Reluctantly she took out a photo she had taken of Stacy at a soccer game. "What about this woman?"

Because of the mud and the unfamiliar surroundings this one took a little longer.

"I think so," Carla fatally said uncertainly. "Isn't this that tall woman with the curly hair? The one with the funny name?" She waited, looking to Alison to supply it, but she was silent. "Kind of old-fashioned, like a flower? And she does the same thing as Dominique, only not as rough and not at the bar?"

"Have you ever been a customer of hers?" Alison asked the question quietly, almost holding net breath. Because if the answer was yes, she would have to consider something she had been keeping herself from thinking. That perhaps the connection was not Dominique, but Stacy.

"No, I told you, I don't buy it. But, I know that remark of mine was kind of piggy-that I don't have to. I'm sorry I said that. I have a friend who goes to see a dom regularly, and she says it doesn't have anything to do with being able to find a lover. It has to do with getting exactly what you want with no strings attached. Sorry about that."

"But you've never been with her, even not as a customer?" Alison had let out a breath of relief when she'd answered, but she felt duty bound to pursue the question as far as she possibly could.

"No." Carla shook her head again, impatient to get off talking about other people and back to talking about what had happened to her. To mollify her Alison walked quickly through the attack. Jones and Jorgensen had prepped her beautifully. She automatically went into all the details about what she had seen, heard, felt, smelled. Unfortunately it was precious little. The bare bones of the story were just what Alison had surmised. Carla had not realized that she was not right behind her. She had turned to speak to her and had felt herself grabbed from behind. Because of the van no one at the door had seen it happen. The attacker had clamped a gloved hand over her mouth and pulled her behind the Volkswagen. She had struggled, had ducked her head down instinctively to protect her throat. She had smashed it back to hit him-which was how she insisted on referring to the a.s.sailant- several times, she thought. She had heard the one shot, then the a.s.sailant had dropped her and run. It could have been the Pope, the President, or her own father. She just didn't know.

"Hmm. Let's get back to the night of the contest. Did you by any chance see this one leave?" Alison tapped the picture of Tamara. She was not expecting much but Carla was surprisingly positive.

"Yeah, I did. You see, there was a cover charge that night, and it was my turn to work the door. I had just come on-I remember that, because she was like the first woman to get her jacket after I took over. It was the last shift, eleven to midnight. We stopped charging at midnight."

"Wasn't the contest over by eleven?"

"The prelims were. But there were five women who were going to run through one more time to get the final winner. We were having a break, you know, so that we could stretch things out and people would stay longer and spend more money."

"But wasn't she one of the finalists?"

"Yeah, that's one reason I remember her. But there was another reason, too. See the earrings she's wearing?" She pointed to the photo. "They were really hot. You don't see a butch who can get away with dangly earrings very often. But the hook on one had slipped while she was dancing or something. She was about to lose it. I fixed it for her, and I told her how hot I thought they were. One of the stars was about to fall off, and she handed it to me like a token." A faint little smile appeared on her lips, and Alison wondered if she had also told Tamara how hot she thought she was.

An idea. "You didn't by any chance go out with Tamara, did you? A little quickie in the parking lot or the bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"I wish," Carla responded wistfully. In spite of her own close call it seemed not to have sunk in to her that the woman about whom they were speaking was dead, for she did not hold back. Her voice did not contain any of the reverence that people tend to have when speaking about those who have pa.s.sed over. In a way it was repelling to hear her openly l.u.s.ting over the dead woman, but Alison knew all the same that Carla would be a good witness. She would not censor anything she had heard or seen out of respect for the woman who had been killed.

"But I had to work the stupid door. Margie would have skinned me alive if I had left. I did once, an offer was just too good to turn down, and she said she'd fire me if it happened again." Carla pouted, obviously feeling her employer should have been more understanding about losing revenue while she was tricking. "But even if I hadn't been working I wouldn't have stood a chance with her. Maybe on another night. But she had just been in the contest and she was so hot."

