The Axeman's Jazz (Skip Langdon Mystery Series #2) (The Skip Langdon Series) (13 page)

They were a gorgeous pair—very WASP, very Southern, a Kappa, probably, and a Sigma Chi, barely out of LSU. She wondered what they were doing here. They seemed too young and beautiful to have problems.

There were a lot of good-looking people here. She wondered if they were there to cruise, even whether this particular meeting had a reputation for having good pickings. It was certainly an odd idea, given the things that were coming out of people’s mouths. Could a woman who’d just heard Abe possibly be interested in him?

Sure, if she were codependent. She’d probably want to help
.

A guy in the corner was eyeing her. No question, he was interested. He was staring at her, trying to get her attention. He was a beefy guy wearing cowboy boots when it must be ninety-five outside. His shoulders strained his shirt fabric. He was quite a bit older than Skip, late forties maybe, but he was dressed young—jeans, boots… no, it wasn’t the clothes. It was the expression. His head had the round look heads get when a certain portion of hair has gone, but no one would think of this man as balding—simply round-headed. He had a mustache like a pirate’s. He had a pirate’s expression. Skip realized he reminded her of Clark Gable as Rhett Butler. But it was purely attitude, not appearance. He was a walking testosterone bomb, and Skip could feel the radiation from clear across the room.

The young blonde raised her hand. She was Missy and she was codependent.

“I know my higher power is working for me tonight because of what Leon said about his family. I just want to thank you for that, Leon. I found it so moving because I know a family like that, and a person who suffers from all that Superman stuff. But my instinct is not to say that’s his problem and he’s got to deal with it, it’s to take it on as my problem. But that’s not even the worst of it. Instead of trying to help in a constructive way, a way that might say, ‘Listen, you’re great the way you are,’ my instinct is to help him become Superman.”

The young man sitting next to her was either having a heat stroke or nearly fainting from embarrassment.

“I’m so vulnerable to his feelings, his wants and desires. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know where his skin stops and mine starts.”

Skip had a sudden flash:
She’s my brother’s fiancée. Camille. They’re peas in a pod.

“It’s really, really hard for me to be saying this stuff right now, because I know how much he’d consider it an invasion of privacy. But I know I have to do it, for me. It’s like the kid in me just got forgotten. I was born grown up, always taking care of everybody. And you know what? It’s so hard to get her to talk to me. I have pictures…”

She fished snapshots from her purse, held them up—pictures of an adorable towhead.

“I’ve started keeping these with me so I can look at her when I talk to her. But in my mind’s eye she wears a little power suit and little baby high heels—I can’t even see my own kid. I ask her what she wants and you know what she says? ‘Whatever you want.’ She’s just like me—another people-pleasing little dork.” Her face twisted, as if she hated herself, and Skip wondered how that was possible; she was every man’s fantasy woman, every mom’s fantasy daughter, every woman’s best friend, the one who brought chicken soup when you had the flu.

“See how judgmental I am about myself?” She had turned red, as embarrassed as her companion. “But I’m working on it. I’m really trying.” She paused, getting ready to sum up. “I guess that’s all. Except that I’m really grateful to be here tonight.”

Even as the next speaker began, the pirate, Skip kept watching her, fascinated that anyone could strip herself so naked in public, could let herself be so vulnerable so publicly. She thought Di’s subject particularly interesting in view of what was happening here. Missy wiped tears that streamed briefly, smiled at her companion, the very picture of bravery, and gave her attention to the pirate. She reminded Skip not only of Camille, but of Melanie in
Gone with the Wind
. Noble to a fault. The flower of Southern womanhood. She’d had no idea before tonight what these women were all about.

The pirate was named Alex. His voice, like his manner, had a touch of a swagger in it. She was uncomfortably attracted to him, instinctively didn’t warm to him, but couldn’t help responding sexually.

He was saying that he didn’t think men were taught much about vulnerability, indeed that the notion had never entered his head until recently.

“I suddenly found myself at the mercy of the fates. I always thought I could control my life. It was easy. I could just use my talents and skills—the stuff men are taught—and there wouldn’t be any problems. I held all the cards. But I had a couple of reversals—me, Alex.” He waited for his audience to snicker. “That kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me.” He lowered his voice. “And then my mother died. I’ve spent the last year learning what it is to be powerless, to live a life that’s become unmanageable. But it’s really hard for me to admit that.”

