The Axeman's Jazz

She really liked the idea. She didn’t have the least sense of what made some of these people tick. Especially Di.
    And Joe had said to be creative.
    She attacked the phone book.
    There were enough Breauxs in it to populate the state of Rhode Island, and she didn’t even know if Breaux was Di’s married or maiden name, or one she’d taken for good luck. But one thing was sure—there couldn’t be more than one Diamara Breaux in town. If anybody was related to her, they’d know who she was talking about.
    She put on a pair of shorts and got a glass of instant iced tea. And in a scant hour and fifteen minutes had located Diamara’s mother. She’d said only that she was a friend who was looking for Di. Next she’d have to think of an excuse to ask impertinent questions—if she decided to get creative.
    She sat on the floor and tried to meditate. She did this a couple of times a week, often more, and hadn’t yet succeeded. Today she lasted eight minutes, most of it spent trying to keep from thinking about what made Di tick.
    If it was supposed to relax her, it didn’t. But if she was getting in touch with her feelings, she made progress, though of a sort she didn’t need. In the tiny mind-clearing interval—maybe thirty scattered seconds—she became aware of how tired she was, how much effort it took to pretend she was someone she wasn’t.
    Only the thought of the two victims made her get dressed and keep her coffee date with Missy and Sonny. Missy had said they worked at Charity Hospital, asked to meet her in the lobby.
    She wore shorts and a T-shirt. “Hi, Skip. This is gon’ have to be real informal. Sonny’s on duty in the emergency room. Nothing much is going on this afternoon, but he can’t really go too far. Maybe just the coffee room inside?”
    Skip hesitated. Most Homicide detectives spent a lot of time in Charity’s accident room. If she saw someone she knew, her cover was blown. On the other hand, if she refused, she’d draw attention to herself. “Sure,” she said finally, and hoped for the best.
    As they headed down the corridor, she said, “Is Sonny a doctor?”
    “Second-year medical student.”
    Skip came back quickly before Missy could ask what she did. “Are you two married?”
    Missy gave her a shy smile and held up her left hand. “Not quite yet.”
    Skip took her hand and examined the diamond. “What a lovely ring.”
    “I’m a real, real lucky girl. Sometimes I can’t even believe a great guy like Sonny could love me.” A look flitted on and off her face, a look so sad Skip nearly winced. “This way.”
    Sonny was sitting on a bench in the hallway of the Accident Room, actually a complex of small treatment rooms that Skip knew only too well, as did most cops in the city. He was reading a newspaper, waiting for them.
    “Honey, you remember Skip? From Thursday night?”
    “I don’t think we actually got introduced.” He held out his hand. She was sure he hadn’t the slightest recollection of her.
    “I saw you two and I thought how nice you looked.”
    “That just shows how deceiving appearances can be.” With his words came the disarming smile that had probably been automatic for him since he was two and a half. Or did they teach it to fraternity pledges the way medical schools taught doctors who God was? She wondered if he’d learned that lesson yet, and for the first time thought about whether or not it came easy.
    Sonny led them to a closet of a coffee room with a Chez Panisse poster on the wall. What a weird thing, Skip thought, with all the great restaurants in New Orleans.
    Missy had brought cups of good coffee from somewhere and served them up, saying she was sorry about the Styrofoam. She’d also picked up a bag of bakery cookies. This was a girl who had raised “nice” to a fine and delicate art. A Southern girl. Skip caught herself thinking “girl” instead of “woman” and considered the implications; she decided the judgment was right.
    She thought it must be a measure of spiritual growth that at the moment she no longer felt either intimidated by these two or contemptuous of them because they were perfect. They understood the rules, had been born knowing how to be Southerners, how to fit in, how to be properly female in Missy’s case, male in Sonny’s, how to be homecoming queen or captain of the football team. They were golden, they were sun-kissed.
    They were from Mars.
    Or that was her feeling some of the time about the Missys and