The Axeman's Jazz (Skip Langdon Mystery Series #2) (The Skip Langdon Series) (28 page)

Oddly, it made her more human, endeared her to him all the more.

“Everything’s tight with me. We just saved a guy and nature’s juices are flowing in my veins.” He was kissing her shoulder, nibbling her ear.

“Sonny Gerard, will you for once act like the grown-up I wish you were?”

Feeling slapped, he stared at her. “What did you say?”

“I have to get back to work.”

“Shit. Well, just shit.”

He sat on the bed, dejected, not believing what was happening.

“For once I feel good, for once I want to share something with you, and this is what I get!”

Instantly, she was sitting beside him, massaging his temple. He’d hardly seen what was happening, she’d moved so fast. “Oh, Sonny, I’m so sorry. It’s just that it’s in the middle of the workday. I’ve got clients to see.”

His beeper went off. Another emergency. Maybe another chance to save someone’s life. Maybe death instead; the patient’s and his own, that little death he always experienced, a draining of his own, along with the slipping-away of the patient on the table. A sick lurch in his belly, a panic that lasted, that wouldn’t go away. He’d have to go in a minute.

“You bitch!”

“What?”

She probably hadn’t even known he knew the word.

“Bitch! Do you know how you made me feel?”

Her mouth twisted, her whole face started to writhe in pain. She was going to cry. It made him furious. He had no idea why, had no notion Missy could rouse such a feeling in him.

“Sonny, don’t!”

Startled, he looked behind him, sure she was warning him of something, some danger to both of them, she sounded so frightened….

But even as he turned his head, he realized that his hand was moving down, that it had been up, at shoulder level, coming at her, ready to hit.

That wasn’t all. He looked at it, not believing. The fingers were curled in a fist.

“I’M SORRY, ALEX.”

“Shit.” His first publisher had turned down his last book, and now his second one was throwing him out. He had given his agent a fifty-page proposal for the twelve-step debunker, and the assholes weren’t going to buy it. He couldn’t believe it.

His agent said, “You know, I really don’t think there’s a market for this one.”

“That’s what you said about the last one.”

“Well?”

“Jared, you’re such a know-it-all.”

“Let’s put it this way. I think I know the market. People buy self-help books for a reason. They want help. They feel bad and they want to feel better. They don’t want to be told nothing works.”

“But nothing does.”

“Maybe not for you.”

“Me?” What the hell was Jared talking about? “What have I got to do with it?”

“Alex, you gotta consider therapy.” Just like that.

Like Hollywood’s idea of an agent, not a thing like the real person Alex had worked with for ten years, who’d made him a pile of money and then slogged through rice paddies to sell his last book, which hadn’t made money, and who was wimping out just as Alex was on the verge of a comeback.

“Jared, are you doing coke again?”

“Do you realize I owe my recovery to these programs you’ve got so much contempt for?”

“I bet you never took a teddy bear to a meeting.”

“Alex, I like you, I really do. We’ve been together a long time. But I’ve got to tell you the truth. Something’s wrong with you. You’ve hit some kind of block of hatred in yourself and you can’t get around it.”

What the hell was the man talking about?

“You know what I think, Alex? I think you hate yourself. You need to get in touch with who you really hate.”

He had actually said, “get in touch with.” Next, he would tell Alex he was “stuffing his feelings.”

“You sound like Bradshaw and those other assholes.” Alex couldn’t keep the sadness out of his voice.

That was what the book was about, of course—why it had to be published. Because the world was getting fuller and fuller of assholes who swallowed everything whole, who bought the same old party line, who believed anything any self-help author told them, no matter how big a charlatan he was. Alex should know. He’d been the biggest charlatan in the business.

If you disagreed with somebody, you must hate yourself. If you tried to be honest for once, you needed therapy.

Et tu
, Jared? Jesus! Maybe it was time to get another agent.

“Elec, you done those dishes yet?”

“Dad, say ‘Al.’ ”

“Al.”

“Say Alice.”

“Alice.”

“Your former wife is your what?”

“Ex. I see what you’re gittin’ at.”

“So why can’t you just say Alex?”

