The Axeman's Jazz (Skip Langdon Mystery Series #2) (The Skip Langdon Series) (38 page)

Jesus
, she thought,
if I could find a typewriter, I could get a warrant.

And in the bottom of the closet was a Smith-Corona portable, thirty years old if it was a day. Skip’s heart threatened to crash through her sternum in a percussive frenzy, fall out on the floor, and hop around the room. She covered her chest with her hand to quiet it, like some sixth-grader pledging allegiance.

Did she dare to type something out, something to compare with the Axeman’s notes?

No. That was inviting a stroke from stress. And anyway, she heard someone on the stairs now. Pulling off the gloves, she called, “Di? Oh, Di? Di, are you home?”

She had safely reached the living room and was standing tentatively, like a person who’d just arrived by the time Di came in.

She put a hand to her throat. “Oh, Di. There you are. I saw your door open and I got worried.”

Di had changed to shorts and a worn white T-shirt with a faded French Quarter scene on it, obviously a knockabout rather than a formal one. She had a white paper bag in her hand. “My door was open? But I remember locking it.”

Skip shrugged. “It was like this. Shall we look to make sure no one’s here?”

Soberly, Di nodded. They looked in the closet, in the armoire, even under the bed, Skip doing the work, Di hovering nervously. Skip said, “Do you have jewelry? Why don’t we check it?”

Di opened a bureau drawer, pulled out a box, pronounced everything safe. “I guess I forgot to lock up. I was going to color my hair, but I thought I didn’t have enough stuff for more than a touch-up.” She opened her paper bag, pulled out hair color and conditioner. “I guess I got in too big a hurry.”

“Are you sure? Who else has a key?”

“No one. Not even a neighbor.”

“Let’s look at the lock.”

There were no scratches, no signs of forcing. The door had two locks—an ordinary button one and a deadbolt. Without the deadbolt, a credit card could have done the honors.

“Think back,” said Skip. “Did you put the bolt on?”

“I thought I did. But I was starving—Alex was supposed to feed me, but he didn’t, the rat. And I was pissed because I had to go out to the drugstore. So I guess I could have forgotten. But I think I’d at least have remembered to close the door.”

There were windows open too—in almost every room. Someone could have come in that way and left through the door. But maybe they hadn’t. And Skip knew something Di didn’t—that the door hadn’t actually been open.

She said, “I guess you’re okay, then. I’ll get out of your hair. I just felt bad about interrupting your visit with Alex and I wanted to apologize.”

“Oh, no problem. I was done there, anyway. Listen, I’m still starving. Want a cheese-and-tomato sandwich? I usually don’t eat cheese, but every now and then I’ve got to have protein or I feel like I’ll faint.”

Skip hadn’t eaten either, and she was so glad not to be offered a scrumptious plate of celery and carrot sticks, she accepted instantly. As Di sliced seven-grain bread, lite cheddar (no salt, no fat), and tomatoes, Skip set the table and poured iced tea.

“I’m glad you came over,” said her hostess. “You know, I always knew there was something about you you weren’t telling. I wouldn’t have picked you as a detective, exactly, but maybe as a writer or something like that. I never believed that civil-service stuff.”

“But I do have a civil-service job.”

Di set down the sandwiches, motioned for Skip to sit. “Only technically. There was something special about you, something exotic. I always saw it.” She chewed. “How’s the case coming?”

Skip nearly choked.

“You know what you should be doing? I have a feeling you should be looking in the inner-child group. Everybody in there knew that poor girl was alone at Abe’s last night. And Tom Mabus came now and then. There’s a connection there—do you see it?”

“Yes. Now that you mention it, I think I do. But you know, I’m really starting to feel close to those people. It’s hard to see anyone in there as a killer.”

“Well, you just have to be objective about it. Have you noticed how angry Alex can get?”

“Do you think he did it?”

“Alex? He’s a narcissist, but I don’t see him killing. Only in the heat of passion. Not like this.”

“How do you know these murders weren’t crimes of passion?”

“I just know.”

“How?”

“It just doesn’t feel that way to me. They’re premeditated.”

“What do you think the motive is?”

“You really want to know?”

“Sure.”

“You know I’m a therapist. I’m just not practicing now.”

