"I was at the Rubyfruit."

"The bar where Tamara was killed?"

"Right. And so was every other leather d.y.k.e in town." She laughed a rather pleased laugh.

"Why?"

"Because they were hosting the Ms. Colorado Leather contest. The prelims. You know, the girl from our state goes to the nationals." Dominique seemed prepared to be scornful of her ignorance.

Hmm, she didn't know, but she could ask Stacy or Liz, and save herself from being laughed at. She started to ask about the bad cutting on Tamara's back that Becky had described, but the door bell rang, and from the front room someone called, "Is anyone here?" With an air of relief Dominique moved to go. Alison caught her sleeve.

"Look," she said quickly, "I know you're not being totally straight with me. I know you don't like me, either. But think about it this way. I'm a d.y.k.e. You're a d.y.k.e. I'm not going to protect a murderer but I don't think that you're the one." She lied without a qualm. "I'll bend over backwards to make sure you don't get hara.s.sed for things that have nothing to do with the case, or for just plain being a d.y.k.e. Maybe the next cop who comes by won't feel that way. There's a lot of guys in uniform who don't like queers." She felt a little guilty about trying to shake up the woman this way. Even if it were true, she hated to build onto that crooked and ignorant cop image, ready to arrest and punish the person of whom one did not approve. Maybe she was just messing up the chances of the legitimate detectives, good old Jorgenson and Jones, who would surely be visiting within the next couple of days. No, Dominique was not the type who would open up to a straight man. If she told anyone, it would be Alison.

She opened her wallet and took out another of the business cards her father had given her the Christmas before. Briefly, she thought that he would be pleased if he knew that one was really being given for business, instead of just to someone met at a party. Then she thought it was probably the second that would be thrown away in as many days. Dominique did not reach for it, so she laid it on the counter.

"Just remember," she said. "Call me if you change your mind."

When Alison returned home she found Mich.e.l.le sitting on her front steps reading the local gay rag. She lifted her head and smiled as Alison approached. Alison could see that she had progressed from the aI'm-p.i.s.sed-because-you're-a-PI-idiot' stage to the 'Let's-talk-this-over-stage,' though the process was by no means irreversible. Fine, talking to Mich.e.l.le had always been a good way to put her thoughts in order.

"Where have you been?"

Alison dropped down beside her. "Out pretending that I'm a detective."

"Have you found out anything at all?"

"One thing. But it seems kind of thin by itself. They both went to the same counselor. They both dropped her and started seeing another woman. But it could be coincidence. You know, the community is small, a lot of us tend to see the same people and go to the same events without being connected in any other way." Now that she was home, what Dominique had said seemed to make sense. She herself had changed dentists last year, and she wasn't always looking over her shoulder expecting him to leap out in revenge.

"Well, did either counselor keep any kind of notes? Anything that told what they talked about? Could it have been something they both knew or had seen?"

Oh, s.h.i.t, she'd backed herself into a corner by trying to be discrete. "Um, I don't think so. I mean, they weren't that kind...."

Mich.e.l.le looked at her with pursed lips. "Yeah, that's what I thought about 'counselors'. Don't try to bulls.h.i.t me. I knew Melanie, remember?"

"I wasn't trying to bulls.h.i.t you. I was just trying...." What she had been trying to do was avoid a lecture. She changed the subject. "I thought Melanie was really closeted."

"She didn't used to be. I mean, she was always discreet about her specific s.e.x life. But other than that she was just like the test of us: 'Hi, I'm a young d.y.k.e, f.u.c.k you if you don't like it, stranger.' And it wasn't hard to figure out what she liked, in hindsight, anyway. The women she was seeing might have been low-key themselves back then, but a couple of them have become rather infamous around town since. In fact, here's a photo of one."

She picked up the paper and pointed to a photograph on the front page of a lesbian newspaper which showed several women in leather standing in front of a row of motorcycles.

"What's this a picture of?"

Mich.e.l.le scanned the article. "Blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, at the Rubyfruit.. .blah...."

"Hey," Alison s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper away from her. "This is the local Ms. Leather Colorado contest, isn't it?"

"So?"

"This was the night and the place of the first murder."

"And the murderer is going to be in the picture. Right, Delafield."

Alison lowered the paper. "Thank you for your support. No, you're right. Too much to hope for." She jerked the paper back up to her face. "But wait a minute-what's this in the background?"

Mich.e.l.le, who had been resisting gla.s.ses, squinted. "Someone with a sign?

"Yeah. A picketer. And look, by this woman's foot, a leaflet. I've seen one of those f.u.c.kers before." She put the paper down. "Are you busy?" she asked, "or would you like to play detective with me?"

In the end it was Janka whom they sent in to see the Crusaders. Not just because, as even Mich.e.l.le herself admitted, she was less likely to get excited and blow her cover. There was also her 'begging for money' outfit in her favor, a grey suit she wore only to the bank and to see her father. She pointed out the finer points of the ensemble to them before they got into the car.

