The Axeman's Jazz

today. Not while she was trying to solve the damn case. Later.
    “So how’s the case coming?”
    “Bad. I’m getting desperate.”
    “He didn’t kill anyone last night. Maybe he’s done.”
    Skip’s stomach flopped. “I don’t think so. I’ve got a bad feeling.”
    “Since when does a cop date suspects?” The question popped like an angry blister, splattering her with bits of doubt and hostility.
    “Steve!”
    He said nothing, just glared at her.
    “You know it wasn’t a real date.” She stared down at her plate.
    “Somehow I have a hard time believing the famous Dr. Alexander Bignell is really a murder suspect. Somehow it’s easier to believe he’s a smart, famous, rich, sophisticated guy you’d rather stay home and date than come to California to see me.”
    “Oh, God.”
    “Listen, Skip, I had a few drinks last night and I was really looking forward to seeing you. I guess I’d have swallowed anything. But in the cold light of day, when I finally put it together who the guy is, it got a little obvious. I’m going home on the red-eye tonight.”
    “Don’t!” She grabbed his hand.
    “Don’t?” He was clearly puzzled. He just stared at her, neither reclaiming his hand nor curling his fingers around hers.
    “Steve, don’t you understand how far I’ve gone already, telling you what I did? Maybe I’m a good cop and maybe I’m not. A good cop doesn’t talk about her cases.”
    “Jesus shit.” His fingers curled.
    “You understand?”
    “You have beautiful eyes, you know that?”
    “They’re pleading now.” She squeezed his hand.
    “Shit. You’re telling me Bignell really is a suspect? One of the most famous psychologists in the country is actually suspected of killing two people and writing a crazy letter?”
    “Shhhh.” All she could think of was being overheard.
    “Is that what you’re telling me?”
    She nodded very slightly, knowing she’d already answered, still feeling guilty about it.
    “Let’s walk.”
    “I have to get back to work.”
    When they were in the car, he said, “Alexander Bignell!” Like an explosion.
    “Alex. Elec to his daddy.”
    “What in hell does that mean?”
    “I don’t know. Just a Southern pronunciation.”
    “Is he it? I mean is this one of those cases where the police know who the killer is, they just haven’t got proof yet?”
    “I wish. Can you keep a secret?”
    “Sure.”
    “We’ve narrowed it down to about thirty suspects.”
    “Oh, come on. You can’t stop now.”
    “I shouldn’t have told you any of this and you know it.”
    “Tell me more.”
    “Kiss me.”
    They ended up necking in front of Casamento’s.
    “At least no one can see in,” said Skip when she stopped to breathe. “We’re steaming up the windows.”
    “Would you care?”
    “Not if Second District station weren’t right across the street,” she said. “Which it is. Give me my purse, will you? I’ve probably got lipstick everywhere.”
    As she pulled out her makeup bag, a folded paper dropped on the seat.
    “What’s this?” Steve opened it up, not asking permission. “Oh, shit. Suddenly I get it.”
    Skip grabbed it from him—it was a schedule of CODA meetings, the teddy-bear group starred and underlined.
    “That’s what you meant by thirty suspects—they all go to this damn thing, don’t they?”
    “As a matter of fact, I’ve been going myself.”
    He kept on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Oh, baby, have you got yourself a case. ‘Murder Anonymous.’ ‘Twelve Steps to Murder.’ ‘Hi. I’m Alex and I’m a compulsive killer.’ Promise me one thing. Sell me the movie rights.”
    “Shut up, dammit.” She was trying to wipe smeared lipstick off her chin.
    “I’m serious. It’d be a hell of a movie.”
    “Aren’t you forgetting something? I haven’t solved it yet.”
    He wasn’t listening. “So that’s what the A is for.”
    “What, Alex? I hate to tell you, but half the suspects have A names and so does one of the cops on the task force.”
    “It might be for ‘Anonymous.’ ”
    “Why not Axeman?”
    “Why not?”
    “Oh, who the hell knows? We don’t know what the A means and we’ve been working on it twenty-four hours a day. What makes you think you can come in and figure it out in twenty minutes?”
    “Touchy, aren’t we?”
    Skip’s lipstick slid off-target, half-melted in the heat. “Damn, it’s hot.”
    Di had bought a cat candle for attracting power, wisdom, and spiritual helpers. She had set up