Skip recognized a paraphrase of the first of the twelve steps, admitting powerlessness, but it seemed not so much that as a rote repetition. Saying he found it hard to admit, she thought, was supposed to be a kind of admission of vulnerability, an asking for help, a courageous confession that a macho man was having trouble. Why did it sound like a clever performance?

“But I’m like Missy,” he continued. “I’m working on it.”

Sure you are.

She wondered why she was so suspicious of him, and figured it was because he was so attractive. It paid to suspect attractive men if you were Skip Langdon.

I wonder if I should go to Sex Anonymous?

No, I’m not addicted to sex. I’m just a girl who can’t say no.

She hated herself for wondering if Alex was still watching her as she went to introduce herself to Di; she certainly wasn’t going to turn around to check. She chatted briefly and, once again finding the notebook setup, managed to tear out last week’s phone list, which she was stuffing into her purse when she heard a voice at her elbow.

“Joining us for coffee?”

It wasn’t Alex, but Abe. “I beg your pardon?”

Di said, “After the meeting, we usually get together for coffee at PJ’s. Join us, won’t you?”

Abe and Alex both came, and Missy without her companion. Seeing Missy alone, Abe quickly abandoned Skip and sat next to the one she was sure was his first choice. Another attractive woman, a redhead in pink jeans, plopped down purposefully next to Alex. Good. That meant she could sit by Di and pump her.

She was glad Leon hadn’t joined them. If she knew who he was, he probably knew her too—that was the way with New Orleans, which might as well have been a village. She had always taken that for granted, but for once it didn’t ring true. It was true for her and for Leon, and certainly true for Alison Gaillard, but it hadn’t been true for Linda Lee Strickland or Tom Mabus, must not be true for most of the people at these meetings.

She thought it might have been more accurate for most of them to say they were lonely instead of codependent. But even if you were part of the village, you could be lonely.
I’m lonely
.

She would have given her father’s fortune to see Steve Steinman that night. Something about the way this thing worked was making her melancholy.

Or horny. Maybe that’s all it is. All these stupid hormones in the air.

Di asked, “Have you been in New Orleans long?”

“I was born here, but I moved away. I came back about a year and a half ago. And you?”

“Born here. Went to LSU, moved back. Are you going to a lot of meetings?”

This wasn’t the way Skip meant it to go. She meant to do the interrogating. But she guessed it was normal for Di to take the initiative, considering she was the new one. She had a semi-cover story ready and waiting.

But surprisingly, she didn’t need it. All Di’s questions related to Skip’s experience with twelve-step programs; she supposed the eschewing of personal questions was a form of protocol, of respecting people’s anonymity, and found it refreshing.

“Is the group usually the size it was tonight?” she asked.

“Usually. Sometimes it’s bigger.”

“I was just wondering—I know somebody from another meeting who goes sometimes. Tom—do you know him?”

Di looked pensive. “Tom. No, it doesn’t ring a bell. He might be one of those people who never share.”

She pronounced hardly any r’s at all; her voice was like butterfly wings. Skip had an overwhelming urge to trust her. She fought it hard.

Abe said, “Can I walk you ladies to your cars? Somebody got murdered in the Quarter a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh, the Axeman. That’s a weird one.”

But no one took the bait.

“I’ve got a seat on the back of my hog,” said Alex.

“Macho man,” said Di.

And as Skip walked to her car with Abe, Di, and Missy, Alex sailed by on a Harley-Davidson, the redhead on the back, holding on to his middle. Skip was glad it wasn’t she. Touching Alex wouldn’t be a good idea at all.

Di pulled out right in front of her. Skip, who’d started to fret about how to find out people’s last names, quickly jotted down her license number.

At home, she took a cursory look at the phone list. There was no Linda Lee on it, but there were two Toms. Excited, remembering the teddy bear, she looked up Tom Mabus’s number—sure enough, she had a match.

THE NEXT MORNING she told Joe about the teddy-bear meeting and could have sworn she saw a fleeting pleased look in his eye. Especially when she told him Tom had been there. Then she got busy with the list.

