"Knock-knock!" A male voice trilled from beyond the front door of Stacy's apartment at precisely ten am. The sleigh bells that she had hanging on the back of the door jingled.

Alison looked up from Stacy's worktable vaguely. Oh, dammit, Stacy had mentioned someone was coming by, but Alison had been too engrossed in experimenting with Stacy's rotary cutter.

"Honey!" called the man who pushed the door open and then, "Oh!" He brought his hand up daintily to a mouth that had formed a perfect moue of embarra.s.sment. "You're not the big girl." He startled Alison by suddenly swooping away and gathering an arm load of dirty mugs and plates. He gave a little shriek as he took them into the kitchen. "Oh! She's been cooking! She's sick, isn't she? Tell me the truth-she's in the hospital-that's why she's not here, isn't it?"

"She's at the-" tried Alison.

But the man stuck his head back out of the kitchen interrupting. "Actually," he said contemplatively, "there might be one other explanation for the state of this kitchen." He walked back towards Alison with his chin in his hand. "Yes. Liz said that she was dating again." He walked around Alison, looking her up and down. "I must have been out of my mind to think for a minute that Stacy created that mess herself. Why, there are three bowls and a trying pan in there. I didn't even know that Stacy owned a frying pan."

"Neither did she. It was in the bathroom. I'm Alison." She stuck out a hand.

"And I'm Lawrence. I'm the cleaning lady." Suddenly brisk, he dropped her hand. "Well, I must get busy. Otherwise I'll be here all day, and even if I don't have better things to do yet, I certainly hope to by this afternoon." He winked at her and flew back into the kitchen.

Alison followed, pushing back Stacy's chair with her foot because twice already this morning she had tried to pick it up by the back, and both times it had come apart. Perhaps this man was a gift from the G.o.ddess-a treasure trove of information dropped out of the blue with only the instructions: Chat me up.

"Let me give you a hand," she said. In the name of getting information she had helped fold newspapers, held fussing babies and pushed stuck cars. Dishes looked almost pleasant.

Lawrence had bundled himself into a bright pink ap.r.o.n that had Kiss the Cook printed on the front. Someone had taken a marker, crossed out Kiss and written in Blow. He was busy scrubbing the sink.

"Well, I won't say no to that. I have a special to fit in this afternoon- one of my regulars is having the girls over for bridge tonight and she wants me to give the place a once over."

Alison began sc.r.a.ping dishes. "How many regulars do you have?"

"Oh, it varies. Between five and seven a week. That way I don't spend my whole life picking up after dirty d.y.k.es, but it gives me a little pin money."

"Are all your customers d.y.k.es?"

"Oh, yes. I would not have it any other way. f.a.ggots are too d.a.m.n fussy-they always think that they could have done the job better themselves if they hadn't been out getting rimmed. And straights are so d.a.m.n boring- they can sit and talk to you the whole time you're working, and you don't find out a thing about anyone you know. And children!" He shuddered. "I would rather clean up after an orgy where there were twenty people and whipped cream than two kids. At least after an orgy you know what they've had in their mouths! And you know how it is-if you work for one d.y.k.e, you work for them all. Especially if you're operating underground like Anastasia and me. Then it's all word of mouth. She refers for me, and I refer for her." He whisked the pile of dishes away from Alison and plunged them into the hot water. She felt as if she were moving in slow motion.

"Did you work for either Tamara Garrity or Melanie Donahue?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Oooh, cop stuff...Stacy mentioned you were a cop, so listen, I've been forewarned. Well, I can't help you. I didn't know either of them well. From what I hear-and this is just gossip, understand- Melanie's girlfriend kept a pretty darn tight hold on the purse strings, and they were respectable roommates, anyway. A f.a.ggot cleaning their nice Aurora house just wouldn't have done."

"But you did know her?"

"Well, I'd met her, of course. I'm the one who recommended both of them."

"Huh?"

