The Axeman's Jazz

causeway seemed like a thousand, but they turned off quickly on the Covington side, into a darkly wooded area. She could smell pine in the velvet air, air that was still brushing her face like wings. If she’d been with Steve Steinman, it would have been heaven; as it was, she was aware of a clammy coat of sweat on her body.
    Jesus, I must have been crazy. What in hell made me think I could handle this guy?
    Another voice said:
Oh, shut up. This is his idea of a romantic evening. He doesn’t know you find him repulsive.
    Well not exactly repulsive. How about terrifying
?
    She couldn’t shake the fear. Half of her said there wasn’t a thing wrong with a man taking a woman to a romantic place on a date; the other half argued that she wasn’t a woman on a date, she was a cop in the middle of nowhere with a suspect.
    She’d told Joe she could handle him and she’d have to do it. It would be too stupid to die this way.
    They stopped in front of a house—a house in the middle of what seemed a huge forest but was actually a residential area studded with similar yuppie palaces. This one was a two-story frame house, in keeping with other examples of Covington architecture, beautifully kept, and, if the outside was any indication, furnished with relentless good taste. That was how people in New Orleans dressed and how they decorated their houses—soporifically, to Skip’s mind, but no one could call it tacky.
    Alex parked his hog.
    “Whose house is this?”
    “It belongs to some friends of mine. They lent it to me.”
    “They’re not home?”
Inane question
, she thought.
Of course they’re not home. The place is dark as a cave.
    He shook his head. “They’re in Europe. It’s all ours.”
    “All ours for exactly what purpose?”
    “For dinner. White wine or red?”
    “I don’t know—why don’t we just go to a restaurant?”
    “I just told you what’s going to happen. I’ve spent all day shopping. I’m cooking dinner. Are you going to join me?”
    Oh, well, at least he’s in touch with his inner child.
    The sudden petulant turn, unpredictable as it was, annoyed rather than alarmed her. She’d seen this in men before, and none of them had been murderers.
    She took a deep breath, thinking of Abasolo. He’d go nuts if they went in there—Alex could kill her and he’d never know.
Trust me,
she murmured silently, and said to Alex, “I’m going to join you. With pleasure.” She even took his arm as they walked to the back door.
    He unlocked the door, and as they slipped in, almost sneaking, she felt the air conditioner. Another of his preparations, apparently.
    The light went on. She could see that she was standing in an up-to-the-minute kitchen done in the ubiquitous black and white of up-to-the-minute kitchens. “Lovely.”
    There were no curtains, the place being too isolated to have to worry about privacy. Great. As long as she kept lights blazing in every room she entered, Abasolo’s sanity had a fighting chance.
    “Want a look at the rest?”
    It was as she’d imagined—perfect but predictable. Wing chairs. A few antiques but a lot more reproductions. Family portraits. Laura Ashley prints in the bedrooms. Muted colors. No original art. Nothing out of place. No sign that children lived here, or even adults who did anything more than sleep. A gorgeous place to bring a date—a lot like a hotel room, just bigger and nicer. Skip wondered again about the house at Lakeview.
    Back in the kitchen, Alex poured her a glass of California Chardonnay, which she accepted for the sake of appearances and sipped after they’d clinked glasses. She sat on an Italian-style barstool while he pulled out fish, salad makings, and vegetables, hoping he wouldn’t notice she’d quit sipping.
    “This is such a lot of trouble to go to.”
    “Aren’t you worth it?”
    She tried out a flirtatious smile, but couldn’t manage more than a grimace. He stepped toward her, took her hands in his. “What’s wrong? You look so nervous.”
    “I think we’re moving too fast.”
    “We’re not moving an inch. All we’re doing is having a glass of wine.”
    “I know, but we’re in the middle of nowhere.” She desperately wanted to back away from him, an impossibility in a sitting position.
    She braced herself for another outburst. Instead he stepped away, shrugging, once again attending to his salad greens. “Hey, don’t think a thing about it. I’ve done it every night this week. Sometimes I score, sometimes I