The Axeman's Jazz (Skip Langdon Mystery Series #2) (The Skip Langdon Series) (14 page)

Skip said, “They talk about talking to ‘my kid.’ ”

“Yeah, they do that. They ask it what it wants and what they can do for it, even go out and buy it stuff—that’s partly what the teddy bears are about.”

“More,” said Skip, “on the teddy bears.”

“Well, when a little kid feels scared or anxious, it hugs its teddy bear. So if you’ve got a part of you that’s scared, you don’t deny it’s there, which is what most adults do. Right, O’Rourke?” She smiled at him, but didn’t wait for an answer. “You acknowledge it and let the kid in you hug the teddy bear.”

Skip thought of Leon Wheatley stroking his bear.

“Also, you’re actually comforting your inner child when you do that because the bear represents the child; it’s like an outer form of it.”

O’Rourke said, “You really believe that crap?”

“I’m giving you theory, man. That’s what I get paid for, okay?” She leaned across the table. “And by the way—in case you’ve forgotten, I get paid a lot more than you do.”

O’Rourke mumbled something. “Cunt,” Skip thought.

She said, “What’s wrong, you leave your teddy bear at home? Why don’t you just suck your thumb?”

Joe said, “That’s enough, Langdon.”

“Sorry.” In a way she was, but it had felt good to stand up to the creep, even though she knew it was unprofessional. Sure,
he
was unprofessional, but he was probably going nowhere. Every time the subject came up, she tried to remember that. It wasn’t easy.

“Okay,” said Joe. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Langdon will try to make contact with everyone she can from the inner-child group. The rest of you will keep going to groups, and getting the phone lists. When we see duplications of names on the phone lists—between the inner-child group and others—we’ll pay particular attention to those meetings. In addition, we’re all going to split up the names on the phone lists and start on extensive background checks. What they’ve been doing all their lives, and particularly the days of the two murders.

“And that’s just for openers. We’re getting big play in the national news, and frankly, the mayor’s breathing down my neck. This is still tourist central, you know. All we need’s a reputation for having a serial killer stalking the streets and we can kiss our pathetic little salaries good-bye because the tourists are going to stay away from here like it was San Francisco after the earthquake. And the clipboard’s going to be bare. Sure, this is only two murders and we’ve got a whole city out there, but this is big, guys. It’s the biggest thing we got going by far. This asshole’s not done and he’s going to have us looking like assholes if we don’t nail him.

“So here’s what I want you to do. I want you to do everything I said and then I want you to pretend you’re not a cop. Just be Vic or Nat’ly watching the six o’clock news and saying, ‘If da cops was smart, here’s what dey’d do.’ You know how people do that? Ever notice they know so much more than we do? Well, for once, just let your mind wander. Think of something unorthodox. Not illegal, okay? Just different. Off the wall.”

Abasolo said, “You saying be creative, Lieutenant?”

“I’m saying be creative, Sergeant. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” said O’Rourke. “Why’d we have to know that inner-child stuff?”

“Because if we don’t catch this bird before next Thursday, you’re all in that meeting. That’s one. Two is this: Langdon may not be the only one socializing with these knuckleheads. Anybody looks good, we may need to get to know them close-up. And you’ve got to speak their language. Want to do some role-playing? Speak to your kid, Frank. Come on.” He was kidding, not baiting, and for some reason Frank got into it, wanting to repair the bond with Joe, Skip thought.

“What do I call the brat?”

“You’re getting warm,” said Cindy Lou.

“Now. How’re we’re doing with arrests and releases?”

Hodges shrugged. “Still checking.”

“Anybody else have anything?”

Shrugs went round the room. Nobody had any leads.

“Okay, we may have the meeting narrowed down, so I’m taking a couple of you out of the twelve-step programs. Langdon and Abasolo, stay with it. Hodges and O’Rourke—do arrests and releases full time.”

“Shit,” said O’Rourke. “That’s only about a three-year job.”

Joe actually smiled; he could take O’Rourke better than most people. “No problem, Frank. Take it one day at a time.”

Skip phoned her mother. “I need some advice.”

It was the phrase Elizabeth most loved to hear, and she responded as enthusiastically as her daughter expected—with an invitation to tea.

