Alison's preference would have been a lazy morning in bed, but she knew before she opened her eyes that Stacy was already up working. The room looked as if a tornado had hit it, tossing clothing and s.e.x toys from end to end. She wasn't even going to think about picking it up before at least two cups of coffee. She was glad she had brought over coffee and filters the night she had cooked.

She borrowed Stacy's robe and shuffled into the kitchen. The swish of the cloth brought back the fantasy of the night before, and she felt herself growing wet, remembering. Then, hard on the heels of the pleasure she remembered the check. s.h.i.t, what did it mean? At the least Stacy had been withholding the information that she had probably been the last one to see Melanie Donahue alive. And at the most.... Alison could not think of it without coffee.

Her mind was just starting to clear after one cup when a man spoke directly behind her.

"How are you this morning?"

She jumped so that the dregs of the coffee hit the ceiling. "Dammit!"

Lawrence, in his pink ap.r.o.n, was standing in the door of the playroom holding a rag and a spray bottle of cleaner, looking not unpleased at her reaction. "Fingerprints," he said, waving his rag back in the direction of the room, "and c.u.m all over. Or does it have a different name for women? I don't know, p.u.s.s.y juice just sounds to me like somebody put their poor little kitty in the blender. At any rate, it's so clean in there now that the next girl who gets beaten in there is going to think that she's the very first one."

Alison could think of no witty reply. She poured herself a second cup of coffee.

"Oh, Stacy told me that you weren't any good in the morning till you'd had coffee. Well, I'm just going to run off and clean the bedroom until you're fit for a little gossip." He marched out of the room. In the work room Alison could hear Stacy conversing.

Suddenly she wondered if cleaning the bedroom meant changing the bed. She arrived just in time, as Lawrence was ripping the bottom sheet off, dramatically, as if it were part of some kind of play he had running in his mind to beat the boredom of housecleaning. The check came with the sheet and Alison caught it in midair. She looked over her shoulder to see if he had noticed, but he was looking at the floor.

"My," he said, picking up the rubber glove, "we did have a good time last night, didn't we?"

It occurred to Alison to blush, but instead she said, "Well, I figure if it turns you on to get tied up and f.u.c.ked in the a.s.s you should just say so."

Lawrence laughed. "Good girl! So tell me, is it true that they have that b.i.t.c.h Dominique behind bars?"

"Oh, don't say it like that."

"I know, I know, it's ugly. I just can't forgive her for trying to read me out in front of my customers. But you're right, I can't see her knifing anybody. Maybe hitting them over the head with a lamp or throwing them through a window, but not anything that took planning. But I had heard she was with that poor girl right before she was killed, and drunk, too?"

Alison smiled and spread her hands to indicate she knew nothing. The old grapevine was sure performing at high speed.

Lawrence pouted. "Well, if that's the way you want to be. You'll be sorry the next time I have something good to tell. And I'm going to tell everybody that you sleep with your gun on too." He picked the holster up off the night table and dangled it by one finger. "Of course, that might bring tons of those little submissives just running."

Carefully Alison took it from him.

"Who's in there with Stacy?"

Lawrence made a little face to let her know that he was still pouting. "Oh, that nasty Mark. You'd think he lived here. I don't think he's nearly the dutiful son he pretends to be to Pam. I think he just comes by to see Stacy. She's just too good to send him away."

"Stacy said she knew him when he was a kid." Alison was fairly sure that Lawrence would not be able to resist the bait, even if he were miffed at her.

"Maybe. But I don't think that they were buddy-buddy or anything. I mean, maybe she had him in Sunday school or something a couple of times, but I think that's about the extent of it."

"He went to her church?" Alison was confused. "With Pam?"

"Oh, no, honey, we're talking about before that. No, I think she knew the kid's folks when he was real little."

"But the mother became a lesbian?"

"Oh, off and on. She was a crazy lady and being mixed up with those Jesus people did not help. You know, she was the kind who would be convinced she was a d.y.k.e and fall in love and get some poor girl all entangled with her, and then as soon as something went wrong she would suddenly become repentant-she'd sinned and she was a horrible, weak person and she'd go right into therapy to try to straighten herself out-literally."

"Did she go back to the church program?"

"Off and on. I think they were a little crazy even for her. I'll tell you what I think the truth is. I think the woman just liked drama. Now, I like drama myself. That comes from being an adult child of an alcoholic, did you know that? They say that you try to recreate all the turmoil of your childhood by causing little scenes to happen around you. Now, I've figured out if I do that in my s.e.x life I don't have to do it in my real life. I don't have to pick fights with Dave or the lady in the grocery store. I think what this woman Candy needed, was a good kinky s.e.x life with lots of dramatics, and then she wouldn't have had to be going to church or jerking Pam and her friends around."

"It must have been hard on Mark."