"Recommended! I mean, she has to get her business from somewhere, and she always sends her friends to the store. Now, understand, I usually wouldn't pa.s.s this on-I am the soul of discretion-but after all, the women are dead, aren't they? And it's not as if I know they ever did anything with her or even called her. I just recommended her and gave them her card."

Alison was totally lost. "Recommend to who for what?"

He gave her a somewhat pitying look. "You are an innocent, aren't you, girl? Recommend Anastasia, of course. It happens all the time when I'm at work. You see, my boyfriend manages the Leatherworks, and I work there three nights a week. I would work more, but I get better money doing this, and this way he doesn't know about every single nickel and dime I'm making. I think it's so important to keep finances separate, don't you? But the store is a good place to meet interesting people-not that I ever do anything anymore-you know, safe s.e.x and all...." He glanced over at Alison and mercifully got to the point. "Anyway, to make a long story... Every once in a while some woman will come in and ask if I know anyone who does s.e.xual counseling-and of course I always give them Anastasia's card. I mean, people figure that you can ask the clerk in a s.e.x shop anything, because he's paid not to laugh."

"They ask for some one who does what?"

"s.e.xual counseling. How else do you think she's going to advertise? But it s like I said, most of your customers are word of mouth through people you know. I just happened to remember those two women because I saw their pictures in the paper and thought, How awful! And they had always gone together in my mind before anyway, because they were both Dominique's old girls."

Dominique. Full circle back again to the night she had first met Stacy. She remembered the look of loathing that had pa.s.sed from one to the other in the bathroom of the Blue Ryder. Was this the reason?

"So these women used to be customers of Dominique, but they switched?"

Lawrence shrugged. "Dominique's been known to f.u.c.k up before-be slow with a safe word or something like that, and that just isn't done. I certainly don't recommend her. But she gets some business because she'll do some things that Anastasia won't-you know, blood sports and semi-public f.u.c.ks and stuff like that."

"I know," said Alison, thinking back to the unpleasantness in the Blue Ryder. "I walked in on her."

"That was you?" Lawrence hooted, but Alison did not comment. Lawrence had hit on something that she needed to think about. She had never, even for one moment, considered that the killer might be a d.y.k.e. She had a.s.sumed that it was a d.y.k.e-hater on the loose-one of 'them' rather than one of 'us'. But what if the motive was not generic at all? What if it was as specific as paying back two women who had rejected you? Dominique probably had a lot of pride tied up in her work and it would have hurt more ways than financially to have lost two customers. And, if in paying them back, Dominique had seen the chance to hurt the woman who had stolen their business, that wouldn't have been a bad thing either, would it? Anastasia's clientele might abandon her completely if it got out that both victims had been clients of hers.

But could one d.y.k.e do that to another? Like Mich.e.l.le she had come out to feminism at the same time she had come out to lesbianism, and because of that, her first impulse was a firm 'No!' They were all sisters suffering from the same oppression. They had gotten beyond that physical s.h.i.t and could settle it with words and see it through with love.

It was a beautiful concept. Except that she had known lesbians who hated other lesbians, both specifically and collectively. She had seen love affairs that had gone bad and business relationships that had soured. She had witnessed fist fights at bats and softball games and had watched close friends become embittered. h.e.l.l, she had been in some of those very places herself. She couldn't ignore evidence just because she didn't want it to be a d.y.k.e.

The sleigh bells on the door jangled and Alison jumped guiltily. She didn't want Stacy to catch her pumping the help.

It was not Stacy, however, in the front workroom, but another man, bent over her worktable.

"Can I help you?"

"I don't know. Is this yours?" He gestured to the pieces she had laid out on the table. She hadn't recognized his back but his gravely voice clued her in before Mark turned his head.

"Yes," she said, fighting not to sound defensive and to keep from going into the whole spiel about how she was just an amateur and her work shouldn't be judged against Stacy's.

"Do you mind if I take a couple of pictures of it?"