"Grey pumps," she said, lifting one foot. "Matching purse."

"Take off your labrys and your earcuff," advised Mich.e.l.le. Hastily Janka stored them in the purse which was empty except for the pamphlet Alison had picked up at the bar.

"What's your name?" Alison asked nervously as she pulled away from the curb. "Are you sure they're open?"

"They said they were open when I called," said Mich.e.l.le. "Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you? They're not going to close in the middle of the day when they have a customer coming."

"My name is Norma White." Janka spoke nasally. In her own voice she asked, "Are you sure they'd be clued in to my real name? Surely there are straight girls named Janka Weaversong? Okay, okay, Norma it is, and I live in Wheatridge. I just found out the awful and ugly truth about my baby sister. She left her husband-such a good man!-and it's even worse because there are two children involved. I'm sure it's just a phase, in fact I'm absolutely sure that she would snap right out of it if I could just get her away horn the wicked s.l.u.t she's been seeing."

"Don't say s.l.u.t," Alison said. "In fact, if you can avoid it, don't say lesbian or gay. Stick to h.o.m.os.e.xual, and hem and haw a lot. Be horrified and totally embarra.s.sed that you've been driven to this."

"Isn't this a little far-fetched?" asked Mich.e.l.le. "I mean, do you really think that they're going to say, 'Hey, don't worry, we can knock that d.y.k.e right off, no problem?"'

"No, I don't think that, Mich.e.l.le. But it would be real interesting to find out what those people are doing. Like, are they involved in kidnapping or hara.s.sing or reprogramming? And exactly how devoted are their followers? Remember when Anita Bryant went on the rampage, and every so often a f.a.ggot would turn up beaten up with a sign on him that said, 'This is for you, Anita?' That's pretty d.a.m.n close to killing. You know we've been murdered in the name of religion before. Don't say d.y.k.e."

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Mich.e.l.le, "cops and robbers."

"Oh, you're just p.i.s.sed because the pumps wouldn't fit you," said Janka.

The Crusaders' organization was located in a little store front that was across the street from both a bakery and a laundromat, so after parking around the corner and giving Janka a five minute head start, they slipped first into one and then the other.

"The perfect stake-out," said Mich.e.l.le, cramming a maple bar into her mouth. "I just wish I'd brought a load of towels." Alison, sitting on an orange plastic chair that was bolted to the floor, glanced nervously over her shoulder. "So, Alison, what are we looking for, anyway? You think that they're going to expose old Norma, conk her on the head and carry her out feet first in a rolled up carpet?"

"I just think we should keep an eye out," said Alison vaguely. She didn't really feel as if Stacy's story were hers to share. "Get away from the window."

"Hey, they don't know me," answered Mich.e.l.le, sucking cream filling from her fingers. "For all they know I'm just another d.y.k.e spinning a load of khaki pants and flannel shirts. Grab a paper. It'll calm you down."

Alison began to comply, but suddenly Mich.e.l.le grabbed her by the shoulder. "Oh, I can't believe this...this is just too f.u.c.king weird!" She pressed her face up against the window and then jerked back. "Jesus, I'm glad she didn't look! This is so bizarre!"

"What?"

"No, no, don't look. For all I know you may know her, too. Okay, face me like you're talking to me and look over my shoulder. See the woman who's standing in front of the building talking to the guy in the suit?"

"That's one of the guys who grabbed me the other night!" She gaped, recognizing Red Tie.

"Okay, don't get freaked. Even if he sees you that doesn't mean he's going to clue into anything other than the fact that you don't have a washer and dryer. Look at the woman. I know that woman. That woman used to be a d.y.k.e. A big time stomping d.y.k.e! That woman published poetry that contained phrases like 'Castrate now'."

"Well, maybe she's just dressed up to scam them, too."

"Right, and she grew her hair out for the occasion and had a professional put on her makeup. No, I'm talking stomping and screaming with a mohawk and tattoos." Mich.e.l.le looked momentarily startled. "Boy, I wonder what she did about those tattoos. No, I heard that this happened, at least the going straight part. I heard she got into this self-help seminar and fell in love with the mediator and got f.u.c.king married! She left a friend of mine! And she was calling her lesbianism an unfortunate phase!"

"Does she know Janka?"

"Oh, I don't think so. This was quite a while back." Mich.e.l.le pressed her face back up to the window. "This is too good to be true. Alison, I can't pa.s.s this up. Who knows when I'm going to get another chance like this? Don't worry, she'll never connect." Before Alison was quite able to understand what she was talking about Mich.e.l.le had slipped out the door. Alison heard her call, "Hi, Sharon!" in a loud voice as she strode across the street.