“No such name. It’s Elec. I oughta know. I named you. Why haven’t you done those dishes?”

“When I came here, nobody’d done the dishes in two weeks. Place smelled like a garbage dump.”

“If that’s the way I want to run my house, how’s that any of your business?”

“You treat me like I’m still ten years old.”

“Well, you act like it.”

“Look, let’s be adults, okay? I came here to help you out.”

“Shee-it. You came here to leech. That’s all you been doin’, just leechin’, leechin’, leechin’! You can’t do a thing needs doin’, just out screwin’ day and night, day and night. What’s the matter with you, boy?”

He picked up the telephone book, held it at waist level, calculating, and drop-kicked it at Alex’s chest.

Shocked, Alex didn’t move, just let the thing hit him. Stood there stunned. What was wrong with the old man? He’d always been crazy, but not violent. This was the second time in a week he’d lost it. Two days ago he’d actually thrown a punch at him, and over something just as trivial. Alex had grabbed his wrist and then watched Lamar get this very puzzled look on his face, as if he couldn’t remember what he was mad about.

“Hey, Dad,” he said now, “what’s going on?”

His dad’s face was purple. “What do you mean, what’s going on?” He was yelling.

Alex spoke softly, for once slightly humbled before his father. “It’s not really that bad, is it? I’ll do the dishes if that’s what you really want.”

“You’ll get out of my house is what you’ll do! You’ll get yourself a decent job; you’ll quit fooling around with this book crap. Lies, is all that is. Lies, lies, lies! You couldn’t write your way out of a whore’s mouth! You ain’t never written a word in your whole miserable, worthless life.”

He picked up one of the aluminum and yellow plastic chairs, seemed about to bring it down on the table.

“Dad, don’t! You’ll hurt yourself!”

Alex stepped forward and took the chair from Lamar. Once again the old man looked confused, as if he couldn’t quite remember how things had taken this turn. “You were a pretty baby,” he said. “You know that?”

“Dad, could I ask you something?”

“Just get out of here.”

Alex went into his bedroom and brought back a copy of
Fake It Till You Make It
. “Do you recognize this?”

“What do you mean, do I recognize that?”

“Do you know what it is?”

“You crazy, boy? Do I know what it is? What planet are you from?”

“I know you know it’s a book. I mean, do you recognize the title and author?”

“You gone nuts or somethin’? What are you doin’ to me?”

Alex was sick and tired of being patient. “Who wrote the book, Dad?”

“You got old-timers’ or somethin’, Elec? Don’t you even recognize your own damn garbage?”

Alex threw the book into the living room, not giving a damn if he broke the spine, or a window, or a lifetime of vows. Why in hell did he have to live with the world’s only seventy-five-year-old six-year-old?

As his rage rose, so did his libido. Damn that Skip Langdon! If it hadn’t been for her, it wouldn’t be like this. He wanted a woman and he wanted her now. Hell, he’d settle for a teenage girl if it weren’t against the law. He didn’t care. As long as she was female and ready.

He strode out, banging his boots on the wood floor, slamming every door he could find whether it was on his way or not, and jumped on his hog.

The white walls of Casamento’s were as soothing as Skip had known they’d be. It was a sentimental favorite of hers and Steve’s—he was crazy for the fried oysters and she liked the scrubbed tiles, the trailing philodendrons.

“I don’t know why I didn’t come to L.A.”

“Listen, kiddo, this is the biggest case of your career. You don’t have to apologize.”

She stopped dead. He was right, but she hadn’t known that when she canceled her plans. She’s just felt she had to see the thing through no matter what.

“You’re a good cop,” he said, with real admiration in his voice.

She realized he couldn’t possibly know whether she was a good cop or not, but still … a lot of people would have gone ahead and taken their vacations. What instinct had told her not to? She couldn’t have known the case would get national attention, would terrify the town and spawn a mini-Jazzfest. All she had known was that the same asshole had killed a nice young woman and a nice old man who had a teddy bear. Maybe it was the teddy bear that got her, so forlorn on the floor beside its dead owner.

But she wasn’t given to sentimentality. It wasn’t that. Steve was right, she thought with surprise. A good cop—a really good cop—wouldn’t have left, would have seen the case through no matter what, would have gotten the Mabus case even though it wasn’t really hers; wouldn’t have quit in the middle.