"Good stage presence, huh?" suggested Alison.

"I'll say! She just...." For a moment Carla's admiration put her at a loss for words. "When she was up there it was like she was flirting just with you, like she was the only one in the world who knew just what you wanted, and that she could give it to you. I'll bet she could have gone home with any woman in the place-even old Margie, and she's been married for years!"

Unexpectedly, Alison felt a rush of tears. She had never seen Tamara when she was decked out, flirting, in her long, dangling earrings, but only as a corpse in a drawer with a sheet pulled up to her chin. There was something she was missing, teasing her mind, but she was distracted by the sadness, and then it was gone.

She blinked back the tears, trying to get into the hard-core cop mode again. "But she wasn't with anyone when she went out?"

"No, but I'll bet she was meeting someone." Carla smiled, a faraway smile Alison recognized, and she knew that she must be fantasizing about Tamara trysting in a car.

"Why do you think that?"

"Huh?"

That, Alison said to herself, as she watched Carla struggle for composure, is how silly you've been looking, too. You've got to start being more cool. "Why did you think she was going to meet someone outside?"

"She didn't take her sweater or her purse with her, for one thing. I tried to give them to her-if you're working the door you're working the coat check, too-but she didn't want them. That's why I was so surprised when she didn't come back."

"But you didn't think about checking on her?" .

"Why should I? There were a bunch of women in the parking lot smoking dope...oh, no, I shouldn't have said that, should I?" She put her hand over her mouth, looking dismayed. "Is that going to get us in trouble?"

"Forget it."

"Oh, good, Margie would kill me. Anyway, there were women out there Poking dope and looking at each other's bikes and getting away from the cigarette smoke and cooling off and making out and just plain coming and going. We have a real social parking lot. I never thought that anything was wrong. What I thought was that she got carried away with somebody who was just as hot as she was and they had decided to take it on home while it was still good."

"Without her purse?"

Carla spread her hands in a 'Who knows?' gesture. "Look, for all I knew she could have been a little high, she could have been a little drunk, she could have just been f.u.c.ked till she saw stars and was planning on coming back as soon as she could walk. How was I supposed to know there was something wrong? We'd never had trouble before."

It was true. And how could Alison blame Carla for her lack of intuition when she herself, fully aware of the danger, had let her walk into the arms of a killer?

"Do you think this woman could have been the one she was meeting?" She pointed again to the photo of Dominique.

"Oh, of course! I'll bet you're right. Boy, that just goes to show you that buying it really doesn't have anything to do with being attractive, doesn't it? Yeah, I was kind of watching to see who else went out after her-you know, you make the job as interesting as you can-and I noticed Dominique because she was real loaded."

"Oh? How could you tell?"

"I couldn't have except I'd been the one serving her, and I'd already gotten over five dollars in tips off her just for bringing her beer. You figure it out. But, hey, don't get down on me!" She spread her hands again. "I'd seen her friend take her car keys a lot earlier-we're real careful about sending out drunk drivers. We have 'Designated Drivers' b.u.t.tons and everything." She smiled proudly and for a moment Alison imagined her, shaved head and all, doing a spot with Nancy Reagan where she said earnestly, "d.y.k.es, just say 'No!'"

"So was she staggering or what? I mean, why would Tamara do anything with her if she was that obviously drunk?"

"No, no, you don't get it. You have to know Dominique. Her eyes were like this," she made her own round and staring, "and they were real intense. And she was like I told you before, ready to start a fight. One minute she was really friendly with me, like 'Hey, cute thing, why don't you come outside with me sometime soon,' and the next she was all p.i.s.sed off because I told her I couldn't."

"Would you have otherwise?" Alison asked just out of curiosity.

"I might have," Carla replied honestly. "Would have been a story, anyway. Except, you know what, I think Dominique must have hurt herself when she went out."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because later on, when she came back in, she went right to the bathroom. And when I went in after, there was blood in the sink."