There was nothing Alison could do to call her back without blowing her own cover. A woman carrying a huge basket of dirty laundry and trailing two small children came in. When the door swung open Alison strained to hear the women across the street, but all that came through was an occasional high shriek from Mich.e.l.le. Mich.e.l.le was playing Mich.e.l.le, and in very high form; words were not really needed to understand the scene. Mich.e.l.le greeted Sharon and tried to give her a hug that was stiff-armed. Feigning ignorance, Mich.e.l.le asked how she was doing and why she hadn't seen her in ages. Sharon informed her of her new state of enlightenment and introduced the man. Mich.e.l.le expressed astonishment and then laughed so hard and long that she had to hold her sides. She ignored Red Tie totally. Sharon looked sour. Mich.e.l.le, pulling herself together, mimed a mohawk haircut and something else. What was it? Oh, she was asking about the tattoos. Sharon, deciding that there had been enough of this nonsense, attempted to take charge and tried to urge a pamphlet onto Mich.e.l.le. Mich.e.l.le glanced through it and laughed again. Red Tie attempted to enter in. Mich.e.l.le ignored him and continued to address Sharon. Sharon deferred to Red Tie. Mich.e.l.le was getting angry and starting to shout. Uh-oh, here came Janka out the front door, talk-mg to a man who looked familiar. Oh, it was the infamous Malcolm! Janka did a double-take when she saw Mich.e.l.le on the sidewalk screaming at two of the brethren, but she covered it by clutching Malcolm's arm for support. Oh, no, there was one of them right in front of the den of the righteous! Janka was a good actress, thought Alison. She should start taking her around as a mouthpiece. For a moment she forgot all about the current drama and imagined the perfect detective squad. She would have Lawrence for extracting confidences, Robert for intimidating people and Janka for undercover work. Mich.e.l.le could come along to help intimidate, jump-start cars and pick locks.

Oops, while she had been distracted the two men had moved in on Mich.e.l.le, doing a squeeze play on her just as they had done on Alison in front of the bar. Malcolm, although he appeared to still be talking in a calm, persuasive voice, had reached out and put a hand on Mich.e.l.le's arm. Possibly he intended this to be mote calming than intimidating, but of course it was having the opposite effect on Mich.e.l.le, who began whipping her arm up and down in an attempt to make him let go. So, great, what should she do now? Janka was looking slightly apprehensive, but made no move to intervene. She stood next to Sharon, shaking her head.

"Hey! Hey, you f.u.c.khead! I'm going to call the police! I'm calling the cops right now if you don't stop hara.s.sing that woman!" The woman with the children had rushed to the door and flung it open. Her shout brought a small crowd from the bakery. "You self-righteous b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Did you ever hear about everybody having the same rights in this country? They'd persecute you in Russia, did you know that? I'm calling the cops!"

Malcolm decided that retreat was strategic. He dropped Mich.e.l.le's arm and gestured to the other man. Between them they swept up the women and disappeared into the building.

The laundromat woman pulled her head in the door and glared at Alison, daring her to say anything.

"Um, would they really persecute them in Russia now?"

The woman laughed. "Well, it sounded good."

"Do they have that kind of scene often?"

"Not exactly that same one, but someone's always dragging in some poor, browbeaten man or some teenager who's crying. It makes me sick."

Oh, there was Janka coming out again, escorted by both men. All three looked up and down the street, checking to see if the wicked h.o.m.o was gone. Oh dear, problem, they wanted to walk Janka to her car. Okay, she had it covered. She pointed to the cafe on the corner and her watch; her husband was going to meet her. Thank you very much. You've been helpful, I'll be calling back soon. She clicked off in her pumps and after a moment the men went back inside.

"I can't believe the nerve of that woman!" raved Mich.e.l.le, throwing herself down into one of Alison's kitchen chairs.

"Time out," Alison said. Mich.e.l.le had dominated the ride home, and she was sick of it. "Janka's turn. She was supposed to be the one doing undercover."

"Yes, honey," Janka inserted, "what were you doing out there?"

"She was pretending she was Kate-f.u.c.king-Delafield," crabbed Alison. It had been too long since she had eaten.

"And you're the only one who gets to play that part, right?" Mich.e.l.le was in high spirits, so rarely did she get to satisfy her need for drama in such a satisfactory manner. She slipped out of her chair and went to the refrigerator, knowing from years of experience when Alison was about to hit the blood sugar bottom.

"I found out that they're willing to grab people," she yelled over her shoulder.

"We knew that. Let Janka talk."

"Oh, G.o.d, it's good not to be Norma anymore. Well, they were very sympathetic. I whined and cried and moaned about how awful the whole thing was and they said, 'Yes-yes, there-there, they were sure she was a nice girl who had just been lead astray and they were sure they could help, particularly since the relationship had just started, and was I sure it was the first one?' And I said 'Of course!' and that it was just because she had been so stressed out over these problems with her husband, and he was a very good man, but possibly not as sensitive as he could be...."