"Oh, I'm sure. Now, Pam isn't a real talker, and I wasn't around when this was all happening." Lawrence looked decidedly regretful. "But, from what I have picked up, Candy just dumped that little boy on those four women, just said that she couldn't handle him at all. And she had all kinds of money coming in from the father's insurance and Aid to Dependent Children and the whole thing, and they never got a cent of it the six years that they had him. But she was going to Mexico and Hawaii and just dropping by long enough to stick them a little. You know, Pam tried to get custody, she tried to get Candy to allow her to adopt him legally, but it was strictly no go. Candy wanted to make sure that she had the power in the end."

"So what happened?" Alison felt as if she were watching a soap opera on fast forward.

"Well, what I heard is that one day Candy came storming in from out of the blue and pulled Mark. Said that she'd realized how wrong she had been, and what a bad mother she was to have let him live with these lesbians for all this time, because, of course, she was going through a straight period. Said she needed her boy and she was going to make a home for him herself. Well, of course he didn't want to go-you don't have to be grown up to tell if your mother is loony-tunes and Pam, at least, doted on him. So Candy caused a big stink with Pam and accused her of turning him against her, and hauled him off screaming and crying and wouldn't even allow them to visit. But-"

Stacy stuck her head into the room. "I thought I heard you." She smiled at Alison and again Alison found herself immediately excited. "I don't want to nag, but I've got some buyers coming over later, and I'd like everything to look nice by then."

"Oh, sure," said Lawrence. He scooped up a handful of s.e.x toys and began to march out. At the door he stopped. "Dishwasher safe," he said, waving them at Alison.

"Sorry I had to leave," said Stacy, "but I had someone coming in."

"That's okay." Alison was uncomfortably aware of the check in the pocket of the robe. Her mind picked up precisely where it had left off the night before. She had told Stacy about Dominique, and Dominique had been arrested later that same day, when suddenly the police had firm evidence. Carla had told Stacy about her connection with the Crusaders, and Stacy had taken the theory and smoothed it out and shaped the parts that didn't fit. She had been the only one who had noticed a different number on the flier, and she had not told Alison about it until it was too late to prevent the vigilante committee from acting. Alison tried to stop; she didn't want to think these things. Stacy had not come forward with the check because she had known it would cast suspicion on her, and that would be awkward, considering the business she was in. That was the only reason. She hadn't decided to go that extra step further with Melanie and try the ultimate thrill of killing.

"Penny?"

"Huh?"

"For your thoughts. Didn't you say something last night about a meeting with your boss this morning?"

"Oh, s.h.i.t yes! I totally forgot."

"Well, it's getting about that time. Incidentally, here's your shirt." She tossed it to Alison. It looked as if it had been used to wipe up after an orgy. "Remember, we have a date tonight."

Alison nodded, too preoccupied to answer.

"So, Officer Kaine." Sergeant Obrachta was a small, dapper man whose hands were always busy. Now those famous hands, thin and long-fingered, were making a steeple.

Alison resisted the urge to squirm. She wished that she'd had time to shower and wash her hair.

Now the fingers were drumming, each against its mate. She stared at them with a stupid kind of fascination, as if their movement was somehow going to tell her what the Sergeant was going to say, and how in the world she was going to answer it. "So, Officer Kaine," he repeated, "have you been enjoying your vacation?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, and then snapped her mouth shut. Say as little as possible.

"I thought you were going to be going out of town." Obviously he already knew what had happened, but she explained about her change of plans anyway, as if they were just friends with time to kill. She left out the specifics about the herpes. No need to perpetuate stereotypes.

"That must have been disappointing."

She acknowledged it. Now he had a Swiss army knife out and was using the scissors attachment to trim an already smooth cuticle, just as Stacy had used hers the evening she had cooked her dinner. His nails were much better cared for than Alison's.

"But you've found some things to amuse yourself."

"Yes," she said, and almost blurted out the fact that she'd found a new lover, just on the off chance that it would startle him enough to save her from the lecture-and she just hoped that was all it was going to be-that he was going to deliver. But he was no Jorgensen. He would just lift a polite eyebrow to inquire why she was telling him her personal life.

"And what do you think about these two murders and one a.s.sault we've had?" He was fencing with her, another trait for which he was famous. He liked to get an offender off balance, or overconfident, thinking that he was on the wrong track, and then go in for the kill. In fact, he liked to question his staff much the same way that she liked to question her witnesses.

She answered honestly, knowing that he already knew. "I was at the scene of the second murder by chance, and then at the scene of the attempted murder two nights later at the Rubyfruit."

He ruffled through a stack of papers on his desk and pulled out a report. "So," he said, looking at it as if for the first time, although she knew he could recite every detail, "you think the three crimes were related?"

"Yes, I do." She was ready for his next question, ready to tell him why, but he surprised her.

"What were you doing at the bar the night of the a.s.sault?"

"Because of...." A few words slipped out before she realized that he was asking for something different. "I'm a lesbian, Sergeant."

He made an impatient gesture, as if she were telling him something obvious. "That doesn't explain, Officer. There are hundreds of lesbians in this city, and only fifty of them were at that bar at that time. There are several lesbian officers on the force, and you were the only one who was right on the scene of the crime. Now, I'm curious to know how that happened."

"It was coincidence."