The ride home was uphill, and Alison pumped furiously, as if this would somehow help her sort out the tangle Carla had given her to think about. The young woman had told her so innocently without prompting: there was blood in the sink. Had it been blood from Dominique's own hands or nose-had she fallen, drunk, in the lot-or had it been the blood of Tamara Garrity? Dominique and Tamara had left the bar at almost the same time, and only one of them had returned, much later. Dominique had also been at the Blue Ryder that night at the same time Melanie Donahue was murdered. Had she been in the crowd which surged out into the parking lot when Carla was attacked? Alison had not seen her, and little would have been proved even if she had. She could have easily stashed a disguise in her own car and rejoined the group in the confusion afterwards. No one was looking for a woman.

Except, if Dominique was the murderer, why had she attacked Carla? It didn't fit with the rejection theory that Alison had formulated for the first two killings. According to Carla she had nothing to do with Dominique outside the bar, and Alison saw no reason for her to lie. Unless it was pride? Had Carla perhaps 'had to pay for it' after all and was now embarra.s.sed to admit it? Perhaps. Or had Dominique become so sensitive that Carla's refusal to leave the door had been seen a sufficient reason for revenge? Either seemed like a long shot. Was she getting to the point where she was trying to twist die facts to fit the theory?

Alison had only asked one more question after Carla had dropped her bombsh.e.l.l. Carla was not like Dominique, who was reluctant, or like Krista, whom you wanted to question while she was still dull with grief. It was not essential that everything be covered Right Now lest there never be another opportunity. Carla she would be able to go back to again and again and she would enjoy the attention.

"Do you know this woman?" she had asked, showing the xeroxed copy of the morgue photo of Melanie Donahue. She hadn't expected a positive answer, asking it more in the manner of someone who is wrapping things up. She had four photos, she would show four photos. She didn't even take her fingers off the paper-Carla would say 'no' and she would stuff it back in the envelope and that would be that.

But Carla had surprised her. "Yeah," she'd said in a thoughtful voice. She slipped the paper out from beneath Alison's fingers and brought it up close, then set it back down. "Yeah," she said again and then as an aside, "Those other guys had a better picture than this."

"I'll bet they did. Where do you know Melanie from?"

"So, these other guys are like your set-up, right? I mean, they set me up with the general questions and talk to you and then you come in with more specifics."

"Well, they wouldn't appreciate being described like that." Obviously it was time to come clean. She wanted to guard her a.s.s just in case this private investigation came up down at the station, and that meant she didn't want anybody to be able to say they had been duped into cooperation. "To tell the truth, Carla, this is kind of a private project that I'm working on. I'm not a.s.signed to the case-in fact, I'm on vacation right now."

"Huh. That's funny."

"What?"

"Well, I was sure that they were working with you."

"Why?"

"Because they asked if you had already been here, and what you had been doing at the bar."

Wonderful, thought Alison. She was bound to hear s.h.i.t about this one way or another. "What did you tell them?"

"I told them we were doing a hot f.u.c.k scene in the bas.e.m.e.nt." She caught sight of Alison's aghast face and said hastily, "No, no, I was just kidding. I told them the truth, that we had talked inside and I asked you to go down to the bas.e.m.e.nt with me because Maggie told us not to go out alone. That's okay, isn't it? I mean, leaving out the s.e.x part?"

"Fine with me," Alison a.s.sured her. "I don't think you should lie if they ask you directly-you'll get caught. But I don't see how what we were doing has any bearing at all on what happened." Somehow, until that very moment, it had not occurred to her anyone would want to know about the storeroom, and the thought of explaining to either detective made her blanch. And her dad was worried about her coming out! She had been so upset by that picture that she had entirely forgotten the original question and might have left without an answer had it not been for Carla's tenacity.

"Well, I'll tell you the same thing that I told them," Carla had said. "I do know her. I don't know from where, but I'm sure I know her. Knew," she amended.

"Casually?" Alison queried. "From a bar? A party? Softball team?" Where else did d.y.k.es get together? "A camp out? A rally? Did you work on a project together? Date her roommate?"

