The Axeman's Jazz

Steve.
    “Let’s catch up. I have to keep an eye on him.”
    “Oh, great. A real romantic encounter.”
    “Excuse me. I’m working a homicide case.”
    “Well, excuse
me.
Sorry to get in your way.”
    She sighed, starting after her quarry, Steve at her side. It was a weird town, the sort where people gave parties at the behest of serial killers. Steve wasn’t even a native—professed, in fact, to be utterly confused about the place—and even he wasn’t taking the Axeman seriously.
    Oh, well, he’d probably had a couple of drinks and so had everyone else. It was hard to imagine a murderer walking into your party.
    Steve said, “That guy’s not the Axeman.”
    And it was hard to imagine that a person with whom you had just shaken hands could be a murderer. “Why do you say that?” she asked.
    “He doesn’t have the look in his eye.”
    “Are you suddenly psychic?”
    “If you were with a murderer, you’d know it. You’d get a clue. There’d be something.”
    “How about all the ones who’re always described by their neighbors as nice, gentle guys?”
    “Those neighbors are people who haven’t been paying attention.”
    She wondered who he would pick as the Axeman from her list of suspects—no one, probably. On a whim, she said, “I was with Alex last night too. He tried to get rough with me.”
    “Case of arrested development.”
    “Well, what do you think a murderer is?”
    “Someone smoldering inside.”
    “Alex is one of the angriest guys I’ve ever met.”
    “No he’s not. He doesn’t give a shit about anything.”
    That was how he looked, all right. But who wouldn’t be angry if he’d been put down by his father all his life? And after her morning’s experience, she had no doubt Alex had. But lots of people had—what made one a murderer and another a politician? It bothered her that she’d probably never know.
    Even if Alex tried to kill her later that night, if he were arrested and stood trial, she wouldn’t know what it was in his personality, in his past, in the childhood insults he’d had to endure, that had flipped him over the line. What made Rob Gerard an artist and Sonny a doctor? Why was Missy a conformist while her aunt was free and creative? Did even Sally Enright, did Rob Gerard have their struggles with reality? (Judging from Rob’s paintings, one of them did.) Because the music was so loud, she had plenty of time to ruminate on the nature of crime. Alex was dancing with everyone, permitting her to watch him and chat with Steve at the same time, which should have been ideal. Except that they had to shout to hear each other. Except that the situation was so awkward neither could relax.
    They were edgy with each other, Skip preoccupied and slightly annoyed at the distraction, Steve deeply disappointed. It was a good surprise, it was a lovely surprise, she told herself. And yet why had he thought she wouldn’t be working?
    She found herself fighting a need to make things better for him, to soothe and comfort, when her attention needed to be on the suspect she was sitting on. She had to make sure she kept Alex’s interest, that he didn’t bug out with some likelier prospect. She excused herself to dance with him, first fast, then slow, both sexy. Now there was no question she was his target for the night, though whether for murder or sex was certainly in question.
    Her mind was a mess, racing in all different directions—partly on the danger of Alex finding out her identity; partly on Steve, who was probably sulking; partly on her guilt, not only at abandoning Steve but at making a spectacle of herself with another man. She took deep breaths and tried to focus.
    “Let’s blow this joint.”
    Exactly what she wanted to hear.
    “I want to be alone with you,” he said.
    Better still. No more parties. H-hour.
    They went to the borrowed apartment Cappello had arranged. It had a Futon on the floor and little else for furnishings, but Alex didn’t give the decor a glance. They were barely inside, the door just clicking shut, when he started tearing at her blouse.
    Her heart pumped hard against her chest; this must have been exactly what happened with Linda Lee—the quick attack just inside the door.
    “Alex, what are you doing?”
    “Tearing your clothes off.”
    “I think I need to catch my breath.”
    He was kissing her shoulder, biting it a little, starting to pull her hair. “No you don’t.”
    “Alex, I don’t know about this.”
    “Quit