"Why?" She could not keep the amazement out of her voice. "Stacy's stuff...-"

"Yeah, she's good. But this is nice, too. The colors, the shapes...." He made an expansive gesture as he pulled the camera up to his face and Alison suddenly saw what he meant about the way that the blue triangles lay against the print.

"Can you pick up the scissors?" Mark asked, snapping. "Yeah, just sit down and cut out a piece. Oh, your hands are great. Quilter's hands-just like Stacy's." Abruptly he was done, and he wandered away from her and over to Stacy's work in process. Alison clipped one more corner, feeling a bit foolish.

"This is going well," said Mark. "I love almost everything she does. You know, I got my first break off a photo of her work."

"Really?" Why the h.e.l.l was he here? She was puzzled by his at-home att.i.tude.

"Oh, yeah. It was for a compet.i.tion, a calendar of contemporary quilters. She didn't get in, but one of the winners was local and she saw the photos and wanted me to do hers."

"Stacy must not have much luck with calendars," said Alison. Mark looked at her blankly. "You know...she didn't get in the leather calendar, either." She had spoken without really thinking and regretted in immediately.

He stiffened visibly. "Well, I've got to go." His tone had turned from friendly to surly.

"Was that the nasty Mark?" Lawrence gauged his appearance directly to the slamming door.

"Yeah. Is he here a lot?" Alison tried to convey bland interest instead of the raging jealousy she felt.

Not successfully, for Lawrence, when he answered, sounded amused. "His mom lives upstairs," he said, "but in case you're concerned, Stacy doesn't do ac/dc. I think she knew him when he was a kid."

Well, that was interesting. But before Alison could ask a single question the bells jangled again.

This time it was Stacy. "Well, finally!" she said. "Everybody and their sister was at the fabric store. Don't leave the cutter unsheathed, Alison, I've seen some bad slices off them. And you-don't try to leave without cleaning out the refrigerator," she said to Lawrence. She bustled him into the other room. For now, at least, there was nothing more that Alison could learn from him.

Seven.

'Homeless Cat Center' read the sign on the brick house. This was the place Jenny had said Dominique worked during the day. Twenty cats lounged in the outside run, watching Alison approach the front door.

"Hi." The staffer was a pleasant looking woman, maybe ten or fifteen years older than Alison. She was wearing a blue smock with black cats dancing across it over her gingham blouse. Her short, dark hair was fluffed up in a soft perm.

"Does-" began Alison, and then stopped herself short. Okay, Alison, you almost fell into the stereotype trap again, didn't you? Take away the smock and put on a leather vest and heavy chain, slick back the hair and there was the woman she had almost busted the other night. So what had she thought she was going to wear to work-full leather drag?

"Can I help you? Do you want to adopt a cat?" Friendly words were laced with frost.

Oh, s.h.i.t, thought Alison, she recognizes me too. Well, just because she was a cop didn't mean she couldn't be a cat lover.

"Do you have any special requirements?" asked Dominique grimly. "Officer.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you are a cop, aren't you? Like the same cop who was hara.s.sing me the other night, who got me eighty-sixed from the bar?" Dominique's voice was bitter.

"I meant, what do you mean, 'requirements'?" Alison was d.a.m.ned if she was going to argue with the woman. She would force her into some kind of civility by pretending she was a legitimate customer.

"Oh. Male or female, color, s.e.x, age, breed, declawed?" Dominique answered grudgingly, shooing a black cat off a pile of paperwork.

"Why don't you show me around and give me some ideas?" suggested Alison. After a moment of hesitation Dominique stepped reluctantly out from behind the counter and beckoned Alison to follow. Tersely, she pointed and gave out information about the free roaming animals.

"She's very gentle. They're all neutered. He needs a single cat household.

Kitten room." She pointed to a screened-off enclosure. As if on cue, a trio of grey kittens appeared on the other side and, putting their front feet on the screen, began to cry in unison.

All detecting was momentarily forgotten. "Oh," said Alison, "can I go in?"

Dominique nodded shortly, but as Alison knelt to pick up a kitten she said in an accusing voice, "I thought you wanted a cat. Kittens are easy to place-everybody wants a kitten."

