The Axeman's Jazz

weren’t dating other people.
    “I was going to say,” she said, “it’s because it’s more Southern that way—it make things smoother. But now that seems a little out of place.”
    “It wasn’t a smooth evening, huh?”
    “The food was great. And there’s a cypress knee in the bathroom. I wouldn’t have missed that for anything.”
    “Shit! I wish that bitch hadn’t left me! I’m not cut out for this crap.”

FIFTEEN
    WHATEVER TINY BREEZES had stirred the city on the weekend subsided early Monday morning. Skip, who used the ceiling fan at night, hating the sterile atmosphere air conditioning produced, awoke with her hair damp, whimpering from a dream she couldn’t remember. The dream had frightened her, or maybe it was the oppressive torpor of the city that had her on edge. She lay there not wanting to get up, her apprehension holding her down like a pair of strong arms. It hovered in the room, a strange and shadowy intruder, reminding her of times when something had been horribly wrong at bedtime and she’d awakened not remembering at first, but frightened and depressed, not knowing why.
    What was it? She took mental inventory.
    It was the Axeman. Tomorrow was the day he’d set for his personal Jazzfest. Tomorrow.
    And they were no closer to catching him than they’d been a week ago. Panic seized her.
    The time had come for “creative police work”—or, more accurately, for giving Cindy Lou’s idea a shot. She hoped she wouldn’t be sorry.
    She grabbed for the phone and dialed her brother.
    “Conrad, I need a favor.”
    “If it isn’t the black sheep.”
    “I liked Camille.”
    “Everyone likes Camille.”
    She could hear the muffled voices of an early-morning talk show. While boning up on news and trends, Conrad was probably sipping a vegetable cocktail whipped up in his juicer. In the kitchen, another expensive machine was probably turning out a perfect cup of coffee. And for all Skip knew, Camille was working beside it, manufacturing the world’s first cholesterol-free breakfast. There was no question she’d be the breakfast cook—if anyone would have a traditional relationship, Conrad would.
    “Listen, I want to make a trade.”
    “Later. I’ve got a meeting.”
    “Two questions.”
    “Six tickets.”
    “Three.”
    “One question.”
    “Okay, four.”
    Their standing deal was this: When she was desperate, she pumped him about his Uptown acquaintances, in return for which she fixed his parking tickets. Since they’d hit on it, they’d gotten along better than they had in years, no doubt because each of them thought they were getting the better of the other.
    She figured Conrad enjoyed the power inherent in having a flunky to fix his tickets; as for her, she didn’t care how she got the information, but she did find a certain pleasure in knowing she was deceiving her brat of a brother. Because the truth of the matter was, she simply paid the damn tickets herself, thus reducing him to the status of common snitch.
    “Do you know Sonny Gerard?”
    “A little bit. Nice guy.”
    “What do you know about him?”
    “Good reputation, everyone likes him, especially women.”
    “That’s it?”
    “That’s the enchilada. Was it worth four tickets?”
    “No.”
    “Tough shit.” He laughed triumphantly.
    “Come on. You’ve got to give me more than that.”
    “Okay. His dad’s Bull Gerard the plastic surgeon.”
    “Give me credit for something, Conrad.”
    “Oh, yeah. You’re a detective, right? Sonny’s okay; his brother’s the weird one.”
    “His brother?”
    “Rob Gerard. He’s an artist. He and Sonny don’t speak.”
    “How’s he weird?”
    “I told you—he’s an artist.”
    Rob was in the phone book, but it was hours too early to call an artist.
    She dressed, went into the office, and ran the whole plan by Cappello. As she’d expected, the sergeant agreed—it was unconventional, but time was running out.
    She called Abe’s old law firm in Atlanta and the one he’d said he recently joined on Gravier Street, forebearing to use the term Awful Abe, but only barely. Both places verified his existence. Next she checked for any criminal record in Georgia but failed to find one. Finally she tracked down a Cynthia Morrison in the admissions office at UNO, the ex. Now, here was a potential source. But how did you ask a woman if her ex-husband had murderous tendencies?
    On a roll, she called Hattiesburg, Mississippi, and learned not only that a Missy