Prologue

Danielle had been in the bathroom nearly a half hour, and Sarah Carterwas beginning to worry. What if her lover were sick? She'd looked alittle pale all evening. So Sarah got up out of her booth, worked her waypast the crowded dance floor, and made her way back to the hallway wherethe toilets were located. She checked the first one -- no Danielle.

The second bathroom was dark, and Sarah had to fumble for the lightswitch beside the door. What she saw in the sudden, harsh glare made herlose her dinner of crab-cakes and wine all over the polished vinyl floor.Ten minutes later, they found her there, drained and weeping.

Episode 1: A Case of Murder Most Foul

I looked out the window at a typical Seattle winter day. That is, it wasgray, dreary and wet, the kind of day that made you want to stay homebeside a fire with a glass of chianti in one hand and a lover in the other.Unfortunately, it was a weekday and, like every other poor sap in the city,I was at work. Looking down from my window, I could see one of thosesaps now, scurrying down the sidewalk, umbrella extended like a talismanagainst the endless Seattle rain. Further out, beyond the Space Needle, itsmassive legs jutting from the clouds, the Bremerton Ferry disappearedlike a ghost in the mist.

That morning, I'd received a mysterious phone call from my associate,Frenchy. She'd said she would be in at nine, with a friend, and to makesure I was dressed. Anyone else would have retorted "Of COURSE I'll bedressed!", or something equally indignant, but I knew exactly what shemeant. So, that morning I was wearing a black miniskirt, sheer blackpanty hose, and two-inch pumps. I had on my favorite wig, an auburnshoulder-length number, and just enough makeup to hide what was left ofmy stubble. I'd never really had much of a beard, and what I'd had wasblond, but I'd gotten tired of having to use too much foundation. So, abouta year before, I'd begun electrolysis. Just a couple of more visits, and allthe hair would be gone, and none too soon -- I'd discovered I had a REALLYlow tolerance to pain.

I turned and faced my domain: a small, musty office with a desk thatlooked like it had last seen service during the Roosevelt administration.In front of the desk were a couple of straight-backed chairs, and behind itwas a deep, leather executive chair that I had gotten second-hand from alaw firm. It was my only luxury. To my left, a small closet harbored adress, two skirts, three blouses, assorted high-heeled pumps and sandals,and even some boy clothes, just in case.

Frenchy's late, I thought, glancing at my watch. So what elseisnew?

The smell of fresh coffee lured me to the tiny anteroom; I poured a cupand sat behind Frenchy's desk, legs crossed, reading a two-monthold copy of "Mademoiselle." I was half-way through an article about a guywho makes a quite respectable living working as a woman's fashionmodel, wondering how much he makes and if I could get away with it,when the outer door opened, revealing a mousy looking woman. Close onher heels was Frenchy, wearing her standard jeans, tennis shoes and atee-shirt that read "Men Suck."

"Dawn," she said, "I'd like you to meet Sarah Carter."

I rose to my feet, smoothing my skirt. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Carter."The other woman stared, mouth open, as I took her outstretched hand.

"And you, Ms., uh Mr., Benedict," she said with understandableconfusion.

"Please, call me Dawn. Why don't we go into my office, where we canbe a little more comfortable."

I led the way into the office trailed by the two women, motioning tothe two chairs in front of the desk, and eased myself down into theexecutive chair. Mousy wasn't quite the right word to describe Sarah, Idecided -- she was pretty in a non-descript way, her choice of clothingseemingly designed to enable her to fade into the background. Her loose-fitting business suit was a light gray, covering a plain white blouse, andshe was shod in sensible, black flats. At the moment, she still watchedme with a kind of slack-jawed astonishment. I often have that effect onpeople.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Carter?" I began.

She glanced nervously over at my associate, who nodded encouragingly."Well, I don't know quite where to start. I frequent a . . . club called the`Lavender and Leather'. Do you know it?"

"Yes, I know it," I replied. "Lesbian hang-out down on sixth."

"Right," Sarah continued. "Well, two weeks ago, there was ashooting of a woman named Danielle Squires. Nobody saw anything, nobodyheard anything, she was just found dead in the bathroom."

"What did the police say?"

"The police? Oh, the police came, interviewed a few of the women, andthen left again. You know how it is -- the Lavender is a lesbian bar, andthe cops have better things to do than find the murderer of some dyke. Icalled homicide and got the old Seattle P.D. runaround. `We're working onit, ma'am. We've got some leads, ma'am. We'll let you know.'"

"Did you know the victim?"

"Danielle was my lover," said Sarah Carter, a deep bitterness in hervoice. Frenchy reached across and took her hand, and there was silencefor a few moments. Then, with a visible effort, Sarah pulled herselftogether.

"So. I want to hire you to find out who killed her. Frenchy says you'rethe best, and you've got obvious advantages that other detectives don'thave. I actually believe that you could go into the Lavender and askquestions without anybody batting an eye."

"I don't know . . ." I began.

"I can pay you. I've got a good job."

"It's not that -- it's just that there MUST be better investigators forthis one. Like ones with the right plumbing, for example."