Di first. Her car was registered to a Jacqueline Breaux, but the phone book showed a D. Breaux at Di’s address. Skip called with a phony accent and a story about an amazing windfall prize for Jacqueline. Chatty as any other Southerner, Di confided that she’d recently opted for Diamara.

One down. A satisfied feeling.

Going down the list, she found some people had last names on their message-machine tapes. For some, she simply said, “Is this the Smith residence?” and they’d answer with the right name. Some she had to call back with more complicated ruses. There were twenty-three people on the list—almost certainly not all the people who’d been to the meeting and probably not all the people who usually came, but the murders had been in the last week. The list might mean something.

Soon she had sixteen full names. She ran them through the computer, and two had sheets. They were two she’d already met—Jacqueline (a.k.a. Diamara) Breaux and Alexander Bignell. Di and Alex. Di had a conviction for child abuse and Alex had once been arrested for assault, but the case had never come to trial.

Hardly able to walk fast enough, she went to the records room to pull the report on Di. The case was eighteen years old—a generation ago. But Jimmy Comer, the deputy D.A. who’d handled it, was still around. Still around and still mad about it, once he refreshed his recollection. “Nice woman,” he said. “Oh, yeah, real nice woman. Married to a rich guy too. Walt Hindman.” He paused.

“Hindman Construction,” said Skip.

“Yeah. Can you beat that? Family like that, I just don’t get it. What happened, kid got out of line and she beat him. He started yelling, she couldn’t stand the noise—so she choked him till he shut up.”

“Choked him?”

“A neighbor saw the marks on his neck.”

The Axeman team met at one o’clock.

O’Rourke had been to meetings for “One-armed blind people, survivors of junkie parents, and impotent dwarves with personality problems,” and thought the whole thing was a crock.

“I think you ought to try that last one again,” said Cindy Lou, cracking everyone up and once again causing Skip to turn purple with envy. O’Rourke was so much easier to take with Cindy Lou around to put him in his place, but why couldn’t she do it herself? She didn’t think of herself as timid, but she couldn’t bring herself to come down hard, even on creeps who deserved it.

“Okay,” said Joe. “Let’s cut to the chase. Langdon’s onto something. Anybody else got something that looks good?”

“I found Jesus at Al-Anon,” said Hodges. “Does that count?”

“Not unless you think you’re him. Hit it, Skip.”

“Remember Mabus’s teddy bear? I went to this group where a bunch of adults were sitting around holding teddy bears and dolls.”

“Ah,” said Cindy Lou. “Nurturing their inner child.”

“Bull!” said O’Rourke.

“In your case, it’d be more like an outer child.”

O’Rourke was really taking it on the nose. When the chuckles had subsided, Skip said, “Mabus was at the meeting last week, but we don’t know about Linda Lee. Two people who appear to attend regularly have very interesting records. I’ve Xeroxed the phone list from last week, and written in as many last names as I could get.” She passed out copies.

“Oh, my God!” Cappello sucked in her breath. “My next door neighbor’s on here. Janet Acree. She’s got three out-of-control kids and a drunk for a husband. Works as a lab tech.”

“Good,” said Joe. “That one’s yours. Anybody else know anybody?”

No one spoke.

“Okay, Cindy Lou. Any reason you can think of why a serial killer would be in a group like this inner-child thing?”

“Only because he could be anonymous there. But that doesn’t narrow it down, does it?”

O’Rourke snorted. “I just love psychologists.”

“O’Rourke,” said Joe, “give us five minutes on the theory of the inner child.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“Okay, Cindy Lou, you do it.”

Inwardly, Skip cheered. She’d never known that Joe, usually such a placater, could cut through shit so cleanly.

Well, he’s desperate. He’s got a serial killer on his hands.

“Your inner child’s the part of you that’ll never grow up, and you don’t want it to. It’s your most playful, spontaneous, creative part—when it’s healthy,” said Cindy Lou. “But the theory is that if you didn’t get your needs met as a kid it may not be healthy. And so it’s the part of you that’s scared when there’s really no reason to be scared, or maybe tries to get attention when it’s inappropriate. In other words, as an adult you may act out like a kid that needs attention and security. The inner child may be more or less running your life. So now you’ve got to give it what it didn’t get.”