Carla shook her head. "Nah, nothing like that. I know I've seen her more than once, and I know I've talked to her. I'm sure of that. I just can't remember where."

Since that had seemed to be that Alison had given her a card and told her to call if she remembered.

She was getting crabby-low blood sugar again-by the time she arrived home and grabbed a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge before rewinding her answering machine.

"Officer Kaine," began the first message, "I would like you to call me at the station as soon as possible. This is Sergeant Obrachta." s.h.i.t. She bet that one had to do with b.u.t.ting into cases to which she was not a.s.signed. Well, it was after five, and she was supposed to be on vacation. She could sit on that one.

"Alison, why didn't you call me back? Are you coming to the soccer game?" That was Stacy sounding annoyed. She must have been the faraway voice that had woken her. Alison glanced at the clock. The game was starting about now-she could catch most of it if she hopped in the car right away. The thought of watching Stacy handling the ball again was appealing. The message went on, "If you miss it we're going to Peony's afterwards."

Another message. She had been a popular girl tonight. She didn't recognize the voice, which sounded slightly hysterical. "We need to talk to you right away. Please call us right away!" The caller hung up without leaving a name. Well, that was helpful. Oh, another message by the same person. "That was Beth and Denise at 377-8976. Call us as soon as you get in." Alison reached for the phone, but there was one more message on the tape.

"Alison? This is Carla. I've remembered where I know that woman from."

The soccer players, at three tables pushed together in the back of Peony's, were talking quietly so they would not disturb the Scrabble and card players.

Carla stalled at the door, and Alison was forced to take her by the arm and practically shove her through. "You look fine," she said, though in truth, despite a scarf wrapped around her head, she looked just as ghastly as she had earlier. Carla was not at all rea.s.sured.

"Remember, it's this or being home alone," Alison warned. That was the threat with which she had gotten Carla out of the house to begin with. When Alison had returned all of Carla's roommates were still gone, and Carla was so nervous she was having trouble talking coherently. Earlier, perhaps, her near brush with death had not sunk in, and locking the door had seemed caution enough. Darkness, however, had brought her fear back full force and when Alison had suggested she come with her to the coffeehouse, it had overcome her vanity.

Conversation did not quite stop as they entered, but there were a lot of sideways stares and an excited buzz was left in their wake, though Alison suspected it was not so much about Carla herself as it was about the murders. On both the bulletin board and the front window were posters put out by the WAVAW group, urging d.y.k.es to watch out for themselves and one another. There was a table of gay men playing Pictionary near the entrance, and Alison noticed whenever any single woman left they offered to escort her.

She saw Stacy's dark hair at one of the end tables and steered Carla that way. Four of the soccer players were playing Boggle, but the others were merely sitting, exchanging a single sentence now and then. They looked, Alison thought, exhausted, as if all they wanted was to be lying in a hot tub at home, but were simply too tired to make the effort to get going. Liz, who was facing the door, saw them approach, and poked Stacy, who had her head almost down on the table.

"So why didn't you call me back?" Stacy demanded in a cross voice as soon as Alison was close enough to hear. "I would have appreciated knowing if you were okay." She eyed Carla in an unpleasant way and asked nastily, "Bring your own date?"

Carla did not help matters by pointing and saying, "Hey, that's her!" in a loud and pleased voice, like a child trying to perform her best. When Alison, foolishly hoping that ignoring her would make her shut up, did not respond, she nudged her and tried again. "Hey, that's the woman in...."

"I know, I know," Alison muttered hastily through her teeth. "Now shut up!" The other soccer players watched with interest as Stacy's eyes narrowed to ill-humored pinpoints.

Luckily at this moment Carla spotted a friend at the other end of the table. She started around the table, but Alison pulled her back and, giving her arm a good pinch, hissed into her ear, "Remember what I told you!" Despite the heartfelt rea.s.surances Carla had given her in the car, she had some misgivings about her ability to keep their talk confidential if that had been an example of her idea of discretion.