"Ha!" Mich.e.l.le laughed. She set a plate of crackers and fruit on the table, picked up a slice of apple and stuck it into Alison's mouth. "You said he was a lousy f.u.c.k, right?"

"Hey, I had those people convinced that I had never said the word 'f.u.c.k' in my life. I only hinted-they brought up the marital bed. But they said yes, it sounded like I was right, and that it would help if my sister could be separated from the influence of this other woman, and they were sure it would help if she would come to one of their support groups."

"More about the 'support groups' later," said Alison. "Even I got a little dirt from one of the neighbors, that woman who yelled at them from the laundromat."

"So I said that I was sure she wouldn't come and I certainly couldn't force her by myself, she's being very hostile to me...."

"What about the imaginary husbands?" asked Alison.

"They're imaginary f.a.ggots," piped Mich.e.l.le cheerfully, pouring everyone a gla.s.s of milk.

"Hers is too stressed out to deal with anything at all. In fact, he can't even take care of their kids, so they're with her and that other woman, which is another thing worrying me. My husband is older than me and has arthritis. No help there."

"Oh, you're good," said Alison admiringly, biting into a cracker. "Where'd you learn to lie like that?"

Mich.e.l.le leaned forward anxiously to hear the answer, as if afraid that it would involve deception over past lovers.

"This isn't lying, this is theater," Janka said. "I became Norma White. When I got out of there I started looking for my station wagon. But, to get back to the story, they said I should just ask her to go, and if that didn't work, perhaps they could get someone to help persuade her. That was the word they used, although I got the feeling it might have been synonymous for strong-arm. Or if I could get her to come to my house they could arrange to have a meeting there. You know, like I could lock all the doors and they could shout at her and pray for her and show her flip charts. Or so I a.s.sume. Then I fussed around some more and said oh, if I could only take her somewhere for a little vacation, I could pay for it and it would do her so much good, after all, we had the same upbringing and all she needed was to clear her mind and remember the values we had been taught, but I knew that she'd never come with me. Now, they didn't bite on that one..."

"Well, I hardly expected them to pull out a gunny sack and chloroform the first time you talked to them," said Alison, more mellow now that she had eaten.

"...but there were some looks. They have definitely done some dirty work."

"Did anybody seem to be nuts?"

"Oh, h.e.l.l, they were all nuts. Why the f.u.c.k else would you devote your life-and they were all volunteers-to making sure that other people were miserable?"

"Oh, G.o.d, people do that all the time. I mean more than Moral Majority nutty. Like crazy-fervent enough to kill a queer for Christ."

"Sharon told me that I was going to burn in h.e.l.l if I didn't change my evil ways," Mich.e.l.le volunteered, finishing off the last of the crackers. "She also told me I should pluck out my eye or cut off my hand before allowing it to offend the Lord."

"What did you say?"

"I asked if she'd had a c.l.i.torectomy. That's when the shouting started. Apparently we no longer use those words in front of a woman whose main verb and adjective used to be variations of 'f.u.c.k.'"

"Speaking of which, I can't wait to get out of these f.u.c.king heels." Janka tipped back her chair and stretched. She had put her labrys necklace back on.

"Yeah, and I've got to get to work," said Mich.e.l.le, "I've got a commission that's due on Sat.u.r.day. Say," she said, as she and Janka got up, "isn't that your phone ringing?"

Finding the address that the woman had given her over the phone was not hard. Unlike Tamara's highrise, this house was like Alison's, a Victorian, but had not been cut up into apartments. The yard was small and beautifully kept, the kind that stable married people keep. And as far as Alison could cell, a most married couple lived here.

"Oh, yes, come in...you're the policewoman. My name is Beth Caldwell." The woman who answered the door was somewhat older than her absent partner, Dominique, and her voice had a breathless, uncertain quality to it, as if she were not quite sure she were saying the right thing. She was dressed in a tan skirt and a cream-colored blouse. Her grey hair was brushed back from her face in soft wings.

"Please sit down." Beth indicated a comfortable couch and a pair of rattan chairs. Before sitting down Alison glanced around the room. It was lined with old-fashioned display cabinets, the kind her grandmother kept china and silver in. These housed a collection of sh.e.l.ls, feathers, bones and fetishes. Alison put out a hand to finger a clay pot that looked like a tiny horse lying on its side, then jerked it back guiltily.

Beth laughed. "Oh, go ahead and touch it. I have everything fragile locked up. This is the hands-on exhibit. We got that in Bolivia a couple of years ago. Of course, it's only a copy." She sat down across from Alison. Coffee and cookies were laid out between them, but she made no effort to touch anything. "Two detectives came to see Denise yesterday," she said abruptly.

"Denise? Ah.. .did they say why?"