Am I really a good cop?

Probably.

She was taken aback.

Really?

She’d never been a good anything in her life—not student, not daughter, not a damn thing. She was used to not being good.

But there was plenty of evidence she was good at this. Joe had handpicked her for Homicide; he had chosen her for the task force; he was already urging her to take the sergeant’s exam next time it was given.

Why did she have a tendency to listen to the likes of O’Rourke instead of to her own good sense? She didn’t know, but it was there, it was true. And she felt a sudden wave of affection for Steve for being on her side.

She wanted to say, “Steve, I love you. I want you, I want to fuck you under the table.”

She couldn’t even say the first part.

“What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”

She shook her head. “Got a pearl.” She took the tiny gray thing out of her mouth. “Think it’s good luck?”

He shrugged.

“Thanks for saying I’m a good cop.” That was as far as she could go, and she hated it. Her insides were full of affection for him, love for him, that ached to get out, and she didn’t know how to release it. If they could make love, if they’d done that instead of opting for a more conventional lunch, wouldn’t he know? Wouldn’t he be able to tell? She knew the answer was no; sex wasn’t love, more often than not didn’t mean a thing to most people. She had to tell him or she’d blow apart. She had to tell him sometime, but not today. Not while she was trying to solve the damn case. Later.

“So how’s the case coming?”

“Bad. I’m getting desperate.”

“He didn’t kill anyone last night. Maybe he’s done.”

Skip’s stomach flopped. “I don’t think so. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Since when does a cop date suspects?” The question popped like an angry blister, splattering her with bits of doubt and hostility.

“Steve!”

He said nothing, just glared at her.

“You know it wasn’t a real date.” She stared down at her plate.

“Somehow I have a hard time believing the famous Dr. Alexander Bignell is really a murder suspect. Somehow it’s easier to believe he’s a smart, famous, rich, sophisticated guy you’d rather stay home and date than come to California to see me.”

“Oh, God.”

“Listen, Skip, I had a few drinks last night and I was really looking forward to seeing you. I guess I’d have swallowed anything. But in the cold light of day, when I finally put it together who the guy is, it got a little obvious. I’m going home on the red-eye tonight.”

“Don’t!” She grabbed his hand.

“Don’t?” He was clearly puzzled. He just stared at her, neither reclaiming his hand nor curling his fingers around hers.

“Steve, don’t you understand how far I’ve gone already, telling you what I did? Maybe I’m a good cop and maybe I’m not. A good cop doesn’t talk about her cases.”

“Jesus shit.” His fingers curled.

“You understand?”

“You have beautiful eyes, you know that?”

“They’re pleading now.” She squeezed his hand.

“Shit. You’re telling me Bignell really is a suspect? One of the most famous psychologists in the country is actually suspected of killing two people and writing a crazy letter?”

“Shhhh.” All she could think of was being overheard.

“Is that what you’re telling me?”

She nodded very slightly, knowing she’d already answered, still feeling guilty about it.

“Let’s walk.”

“I have to get back to work.”

When they were in the car, he said, “Alexander Bignell!” Like an explosion.

“Alex. Elec to his daddy.”

“What in hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Just a Southern pronunciation.”

“Is he it? I mean is this one of those cases where the police know who the killer is, they just haven’t got proof yet?”

“I wish. Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure.”

“We’ve narrowed it down to about thirty suspects.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t stop now.”

“I shouldn’t have told you any of this and you know it.”

“Tell me more.”

“Kiss me.”

They ended up necking in front of Casamento’s.

“At least no one can see in,” said Skip when she stopped to breathe. “We’re steaming up the windows.”

“Would you care?”

“Not if Second District station weren’t right across the street,” she said. “Which it is. Give me my purse, will you? I’ve probably got lipstick everywhere.”

As she pulled out her makeup bag, a folded paper dropped on the seat.

“What’s this?” Steve opened it up, not asking permission. “Oh, shit. Suddenly I get it.”

Skip grabbed it from him—it was a schedule of CODA meetings, the teddy-bear group starred and underlined.