I suppose that means she’s codependent, the way she jumps at this stuff. I’m starting to get this.

When she arrived, the truth of it shocked her. Her mother had spent the few minutes it took Skip to get to State Street rushing out to get Skip’s favorite Pepperidge Farm cookies. She was still patting sofa pillows, fluffing them for her guest, when Skip arrived.

I never measured up. She hates me. Why is she trying so hard?

Because she doesn’t notice her effect on other people. It doesn’t occur to her that she behaves as if she hates me. She takes my reaction as a sign that she doesn’t measure up. She’s trying to prove herself to me the same way she tries with everybody else.

The idea nearly struck her dumb. After all these years, a possible explanation!

“Skippy? Is something wrong with your hearing? All those pistols at the firing range—I knew something like this would happen.”

“Sorry. I was looking at that bird out there. Could I, uh, have some milk in my tea? I’ll get it.”

She needed a minute or two to process her revelation.

Her mother assumed a deeply hurt expression. “Milk? You never used to take milk in your tea?”

Oh, God. Was I right or what?

She summoned a grin. “It’s okay, Mother. A temporary affectation. I’ll be over it soon.”

As she headed toward the kitchen, she thought,
That’s right. Make yourself wrong.

She had a sudden flash of herself at three or four, playing out the same scene, except that the baby Skip was contemporary—dressed in tiny black Reeboks and a Bart Simpson T-shirt.
Yow. It’s my inner child. What should I say to it?

She heard her mother’s shoes clicking behind her. Elizabeth’s face was grim. “Skip, I just remembered I forgot to get milk. There’s some in there, but it might be sour.”

Skip made her voice deliberately hearty. “Well, gosh, who needs milk, anyway? I’ve been drinking black tea for nearly a quarter of a century and I can still drink black tea.”

“Hardly that long. I don’t think you drank tea at all until you were out of high school.”

Skip turned around and headed again for the living room, feeling tired and somehow invaded. Her mother always purported to know more about Skip than she did about herself, and would argue about it if given the chance. Skip desperately wanted to avoid an edifying discussion about the age at which she had first drunk tea.

Elizabeth said, “You always had hot chocolate for breakfast.”

“I always wanted it. I was never allowed it on grounds it was too fattening.”

Oh, no. I’m doing it.

“Oh, you had it all right. Look at you now.” And her mother smiled as if to show she meant no harm.

“Well, Mother, the reason I called was because I need some twelve-step advice.”

“For your case.”

“Yes. Do you mind?”

Elizabeth shook her head. Her mouth was set in a way that let Skip know she’d done something wrong, but she had no idea what. Probably just the old story—being a cop in the first place.

“By the way, this is completely confidential. Is that okay too? I mean, you probably shouldn’t even tell Daddy.”

Her mother perked up at that.

It’s because she thinks I need her. That’s what gets to her
.

And she had a moment of deeply pitying her mother, thinking what a horribly vulnerable position hers was, how easily manipulated she must be. And yet knowing that she herself couldn’t do the manipulating, wasn’t yet able to stand up to her even in an adult way, in fact was still terrified of Elizabeth’s own manipulations.

“I don’t really know how to approach these people. I need to talk to some of them without letting them know I’m a police officer. What I’m wondering is, can I just call them?”

“Of course. That’s what the phone lists are for. But you’re not going to do anything to embarrass me, are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” It had always been like this. She was supposed to know things she didn’t.

“I’m friends with those people, Skippy. Well, at any rate, we’re acquainted. If you question them and they find out you’re my daughter, it’ll reflect on me.”

“Oh, I see what the problem is. I’m concentrating on another meeting. Another program entirely. Not yours at all.”

“How do I know the people in it aren’t in mine as well?”

“None of them were there the other day. That’s all I can tell you.”

“I don’t know if it’s good enough.”

Skip felt as if she’d fallen into a spider’s web and couldn’t disentangle herself.

She rose to go. “Listen, I’m really sorry if I’ve upset you. I promise I’ll stay away from your territory.”

Her mother looked suddenly stricken. “But didn’t you want me to help you?”

