrad’s.

  “Listen, Marcelle’s here.”

  “You’ve got to tell her, Cookie. You’ve got to warn her. You’ve got to warn everybody.”

  “We’ve got a surprise for you.” He looked crestfallen.

  “Here he comes, dammit.”

  Cookie hollered, “Hey, Big Al!” To Skip he said, “Big Al’s your date? You’re dating that guy?”

  Alex was upon them. “Cookie! Whereyat?”

  The two guys gave each other high five, followed by further complicated hand maneuvers.

  Marcelle Gautier appeared at the door, singsonging in the high, thin voice usually reserved for children. “Skippy! I’ve got a surprise for yooooouuuu!”

  Skip slipped quickly in the door, hoping Cookie would distract Alex for a few minutes more.

  “Marcelle, listen…”

  But she wasn’t about to listen. She stepped aside to reveal her surprise—an eager-looking Steve Steinman. Skip nearly fell apart, she was so glad to see him—and so horrified.

  She could only stutter: “Steve … what…”

  “Muhammed came to the mountain,” he said.

  “Gosh, I’m glad to see you.”

  He opened his arms for a bear hug, but he wasn’t getting any hello kiss—not yet. She found his ear instead of his mouth. “Listen, I’m working. The guy I’m with is a suspect.” She knew she shouldn’t have said it, but there didn’t seem any other way. “How are you at keeping a secret?”

  “You mean I didn’t come all the way from California just to see you?”

  “Right. And if I hang on him and act interested, it’s for a good cause, okay?”

  “No.”

  “And I’m definitely not a police officer.”

  “When can I see you?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “No good.”

  “You won’t be here?”

  ”I will. But it’s not soon enough.”

  Alex came in then and suddenly she felt angry. This was no time to be conducting a love affair. She introduced the men, watched them bristle at each other—it was hate at first sight, and Skip didn’t think it was because of jealousy. It had more to do with Alex’s being a jerk and Steve’s not hiding the fact that he’d deduced it.

  “I need a drink,” Alex said, looking thirstily toward the bar. Though he’d barely touched her all evening, he chose that moment to grab her butt by way of good-bye. And off he strode, not offering drinks to anyone else.

  “Nice date,” said Steve.

  “Let’s catch up. I have to keep an eye on him.”

  “Oh, great. A real romantic encounter.”

  “Excuse me. I’m working a homicide case.”

  “Well, excuse me. Sorry to get in your way.”

  She sighed, starting after her quarry, Steve at her side. It was a weird town, the sort where people gave parties at the behest of serial killers. Steve wasn’t even a native—professed, in fact, to be utterly confused about the place—and even he wasn’t taking the Axeman seriously.

  Oh, well, he’d probably had a couple of drinks and so had everyone else. It was hard to imagine a murderer walking into your party.

  Steve said, “That guy’s not the Axeman.”

  And it was hard to imagine that a person with whom you had just shaken hands could be a murderer. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “He doesn’t have the look in his eye.”

  “Are you suddenly psychic?”

  “If you were with a murderer, you’d know it. You’d get a clue. There’d be something.”

  “How about all the ones who’re always described by their neighbors as nice, gentle guys?”

  “Those neighbors are people who haven’t been paying attention.”

  She wondered who he would pick as the Axeman from her list of suspects—no one, probably. On a whim, she said, “I was with Alex last night too. He tried to get rough with me.”

  “Case of arrested development.”

  “Well, what do you think a murderer is?”

  “Someone smoldering inside.”

  “Alex is one of the angriest guys I’ve ever met.”

  “No he’s not. He doesn’t give a shit about anything.”

  That was how he looked, all right. But who wouldn’t be angry if he’d been put down by his father all his life? And after her morning’s experience, she had no doubt Alex had. But lots of people had—what made one a murderer and another a politician? It bothered her that she’d probably never know.

  Even if Alex tried to kill her later that night, if he were arrested and stood trial, she wouldn’t know what it was in his personality, in his past, in the childhood insults he’d had to endure, that had flipped him over the line. What made Rob Gerard an artist and Sonny a doctor? Why was Missy a conformist while her aunt was free and creative? Did even Sally Enright, did Rob Gerard have their struggles with reality? (Judging from Rob’s paintings, one of them did.) Because the music was so loud, she had plenty of time to ruminate on the nature of crime. Alex was dancing with everyone, permitting her to watch him and chat with Steve at the same time, which should have been ideal. Except that they had to shout to hear each other. Except that the situation was so awkward neither could relax.

  They were edgy with each other, Skip preoccupied and slightly annoyed at the distraction, Steve deeply disappointed. It was a good surprise, it was a lovely surprise, she told herself. And yet why had he thought she wouldn’t be working?