"So?" Stacy asked again.

"Don't pay any attention to her," Liz said, shaking the cubes. "She's an absolute b.i.t.c.h. We got stomped and she's mad at everybody. We thought feeding her would make her better, but it hasn't worked so far." Alison sat down cautiously. "There was a reason I didn't call," she said. She told the whole story of the dream and the voice. Stacy was the only woman at the table from whom she did not either draw a smile or cluck of sympathy. Alison felt her anger rising. She had come by out of courtesy; she didn't need to be treated this way. She needed someone to whom she could talk about the disturbing information given to her by Beth, and who would wait patiently while she heard Carla out. Obviously she had been wrong in thinking Stacy might be that person. Well, Mich.e.l.le and Janka would be home. She tried to catch Stacy's eye-one last chance-but she looked away with a little sneer.

Fine. f.u.c.k that. She didn't need it in her life, not even for the hottest woman in the world. She was past the stage in her life where she actively courted unhappiness, calling it excitement or romance.

She stood abruptly.

"Nice seeing you," she said to the team in general. "Sorry about your game-better luck next time."

As she bent to pick up her sweatshirt Liz said under her breath, "Good for you! Don't let her give you that s.h.i.t!" She did not look at Stacy again.

Carla was at the far end of the table, obviously telling the story of the incident, for she was smashing her head back into an invisible a.s.sailant energetically. Alison hoped it was the only part of the last night's activities she felt compelled to mime. She stood a few feet away to let her finish. She deserved at least that much for coming out into the dreaded public eye.

A woman sitting near the middle of the long table caught her eye and nodded. She leaned across and asked, "Did you get your poster? I stuck it in your purse, but I thought maybe in all the confusion...." Oh, okay, she was the whistle woman from the Rubyfruit.

"Yeah, I did. Do you need any help distributing those?"

"Let me take your number." She rummaged in her pack and then pa.s.sed a pencil and the stub of a sales receipt to her. "We've really been working hard to get these fliers out to every lesbian organization that we've been able to think of, plus leafleting certain target areas and women we know individually. I think we probably have things covered. But if something comes up, can we call you?"

"Wait a minute." Another voice interrupted them. Alison had not really paid attention to the woman sitting next to the first. It was none other than Trudy, the team captain, who had been turned away talking to the waitress, but who had by now turned swiftly to face Alison. "We don't want her help," Trudy said, speaking to the woman next to her rather than Alison herself. We don't want her politics muddying ours-S/M"

Alison leaned so far across the table that her face practically grazed Trudy's dessert plate. "Do you see that woman over there?" she asked in a voice of barely suppressed rage, flicking her chin in Carta's direction. "That woman is alive because of me."

The whistle woman looked a little chagrined but Trudy tightened her lips contemptuously. "For what?" she asked. "So you can beat her black and blue later? Well, I'm certainly impressed."

Alison was so angry that for a moment she said nothing. When she finally spoke her words were short and jerky. "Talk about woman hating! I have never hurt and I don't ever antic.i.p.ate hurting anybody to the degree that you are trying to hurt me right now!"

"Nonconsensually, incidentally," put in one of the forwards who was sitting two chairs down, but following avidly.

"And you are totally getting off on it," Alison jerked out. "At least I'm honest about what I do."

She had no idea what might have happened next, for Carla, in a rare burst of sensitivity, practically jumped the table to take her arm and steer her towards the door.

Ten.

Alison was glad to see there were still lights on in Mich.e.l.le and Janka's apartment. It was not just that she wanted to share Carla's interesting information. She needed a sounding board, and who better than the two women already involved in her investigations of the Crusaders? She fumbled just a little with her key. She had been so angry after leaving the coffeehouse that she had raged five minutes in the car. Then Carla had pulled out a joint and persuaded her to take two hits, which had been enough to put things back into perspective, or at least dull the pain a little. f.u.c.k Trudy, and f.u.c.k Stacy, too. She had more important things to do.