“You
have
helped me, Mother. I wanted to know if it was okay for me to call people out of the blue, if they’d think that was odd.”

“Well, it might be a little odd if you haven’t actually talked with them.”

“But if I have I can call them? Do I need to have a problem? Or can I just ask if they want to get together?”

“I think you can do that. I’m pretty sure you can. No one’s ever called me, but”—she cast down her eyes, would have blushed if she did that sort of thing—“I wear a wedding ring.”

“I see.”

“Really, I think you can. I think quite a bit of romance happens in these groups.” She pronounced it
ro
mance.

“But do women call each other—for coffee, maybe?”

“Probably. I don’t see why not.” She was looking enthusiastic, eager to please. Skip realized her mother was probably socially isolated from these people—that to have any kind of relationship she had to volunteer her services, to “help,” and that that wasn’t what these groups were about. But she’d pretend she knew the answer to get Skip’s approval.

Skip sighed. The answer didn’t matter much anyway—she was going to have to talk to her assigned suspects one way or another. At her request, when they divided up the background checks, she’d been given Missy, her boyfriend, Alex, Di, and Abe. She’d made personal contact with all except Missy and the boyfriend, and she had a feeling about those two, especially about Missy—that they were like her mother, they’d talk too much just to be accommodating.

But by far the best suspects were Alex and Di, because of their priors. To get in the mood she drove by their respective houses.

To her surprise, the pirate on the Harley-Davidson lived out in Lakeview, in Ozzie-and-Harriet land, the last place she could imagine him. His street was the very exemplar of Fifties domesticity, overhung with shade trees, divided by a neutral ground, so tame kids here probably walked instead of ran. The houses were modest, the yards nasty-neat.

Despite all that rampant sexual energy, Alex must be very, very married. Anyone who’d live here had to be.

In the light of day she could see that Di’s building wasn’t a funky one like hers. It was new, but, like all Quarter buildings, perfectly in keeping with the prevailing architecture. Inside, it was probably a palace of mod. cons., mirrored closet doors, and jets in the bathtub.

As long as she was so near home, she went there to make a phone call. I wonder, she thought as she opened the door to nothing in particular, if I should get a pet.

No. Jimmy Dee would be jealous
.

She called Eileen Moreland at the Times-Picayune. “Would you consider doing a favor for a long-lost Kappa sister?”

“Not if it’s Skippy Langdon, who never gave a goddamn about Kappa or even the school or the whole United States of America, for all I know.”

“You recognized my voice after all these years.”

“You’ve been on my mind, to tell you the truth. Actually, I was going to call you.”

“What for?”

“Well, you know they keep me in the women’s ghetto here. So I’m always trying to think up interesting features—I think you’d be one.”

“Me!”

“You’re in Homicide, I hear. How about something like ‘The Lady Always Gets Her Man’?”

“News travels fast. But here’s some more. There are several women in Homicide.”

“Better still. I’ll do them all.”

Great. Just what she needed when she was semi-undercover on the biggest murder case in the city.

“I don’t know; I’m kind of publicity-shy.”
Especially right now
.

“Oh, come on, Skippy. I get so bored around here.”

“Let me think about it. Fair enough?”

“Oh, pooh.”

“By the way, are outsiders ever allowed to use your library?”

“I could get you in. Especially if you’d think real hard about that interview.”

“Well, you know I will.”

It was weird; whenever she talked to true Southern belles, Skip found herself picking up their speech habits.

An hour later, she knew nothing more about Di or Abe and precious little else about Missy. But Missy’s name had been mentioned once, as the date of Sonny Gerard, in a picture caption. The young man in the picture was the one with her at the meeting, and Skip knew exactly who he was now. Everybody, especially everybody whose father was a doctor, knew his dad, “Bull” Gerard, possibly the best plastic surgeon in the city. Certainly everyone who’d gone to McGehee’s did—he’d bobbed half the noses in the school.

And then there was Alex. Alex was a celebrity of sorts. Even Skip had heard of him, she realized, though she hadn’t recognized his name till she had it in context—and anyway, she’d had no idea he was in New Orleans. He was Alexander Bignell, the hot pop psychologist and author of seven self-help books based on his workshops.