“I thought you were a hypnotherapist.”

“Oh, well, I am, but you have to be a therapist first; then you learn hypnosis. It’s a specialty, not like being a paralegal or something.”

“I see.”

“Well, speaking as a therapist, I think he’s showing off. I think he’s just trying to get attention.”

“Um. Three people dead? Couldn’t he just join Toastmasters or something?”

“Oh, Skip, you’re the funniest thing.”

“What makes you think it’s a man?”

“A man?”

“You keep saying ‘he.’ ”

“Oh, I know it is.”

“How do you know?”

“Once again speaking as a therapist, it’s not a woman’s crime.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, for one thing, he calls himself the Axeman. What woman would do that?”

A clever one. One trying to fool somebody. Or a crazy one. You, maybe.
Skip took a bite to avoid having to answer.

“For another, he strangles. A woman wouldn’t be strong enough.”

Goose bumps broke out on Skip’s arms. Her scalp prickled. “Who do you think is doing it, then?”

“Abe.” Di’s eyes were bland, her voice matter of fact.

“Why Abe?”

“Intuition.”

“Wait a minute. That was a pretty strong statement. It must be more than intuition.”

“No. Just a feeling.” She smiled without showing teeth and Skip knew why—they probably had canary feathers stuck between them.

“Tell me something. I never get feelings like that. Would I if I knew hypnosis?”

“Oh, sure. It can really put you in touch with your inner self.”

“Not to be confused with my higher power.” She was sorry the instant she said it. But Di seemed barely to notice.

”Same difference.”

“How would I go about learning? Could I do self-hypnosis?”

“Not only could but should—it’s the only way to go. You could learn from books. And there’s lots of good tapes available.”

“How about a hypnotherapist? Wouldn’t that be the best way?”

“That would be good.” But she didn’t seem entirely convinced. In fact, Skip got the idea she was a little uncomfortable.

“Can you recommend one?”

“Gosh, I really can’t. But you could try the phone book. I’m sure there must be lots of good ones still practicing.”

“Well, who trained you?”

“That was so long ago…” She let the thought trail off and her face went vague, but Skip kept intense eyes on her. It did no good. She only smiled the toothless smile again.

“Gosh, Di, you’ve never told me about that part of your life.” She knew she was being transparent, but she was getting the idea that Di was so self-involved she didn’t take in information like other people.

“Oh, well, I was very successful. I had patients standing in line, practically. And I made a lot of money too.”

“I thought Walt supported you.”

This time she gave Skip a smile with some teeth in it. “He does. I spent it all—all the work money. Going to Europe and things.”

“Where did you work?”

“Oh, out of my home mostly. Most therapists do.”

“You never had a job-type job?”

“Oh, sure. I worked at a little place out on Airline Highway. I don’t even know if it’s still there.” She shuddered. “Worst experience of my life.”

“Why?”

“I hate authority. Don’t you?”

Skip left feeling disoriented, even a little battered. Di had certainly come up with some innovative ideas, at least in her own mind. Not exactly clever, but transparently self-serving. Skip rubbed her head.

What makes a person so dim?

But she knew the answer—utter self-absorption. And if Di was the Axeman, the self-absorption might work to Skip’s advantage. Know-it-alls had to tell people how much they knew; and in doing it, they gave things away. By claiming to be a voodoo priestess, when in fact she’d probably simply read a book about voodoo, she had given away something important—that she was a liar.

Probably she’s no hypnotherapist either. In a way it’s a shame about that annuity—it’s probably kept her from doing anything with her life.

But it certainly hadn’t kept her from having fantasies.

If Di was the Axeman, what was her motive? Was it the one she suggested—to get attention? Surely not. Even if that was part of it, there had to be more. Maybe it was something from childhood—she’d been hurt and now she liked to hurt other people. Shrinks were always coming up with that one. Skip sighed.

It’s probably right most of the time.

She went back to her office and turned to “Clinics” in the Yellow Pages. There were pages and pages of them. She tried hospitals, then mental health. And sure enough there was a place on Airline Highway: The New Resources Pavilion. She dialed, asked for personnel, and got no answer. Well, it was a Saturday. She asked for administration, and still got nowhere. Finally, in desperation, she said to the operator, “I’m trying to find out about someone who used to work there. Who could I ask on a Saturday?”