It was Frenchy who answered. "Not that I know of. There aren't awhole lot of female P.I.s out there, Dawn. Kinsey Milhone and V.I.Warshawski are FICTIONAL. And besides, I trust you." There was apleadingtone to her voice.

I had reservations about the whole thing, but I never could turn Frenchydown. "All right," I said, "I get two hundred a day plus expenses, fivehundred up front."

"Ah, Mademoiselle Benedict," he said, eyes twinkling. "Today, you areas lovely as the flowers that bloom in the Spring. And, what is thatperfume? It makes my head swim with delight . . ."

I wore the same perfume as always, but I was flattered anyway.He took my hand and, bowing low over it, kissed it noisily. My facecolored prettily -- there's nothing like a Frenchman to make a girl feeldesirable.

Jacques gave a perfunctory nod in Frenchy's direction, which infuriatedher as usual, then led us to our table by the fireplace. Along the way, Ireceived admiring stares from the men in the room, accompanied byfrowns of annoyance from their female companions. As usual, I imaginedthat I looked better than all of the genetic females in the place. When wesat down, Frenchy, restored to good humor, gave me an amused look.

"For someone who so loudly protests his heterosexuality, you certainlyenjoy Jacques' attentions," she said. "He's gay, you know."

"Jacques? Gay? I hardly think so . . . he just enjoys playing games.We're some of his favorite customers."

"Gay," she repeated. "I can tell."

Now it was my turn to be amused. "YOU can tell? Talk about yourstereotyping -- you announce your sexual orientation on tee-shirts, forGod's sake."

"At least I don't pretend to be something I'm not. You appropriate ourlooks, our power, and can retreat back to your own sex whenever it'sconvenient. All the benefits, none of the drawbacks. No period, no PMS, noauto mechanics trying to screw you, none of the SHIT that real womenhaveto put up with everyday."

We'd had this conversation before, and it continued along now prettymuch on auto-pilot. We were like a married couple, bickering away on ourfavorite argument, content in our comfortable mode of communication. I'dknown Frenchy for years, since my days on Seattle P.D., when a misguidedneighbor had called the cops to investigate some "lesbos" that had movedin next door to him. A patrolman at the time, I had answered the call and,after explaining that no, there weren't any laws against that sort of thingin Seattle, and that the department had no real interest in what twoconsenting adults did in their own home, was invited in by Frenchy and herlover for coffee. A couple of weeks after that, I'd been promoted toplainclothes and assigned to vice, marking the beginning of the end of myservice to the City of Seattle.

We ordered our lunches -- salad for me and a cheeseburger and fries forFrenchy -- while I flirted outrageously with the waiter, my companionlooking sourly on. When our meals came, our conversation turned serious,to the problem of Sarah Carter and her murdered lover.

"How well do you know Sarah?" I asked, chasing a slippery tomatoaround the plate with my fork. "I mean, do you believe her when she saysthat her lover wasn't involved with anything shady?"

Frenchy chewed thoughtfully on her cheeseburger, thinking the questionover. I knew that murders didn't usually happen at random, especially injoints like the "Lavender and Leather". They usually were committed bysomeone the victim knew, either through association with something notaltogether on the up-and-up, or through the bedroom, by a current orformer lover.

"Well, I've never been intimate with Sarah, if that's what you mean,but we've known each other for some time, and I think she's telling thetruth." She paused, then frowned. "At least what SHE thinks is thetruth."

"That may make things easier," I said. "But then again, maybe not.Sarah didn't seem to know much about her lover's life before they met, nordid she appear to care." I took a delicate sip of wine. "What do you knowabout the club?"

"The Lavender? It's a pretty upscale place. Not exactly a leather-dykebar, although there is that element. I guess it's a kind of a catch-all,where everyone from secretaries to truck-drivers to corporate executivesgo to relax and be with their lovers."

"Males aren't particularly welcome in that place, are they?" When sheshook her head, I related the experience of one of my more adventuroussisters, who ventured into the bar after a particularly inspirationalsupport-group meeting and barely made it out alive. She thought shepassed quite well, until being chased out and down the block by four large,leather-clad women. So much for passability.

Frenchy almost choked on her fries laughing. "Yes, I can imagine herproblem. The patrons of the Lavender don't take kindly to imitationwomen."

I let the obvious slur pass -- not wanting to be drawn back into our oldargument -- and said "Well, I think our first step is to interview some ofthe women at the bar. Maybe they'll tell you or me what they wouldn't tellthe cops. That is, if you think they won't discover my true sex . . ."

She looked me over in a mock-critical fashion. "Dawn, of all the men Iknow, you can probably pull it off."

"Thanks, sweetie," I replied, pleased by the compliment for whichI'd so obviously fished.

"Pick you up at seven?"

"Could you make it eight, in front of the Church? I've got a meeting atsix."

After we paid the check, with Jacques practically slobbering over mein his ardor, we stepped out into the soggy Northwest afternoon. I waselated at being on a case and ready for anything. At the time, I didn'tknow how wrong I was.

Next, The Investigation Begins

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