"Really?"

"If they're socialized. Speaking of which...." Dominique crouched beside the one piece of furniture in the enclosure, a battered, overstuffed chair, and reached up underneath it. She pulled out a ginger colored, tabby kitten just a little older than the others. Frightened, he struggled, but she soothed him gently.

"There you are, sweet one," she murmured, "n.o.body is going to hurt you." The kitten gave one small purr. Then Alison took half a step closer, and like a shot he was out of Dominique's arms, scrambling up over her face and head to get back to his hiding place.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Well, that probably f.u.c.ked any chance she'd had of cooperation.

Surprisingly, though, Dominique took the injuries in stride. "It happens all the time," she told Alison brusquely, after they left the enclosure and as she swabbed her face with peroxide. "Now, did you see anybody you were interested in?"

Oh, to h.e.l.l with it, thought Alison. She was tired of bulls.h.i.tting, and there was no sign that Dominique was going to let down her guard.

"I didn't come to look for a cat," she said. "I came to ask you some questions about the two women who were killed."

"Why ask me?" Dominique spoke stiffly, her fists clenched.

"You tell me. They were both clients of yours, weren't they?" Was Dominique really going to help her out? Or did she, like so many people, have something that she hoped to hide by seeming to cooperate?

"They both did some...counseling with me," Dominique said tersely. Alison wondered for a moment if this were a euphemism used by the s/m community world-wide or if it were just a flash word in town. "But that was along time ago." How long?"

Dominique shrugged.

"A month? A year? Six months?"

"A couple of months." Dominique busied herself with the first-aid kit and did not look at Alison.

"Why did they leave you?"

"We decided-mutually-to terminate our professional relationship." Dominique's voice was in careful control, and the phrase slid out as if it had been used many times before.

"Yeah, well, that's not what I heard," said Alison rudely. Her instincts told her that Dominique might be the kind who would tell her the most if she could be goaded into a rage.

"Well, f...." Visibly, Dominique controlled herself. "Well, that's what happened. Why do you care about this, anyway?"

"It just seems interesting that both of the women were customers of yours. Dissatisfied customers. Very interesting." This offensive role was one of Alison's least favorite. For a moment she considered abandoning it and just trying to appeal to the woman's better nature. Or would she be appealing to the conscience of a woman who had killed twice?

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dominique's voice was losing its thin coating of civility.

Alison shrugged. "Just that when we look for suspects we look for something that might link the victims. We look for someone who might have had a problem with both of them."

"And this is supposed to be it?" Dominique's voice was shaking, but still controlled. "Boy, you guys must really be pulling at straws if this is all you've come up with. I suppose you've never changed your doctor or lawyer or cleaning lady, have you? Do you think any one of them would come after you with a knife? Do you think they'd even miss any sleep? Get real! A business relationship isn't a love affair! Find their ex-lovers if you're looking for someone who's that p.i.s.sed off!"

Her outrage seemed genuine, or was she just a good actress? Was she just remembering how angry she had been when the women had terminated her?

"Why did they dump you?"

"Who the tuck knows? Maybe they didn't like my outfit, maybe they were the kind that needs to have somebody new once in a while. Maybe their 'problems' had all been worked out." She was still angry, but the rage was no longer building.

Alison changed tack abruptly. "Do you know if they went to anyone else when they left you?" She was curious to see if Dominique knew or would admit to this information.

Something like a smile crept over Dominique's angry face. "Yes. Anastasia, Stacy Ross, picked them up. Both of them. So there's your link. Why don't you go question her? Maybe she's gotten into something really kinky...maybe she's doing death scenes now. Go talk to her!"

"We've been in contact," said Alison in a voice that she hoped was matter-of-fact and nothing more. "Where were you Friday night?"

"What?"

"The night Tamara Garrity was killed."

"None of your-" Dominique stopped abruptly and considered. Aha, thought Alison, someplace that we can check easily. Come on, give it to me.