  She found herself fighting a need to make things better for him, to soothe and comfort, when her attention needed to be on the suspect she was sitting on. She had to make sure she kept Alex’s interest, that he didn’t bug out with some likelier prospect. She excused herself to dance with him, first fast, then slow, both sexy. Now there was no question she was his target for the night, though whether for murder or sex was certainly in question.

  Her mind was a mess, racing in all different directions—partly on the danger of Alex finding out her identity; partly on Steve, who was probably sulking; partly on her guilt, not only at abandoning Steve but at making a spectacle of herself with another man. She took deep breaths and tried to focus.

  “Let’s blow this joint.”

  Exactly what she wanted to hear.

  “I want to be alone with you,” he said.

  Better still. No more parties. H-hour.

 
They went to the borrowed apartment Cappello had arranged. It had a Futon on the floor and little else for furnishings, but Alex didn’t give the decor a glance. They were barely inside, the door just clicking shut, when he started tearing at her blouse.

  Her heart pumped hard against her chest; this must have been exactly what happened with Linda Lee—the quick attack just inside the door.

  “Alex, what are you doing?”

  “Tearing your clothes off.”

  “I think I need to catch my breath.”

  He was kissing her shoulder, biting it a little, starting to pull her hair. “No you don’t.”

  “Alex, I don’t know about this.”

  “Quit talking.” His mouth found hers.

  She couldn’t quit talking for long—that could mean real disaster. She pulled away from the kiss.

  “Alex, I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Have sex with you.”

  He stepped away from her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He was suddenly transformed from pushy suitor to crazy man. Black fury seeped out of him; his voice was a raspy shout.

  “I guess I’m getting cold feet.”

  “You bitch!” An unhealthy redness flooded his face.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “After manhandling me all night!”

  “All of a sudden you seem a little too much for me.”

  “Shit, I could have had the young blonde.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Fuck!” He took a spin around the room, stomping. “You fat, ugly bitch!”

  “You like to insult women, don’t you, Alex? And pull their hair and bite. What else do you like to do?”

  “Oh, no. You’re not going to get me to fall for that again. You’re like some high school girl on a date.”

  She took a step closer to him, poised, ready. But he didn’t move. Finally, he said, “You want to know what you need? A spanking.”

  She tried getting mad, yelling as loud as she could, anything to provoke him. She knew she was walking a thin line, maybe stepping over to the edge of entrapment, but she went ahead. “Don’t you talk to me like that, you airhead. All you want to do is rough somebody up!”

  “Shut up.” He grabbed her neck with one hand.

  “Take your hand off me.”

  To her consternation, he did. But she wasn’t done yet. “You’re the Axeman, aren’t you? Oh, Jesus! Oh, no!” She moved, scared and crablike, toward the kitchen. “Don’t come near me—leave me alone!” Her voice was shrill, harsh and terrified.

  But he didn’t move, instead looked at her with pity. “You’re crazy, you know that? You’re really crazy. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

  He pushed past her and clattered down the stairs.

  Cappello and Hodges burst out of the bedroom. The signal had been a simple one: “Help.” If she’d needed it, she would have asked for it.

  They radioed O’Rourke: Stay on him.

  They phoned Joe. When he was done swearing, he said, “Pack it in, Langdon. Tell the other two to back up O’Rourke.”

  “But, Joe…”

  “Yeah, I know how you feel. But trust me—you’re stressed out and you’re a lot more tired than you think you are. See you in the morning.”

  Feeling sad and let down, she watched her colleagues, still in full adrenaline rush, take off down the stairs. She felt she had failed. Felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, sent to bed while the grown-ups stayed up to do mysterious things. Felt like a kid, period. Her own adrenaline was still pumping. She longed for the thrill of the chase. And yet, she told herself, things would wind down soon. It was nearly one, and even in the City That Care Forgot, tomorrow was a workday.

  Half an hour later, at home, the phone rang. Her heart leaped. But it was only Jimmy Dee begging her to come to his party. He had seen her light go on, and she was touched. Why not go over?

  It was as crowded as Cookie’s, but a lot more colorful. Jimmy Dee, a partner in a very proper law firm, remained, in some circles, discreetly in the closet. Skip was perfectly aware that his nightly shows of camping it up were purely for her benefit, that the city was full of women who hadn’t yet given up hope.

  He kept his gay and his straight friends separate; his Uptown friends and his Quarter friends; his artist friends and his lawyer friends; his weird friends and his button-down friends. Tonight he’d invited the gays, Quarter-crawlers, artists, and weirdos. There were enough costumes for a Mardi Gras party. Jack the Ripper was there; so were Charles Manson and Ted Bundy. They wore appropriate clothing (blood-smeared, for one thing) and name tags.