“Well, I been here forever. Who was it?”

“Jackie Breaux.”

“Lord, yes. Jackie Breaux. Haven’t thought about her in ten years.”

“What did she do there?”

“She was a nurse.”

“Is there anyone there today who might remember her?”

“Let me look.” The friendly voice was back in a minute. It was funny, Skip reflected. Some people were wildly suspicious when you weren’t up to anything and others were incautiously helpful when they ought to keep their mouths shut. “I’m going to connect you with Suzanne LeHardy. She’s been here for umpteen years.”

LeHardy was the charge nurse on the third floor and she’d worked with Jackie Breaux for two years. Jackie had been a psychiatric nurse.

Skip said, “I’ve got a job application from her and I’m trying to make a decision over the weekend. Hope you don’t mind my calling.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, there seems to be some confusion. She’s applying for a job as a therapist, specializing in hypnotherapy. I thought she worked there in that capacity.”

“Did she say that?”

“Maybe I misunderstood. Did she ever assist in hypnosis sessions or anything like that?”

“Not to my knowledge. Well, let me rephrase that: No. Not in any legitimate way.”

“Oh, gosh, that sounds ominous.”

“Well, Jackie’s a good worker, she just… doesn’t go by the rules.”

“Were you her supervisor?”

“For part of the time, yes.”

“Do you mind if I ask why she left?”

“Oh, gosh, should I tell you? I have a feeling personnel might have its own policy on that. I think you’d better call back Monday.”

Skip said she would. If there had been patient abuse, it would certainly help her case.

She went in to see Cappello. The way she told it, Di’s door had been not only ajar, but nearly wide open. Skip had seen the scarf in the living room and about that time Di had come home. They’d had lunch, she’d gone to the bathroom, and seen the gloves there. She’d seen a typed grocery list on Di’s refrigerator, leading to the speculation that maybe she owned a typewriter. She had a criminal record (though she glibly explained it away) and she’d lied about other things. There was the possibility of patient abuse at her job.

Cappello said, “Did you actually see a typewriter?”

If Skip said yes, Cappello would want to try for a warrant and that would mean lying to a judge. She wasn’t about to do that. “Just the note,” she said.

Cappello shrugged. “I hate to take a chance on a warrant at this point, but bring her in and talk to her. See if she’ll admit to having a typewriter and let us compare it with the Axeman’s notes.”

Skip thought she should have been exultant on the way back to Di’s, but she wasn’t. She wondered what was wrong. Had she gotten too close to Di? Did she like her? Well, yes, she did. Even though Di was a perpetual bullshit machine who thought the world revolved around her, there was something likable about the woman, some sense of meaning no harm. Could you murder three people and still exude that? Maybe, if you were a sociopath. People liked sociopaths, even juries. Why shouldn’t Skip?

Di wasn’t alone. She was with two uniformed officers.

“Skip. I know you’re in Homicide,” she said. “I didn’t want to bother you with this—you know these officers?”

Introductions were made and then Di explained: “After you left, I went through the house one more time, just to make sure nothing was missing. But guess what?” She sounded genuinely puzzled. “I found something that isn’t mine. I mean, somebody was in here, but they brought something rather than took anything. What kind of burglar is that?”

“What did you find?”

“A typewriter. An old portable typewriter.”

Skip felt sweat on her neck, at her waist, her armpits.

Oh, shit.

“I guess we’d better confiscate it,” she said. “We’ll get the crime lab to dust it. You wouldn’t have any gloves I could borrow, would you?”

“Skip, could I ask you something? What kind of burglar would do this?”

“Are you sure it isn’t yours? Maybe you lent it to someone and they returned it.”

“I’ve never even owned a typewriter. And I certainly wouldn’t have one now. If I needed something like that, I’d get a computer.”

There were no prints on the typewriter. But that was of minor interest considering the real news—it was the one on which the Axeman had written his notes.

I wonder
, thought Skip,
if there’s a suicide hot line I can call.

Cappello was as close to losing it as Skip had ever seen her. “Did you actually step into Di’s apartment?”

“That’s about all I did—stepped in to call Di.”