He reached across his desk. There was a collection of small toys and games sitting near Alison's side. Thoughtfully he wound up a small pool full of plastic fish. It began to rotate, the fish opening and closing their mouths.

"So it just happened?" He did not look at her. He picked up a plastic fishing rod with a magnet on the end and attempted to snare the fish while their mouths were open. He was very good.

"Yeah." she answered dreamily, mesmerized.

"You weren't there because you were investigating the crimes on your own?"

Oh, yeah, that too, she almost said as she watched him land one brightly colored fish after another, but he must have had pity on her, or more likely decided that she was too easy.

"Before you answer that, I would like to remind you of our policy concerning officers performing their own private investigations. Do you remember what that is?"

"Umm, we don't like it?" Alison guessed, her mind a blank.

The fish had all been landed. He looked at her with an exasperated expression.

"I suppose that's one way of paraphrasing it. How about more like the detectives on this case have been foaming at the mouth, and have called me three times to complain about unauthorized interference?"

"I haven't interfered with anything," Alison protested.

"Oh? How about just plain b.u.t.ted in? It doesn't matter what they call it, I don't like to be nagged over the phone about one of my officers."

"Sergeant, those men have a teal att.i.tude problem with this case. How could I have b.u.t.ted in? I happened to be there and turned everything over when they arrived."

"Officer, you have been asking questions. Those men are the ones a.s.signed. You are not. I am not their boss. I am your boss. I am ordering you to cease interference with this case. I'd like to be able to keep this between you and me, rather than something that has to go in your file."

Well, there it was, plain between them. Stop snooping or start worrying about your job. She should have known better than to try to criticize a superior. She felt angry, yet at the same time there was just a touch of relief, because now she had absolutely no obligation at all to do anything about Stacy's check.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then do me a favor. Go make sure that the rest of your vacation really is a vacation." He motioned that she was dismissed, but then stopped her at the door. "Do you know anything that you think you should tell to Detective Jones or Jorgenson?"

"No," she answered without the slightest compulsion. "No, sir, nothing at all."

Fifteen.

Lydia met her at the door of her apartment. "Come look at my display." Alison followed curiously. Lydia had dabbled with a variety of crafts while living with her, tiring of most before they were finished.

"There!" Lydia made a little flourish towards the living room, where she had pulled several of the kitchen chairs up behind the coffee table to arrange a display s.p.a.ce. They were draped with a number of scarves and a few shawls.

"Really nice, Lydia," Alison said, lifting the edge of one long scarf to stroke the fringe. They were actually much better than she had expected.

"Lavender. That's not mine, it's Seven's. I did the pottery."

The pottery was drab lumps arranged lovingly atop the textiles. Alison picked a piece up and turned it over, trying to figure what it was so that she could make a suitable comment.

"c.u.n.ts," announced Lydia proudly.

"What?"

"I wanted to make artwork that would celebrate my womanhood. So I decided to make a whole c.u.n.t series."

"Oh." Alison could not think of anything to say. She could see that the ridged objects might be portraying c.u.n.ts, if one squinted and imagined that they had been made by a Neanderthal child with little talent.

"Guess which one is yours," Lydia said coyly.

"I couldn't." Alison hoped she did not sound as horrified as she felt, and quickly scanned the exhibit for name cards. She'd never get another date in her life if one of these things was labeled with her name. Luckily Lydia had not thought of it.

"Well, most women can't," Lydia admitted. "It's such a shame. We're taught that it's not okay to know, to really know our c.u.n.ts when they're such a power source. I mean, like, you'd recognize a model of your hands, wouldn't you?" She picked up one of the pieces and handed it to Alison. "I have this fantasy where every lesbian has this beautiful earthware model of her own c.u.n.t that she can keep out where she can look at it and stroke it every day just to reaffirm its power and beauty."

"On her desk at work," said Alison absently. Tentatively she tried to stroke one of the straight ridges that was probably supposed to represent folds of flesh. A jagged piece poked her finger. G.o.d, if she really looked like this it was a miracle she had ever gotten anyone to go down on her.

"And I also really wanted women to be able to use them in their everyday lives, so I got this wonderful idea, like, to curve them in," she made a lotus shape with her hands that had no resemblance to the gouged out squareness of the clay, "so they could be used for, like, bowls. Like, can't you just imagine serving an oyster stew with, like, a thick white sauce out of this?"

Alison could, and she was repulsed.

"And then I made this big piece that could be, like, used for serving, like for a ritual or a family dinner." She picked up a piece as big as a ca.s.serole dish. The ridge that represented the c.l.i.t was so sharp and extended that it could have been used as a weapon.

Luckily Alison was saved from answering by Janka's appearance at the door. She took the opportunity to escape.

"Gotta go, thanks for showing me, Lydia." She almost sprinted towards the back stairs, snagging the brown envelope of photos off the kitchen table where she had foolishly dumped it. Foolishly, because Lydia had piled up her breakfast mess around it with disregard and it was distinctly sticky.

"So did you get to see the c.u.n.t of the Earth Mother?" asked Janka.