  Jimmy Dee had decorated with black bunting, black balloons, the requisite skulls and axes, and a life-sized mannequin strangled with a scarf, a scarlet A on its white shirtfront.

  “Real tasteful,” said Skip.

  He gave her a big, wet kiss. “What are you doing home, Officer Darling?”

  She sighed. “We didn’t get him, Jimmy Dee.”

  “The night’s young.”

  “I’ve been sent to bed.” She felt embarrassed to say it.

  “Well, come to the buffet. I brought out the warm blood at midnight … let’s see. Ah, yes, still some left.” He handed her a cup of it.

  “What is this? Bloody Mary soup?”

  He looked crestfallen. “Got it in one, Officer.”

  “It’s delicious.” The night was still warm. What she wanted was a gin and tonic, but the soup was probably better for her. Most of the alcohol would have cooked off, no doubt Jimmy Dee’s subtle way of sobering up his guests to go home.

  She looked around to see if anyone she was dying to see was there and wished for Steve Steinman. She’d thought of phoning him when she was called off the job and decided it was way too late. Even if anyone at Cookie’s was up to answering the phone, she couldn’t handle the big reunion scene. She was too let down, barely up to a cup of soup at her neighbor’s party. The adrenaline had started wearing off. In a few minutes, she’d be sleeping as soundly as the dummy in the corner. Where had Jimmy Dee gotten such a thing?

  “Hey, Skip. You know Carlton Lattimore?”

  She turned around to see Cindy Lou Wootten with the father of her best friend from high school, arms around each other, obviously entwined in more than one way. A perfect end to a perfect evening.

  She nodded stiffly. “Hello, Mr. Lattimore.”

  “You don’t have to blush, honey. Lynn and I are separated.”

  To her horror, Skip knew he was speaking literally—she was blushing, her face hot with the shame of a child who’s caught the adults at play. “I didn’t know you two knew each other,” she said.

  Cindy Lou said, “Nobody did, till tonight. It’s our maiden public appearance.”

  “And how do you know Jimmy Dee?”

  “Oh, we don’t. We came with some friends of mine.”

  Of course. Certainly not friends of Carlton’s. Jimmy Dee was probably as horrified to see him as Skip was. Carlton was a stuffy old coot—and old he really was, even for the dad of a friend. He was also loaded, married to a younger woman, and not the sort to get divorced—for financial was well as social reasons. And he would no more be seen in public with a black woman than spit in his soup. What the hell was wrong with both these people?

  She answered mechanically as Cindy Lou asked her a thousand questions about how the night had gone, whether the Axeman had shown himself, if an arrest had been made. It was too much. Not only had she failed professionally, but Cindy Lou had failed her. She was the closest thing Skip had to an idol, and she turned out to be not only human, but not very bright in a certain area. Granted it was the area in which almost no one is very bright, but it didn’t help Skip’s mood any.

  She slunk off to bed as soon as she could extricate herself.

  And was gratified to find a good-night message from Steve Steinman on her machine: He loved her. Even if she did date murderers.

  TWENTY


  THE NEXT MORNING Joe was jubilant. To him, the bottom line had been getting through the night without a body on page one of the Picayune.

  She wished she could match his mood. A body still might turn up.

  And they still didn’t have a good suspect. Alex, their best bet, had gone straight home after he left Skip. Di had never left her apartment. Cappello had followed Sonny and Missy to one other party, then home. Abe had stayed late at Di’s, and O’Rourke, returning from following Alex home, had followed Abe to a few bars, then home.

  “We got through this,” Joe told the task force, “and we should all be proud. But we have to hit this investigation even harder now. We have to think of new ways to go, ways to kick this thing out of neutral, get it into high gear.”

  But what was left? They were already backgrounding everybody they could trace who’d lately been to the inner-child group. So far, connections with the victims just weren’t emerging.

  “The group meets tomorrow night and I want you all there.”

  Skip said, “I just had a thought.”

  O’Rourke said, “Oh, shit.”

  “Can it, O’Rourke,” said Joe.

  “I was thinking,” Skip continued, too excited even to be annoyed, “that Cindy Lou might go to the group too. She could meet all these types and give a better evaluation of them.”

  Joe turned to Cindy Lou: “What do you think?”

  She shrugged. “Worth a try, I guess.” Her enthusiasm would not have inspired regiments.

  Later, she got Skip aside. “So what’s the deal on Carlton Lattimore?”

  “He’ll never leave his wife, Cindy Lou.”

  “He has left her.”

  “He’ll go back.”

  Cindy Lou sighed.

  “You can do better.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with me?” Cindy Lou said, and turned away to hide her tears.

  Skip had a sadness of her own: No one is ever who you hope they’ll be.

  He’d had enough. That was it. He was never going back. Abe crumpled his phone messages, tossed them in the wastebasket. Perfect shot.