The Axeman's Jazz

anything remotely so exciting in our family.”
    And so the talk politely turned to her “interesting” career choice.
    Camille was short and cute: short, curly brown hair, blue eyes, tiny little nose, milky skin—skin to kill for, as a matter of fact. She wore a halter-top blue dress that perfectly set off a figure that belonged on a teenager. She couldn’t have been sexier if she’d worn a lace teddy and couldn’t have been more proper in a business suit.
    She was the sort of woman guys like Conrad must construct from their own dreams of perfection. When Conrad introduced her to his senior partners, their eyes were going to light up like the neon nipples of a sign on Bourbon Street. In the first second they knew her, they were going to flash forward, seeing her fitting in at social events through the decades, tossing her head and making precisely the right coquettish remark, never embarrassing, just borderline-bawdy. Just perfect.
    Conrad had probably told her about his sister the black sheep and the little problem with Dad. And, of course, she’d figured out the perfect way to handle it.
    “How did you get promoted to Homicide? I mean, you’re so young—it’s a big honor, isn’t it?”
    “I had a friend.” It was true. If it weren’t for Joe Tarantino, she’d have left the police department in the first place, and in the second place she’d still be giving drunks directions in VCD. Joe had talked her into staying on, had said she had terrific potential, that she was a good officer who was going to be excellent. A few months later there’d been some personnel changes and Joe was head of Homicide now. Skip had nearly fainted when he’d had her transferred to his division. He hadn’t been bullshitting. He’d meant it. He really thought she was good.
    She’d never been a student, having flunked out of Newcomb and barely made it through Ole Miss. Before that, she’d so poorly understood her environment that her parents had made her feel wildly incompetent—and she was, she’d wryly admitted since. But police work was something she could do. She was big and she was physically adept; maybe in this atmosphere her size and strength gave her the confidence to use the brains that really were what made her good. She didn’t know. All she knew was she felt she’d come home.
    “You can’t fool me, Skippy. I’ve heard about you.”
    Aghast, Skip glanced at her father. But he was smiling benignly on the whole domestic scene. Camille was handling the whole thing as adeptly as Conrad must have known she would.
    “Alison Gaillard just thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread. She’s always telling Skippy Langdon stories.”
    Her mother raised an eyebrow—she’d probably had no idea her daughter had renewed an old acquaintanceship with Alison, and that was going to raise Skip about a hundred points in her estimation. Her dad looked positively giddy.
    She wondered if it would be impolitic to ask Camille if she’d ever considered joining the diplomatic corps and decided it would probably break the mood.
    She admitted to herself that she liked the girl. What wasn’t to like? Nothing that showed, that was for sure, but there was certainly something suspect about her—she was about to throw away a perfectly good life on Conrad Langdon. Something had to be wrong with her.
    Skip ordered a Perrier.
    “Yes,” said the waiter, “Perrier.” He gave it the American pronunciation, not so subtly correcting her. Skip’s thoughts turned instantly to Steve Steinman. That was the sort of thing that could keep him going for an entire afternoon.
Why in New Orleans, with its touted French heritage?
he would ask. She would explain that it was probably because there was a Perrier Street that was more Perri-than-thou rather than Perriay, and that would get him going again. As far as he was concerned, New Orleans was Mars.
    “What are you smiling about?” Conrad managed to make it an accusation.
    Oh, certain things the Kama Sutra doesn’t even mention
.
    She considered it, but in the end wimped out. “Just having fun.”
    Camille said, “Tell us about your new case.”
    “Oh, gosh, I can’t really. Not at this stage.”
    “Skippy.” It was a voice she hadn’t heard in nearly a quarter-century—her mother’s, commanding a small child. The message was clear: For once, your stupid “career” is doing us some good. Don’t screw this up as usual.
    She gave her mother what she hoped would pass