The Axeman's Jazz

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