The Axeman's Jazz

done.
    Still, it did give Skip a turn to see her walking out with Alex. Was he going to whisk her someplace on his hog? She had to laugh at the idea.
    Her shotgun door opened.
    “Langdon! Made you.” Abasolo slipped in beside her, scrunched down beside her.
    “Hi, Adam. Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose your guy?”
    “Naah. This is good cover for me. He’s waiting for your lady.”
    “Glad to be of service, but you’ve got to pay for it. What went on at the meeting?”
    “Oh, nothing much. The subject was rage. Alex said he gets so mad at someone in his life he wants to kill.”
    “Did he say he just needed to put that out there?”
    “Said his higher power ordered him to strangle people.”
    “Right. How about Di?”
    “Oh, Di. Model of sanity. She never has any problem with rage. Talked about how she used to help people control it when she was a therapist.”
    “An inspiration to all of us.”
    “Here they come. Did you hear about the new letter?”
    “What new letter?”
    “Gotta run.”
    Elizabeth had gone and Di had caught up. She and Alex stood and chatted a few minutes; then he took her to her car. Skip followed her home and stayed till the lights went out.
    She couldn’t wait to get home and call Cappello.
    “What’s this about a letter?”
    “Postcard—this time to us, not the press. Axeman likes to keep in touch.”
    “Mailed after he killed Jerilyn?”
    “Had to be, I guess. It was delivered today.”
    “I wonder if he mailed it before—if he knew he was going to kill her.”
    “Well, here’s what it says. ‘Esteemed Mortal—Couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d drop you a note. Don’t be put off by the scarf. It was me, all right. By the way, the scarlet A was Fiesta.’ ”
    “Fiesta?”
    “Jerilyn’s lipstick color. Had to be after he did her, unless he knew her well enough to know her lipstick color.”
    “I don’t even know my own lipstick color.”
    “Me neither. I guess he looked at it so he could write the note.”
    “Or planted it.”
    “Why bother?”
    “I don’t know. What else about the postcard? Was it typed?”
    “Yep. Same typewriter as before. Ordinary card you could get anywhere. No prints.”
    She thought of calling Steve, but it was nearly midnight. She lit some incense and a candle, took them in the bathroom and soaked for a while in the soft light. Baths weren’t usually her style—she was too tall for the tub—but she was too tired to stand up in the shower.
    Di had been surprised when Alex asked for her help. After what he said at the Coda group on Thursday, she’d imagined he was still angry, taking rejection like a petulant child. But when she thought about it, his attention span was so short he couldn’t even sustain anger, much less the gentler emotions. He claimed to be a writer but she doubted seriously if he’d ever written anything—how on earth would he keep his mind on it long enough to finish?
    He was probably just one of those people who bumbled through life going from one crummy little job to another, living off their relatives when things got tough. Still, somewhere or other he’d gotten together enough money to buy a fancy motorcycle. For the first time it occurred to her to wonder how.
    He’d asked her to meet him at his father’s house in Lakeview. So where did Alex live, she wondered? Who the hell was he? She wondered if what she was doing was wise, and immediately shook off the notion.
    I’m not like that. I’m going to do what life offers and not be afraid.
    Alex had seemed shaken the night before. In the meeting, when he talked about his rage, he had sounded coldly furious, yet conjured for Di an instant vision of a different Alex, red-faced and bulge-veined, near-apoplectic, cold only in the recollection.
    Afterward, he had seemed very different indeed. Almost frightened. He had spoken to her with humility, a new deference: “Why didn’t you tell me you were a therapist?”
    “Iguess it never seemed important.”
    “Di, I’ve got a problem. Have you ever worked with old people?”
    “Sure.”
    “Well, I never have.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I mean, I haven’t read much about them. What do you know about Alzheimer’s?”
    “A little.”
    “Could you recognize it?”
    “Probably. Why?”
    “My dad’s started to worry me. I used to think he was just an old poot. But I swear to God he’s getting worse.” She could have sworn she saw worry in his face, but it was only a flicker and might have