I stood in the pre-dawn stillness thinking that this was a hell of a way to make a living. I'd gotten up earlier than usual to get ready for this meet, my feet were already killing me, and the best was yet to come. I sullenly surveyed my surroundings. To the left rose the towers of downtown Seattle -- gray, ugly, seemingly lifeless in the morning gloom.Waterfront Park, where I stood, was nearly empty at this hour; only joggers broke the quiet, with their feet slap-slapping against the asphalt and their sweaty faces fixed on their own private hells. Behind me I heard the unmistakable whine of a garbage truck, crushing the detritus of human existence, preparing to haul it off from one place where it wasn't wanted to another. I guess I get kind of existential in the morning.

The sun finally peeked up over the Cascade mountains, turning the eastern sky into the color of a drag queen's lipstick. The hour of my appointment was near, and I ran over the preparations in my head. At my feet was a large, lavender gym bag, like the blackmail note had specified. Inside the bag was a hundred grand in cold, hard cash. My purse contained lipstick, powder, eye shadow, and blush -- everything a woman needs to keep her looking good during a hard day. Oh yeah, and a small, 9-mm, semi-automatic pistol. A girl just can't be too careful.

Now, I saw a man walking slowly up the pathway, dressed in a purple Huskies sweat suit. He looked like he'd been stuffed into the sweats -- a large gut swayed slowly with his stride, looking like a beach ball overfilled with KY jelly, and wattles spilled sullenly over the crewneck of the shirt, seemingly continuous with gelatinous, poorly-shaved jowls. Close-set, piggy eyes completed the picture. Not exactly a dreamdate.

On the other hand, I knew I looked good. I wore a fuschia Donna Karan suit, and matching pumps (sadly, they clashed with the gym bag). My skirt ended several inches above the knees, and the breeze off the water made it cling suggestively to my thighs. Long, dark curls completed the picture of a well-heeled business woman, the kind that this slime-ball preyed on.

The fat guy stopped, plopping heavily on a park bench about fifty feet away, and commenced to look me over, eyes flicking nervously over me from head to toe. He licked his greasy lips, perhaps working up the courage to approach. His hands were empty; I hoped he'd brought the goods.

Finally, he heaved himself up off the bench and approached. I tried to look young and frightened.

"Angela Barclay?"

"Y-yes. And you're . . . ?"

"Never you mind who I am, honey." He had a faint Southern accent."For your marriage's sake, I hope you have a lot of cash in that bag."

"You've got the pictures?"

"Got `em right here." He reached around and fumbled with something in his pants. I wasn't sure WHAT he was going for, but what he produced was a soiled manila envelope, sweat-stained and wrinkled. At least I HOPED it was just sweat.

"Here ya go, babe. Now, just kick the bag over here with your pretty little foot, and I'll give `em to you," he said. He must have been blind as well as ugly, because my feet aren't all that little. Anyway, I had to see the evidence.

"Not so fast," I replied. "I should at least see the pictures."

By this time, the sleaze-bucket was close. Too close. I could smell the stench radiating from him in waves, like stale sweat with a touch of fresh urine. Yum. He held out the envelope, and I took it from him,ripping open the seal to find seven 8 x 10 color glossies. They showed mein various imaginative positions with an extremely male horse. I was naked. So was the horse. Only problem was, I was pretty sure they weren't me --I didn't look ANYTHING like that from the neck down. Someone was real good with a scanner and Photoshop.

"How do I know these are all there are?" I asked.

"Well, now, you just have to trust me . . . don't you, darlin'?" So that was his game -- he was trying to build up a nice, steady little source of tax-free income to see him into his old age. Well, we'd see about that.

Now came the tricky part. I reached down, picked up the gym bag and handed it to him. He took the bag, and zipped it open. His eyes got enormous as he lifted out a big bundle of twenty dollar bills. I reached into my purse for the 9 mm, and simultaneously took a step back. As I did, my heel caught in a crack, and I fell backwards onto my padded butt-hard. My wig came loose in the front, slipping back to reveal short blond hair. Shit!

"Hey, what is this?" the fat man demanded.

I finally got the piece out of my purse. "Freeze, sucker!" I said. In my excitement, my voice dropped at least two octaves. A low growl, not entirely in keeping with my feminine image.

Instead of freezing, he kicked my gun hand, sending the 9 mm skittering away on the pavement, and launched himself toward me where I lay on the ground. He moved incredibly fast for such a big guy. Well, I could move faster. Rolling to the right, I heard a sodden "thud" as he landed where I had been only seconds before. Saved from crushing again, I thought.

Continuing my roll, my wrist on fire where the son of a bitch kicked it, I scrabbled blindly for the pistol. There! As my hand closed on the 9mm,I heard his voice behind me.

"I'm gonna KILL you, faggot!"

Enraged, I twisted around, caught a glimpse of a knife, and aimed the pistol one-handed "I am not GAY!"

Bang! A red blotch bloomed on his shoulder. He kept coming.

"I'm only expressing my feminine SIDE!"

Bang! This time, I hit him in the chest, and he dropped like a sack of rolled oats. I saw the knife clearly for the first time -- a large hunting number, with an American eagle carved decoratively into the handle. He must have been carrying it in his pants. And I thought he was just glad to see me.

I clambered shakily to my feet, and just stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the dead man at my feet. I looked up, and saw a pair of cyclists stopped on the pathway, sleek helmets atop their heads, padded lycra shorts encasing their skinny butts. They were staring not at the rapidly cooling corpse, but at me, with a mixture of revulsion and fascination on their earnest, overachieving faces. Jesus, I thought, I must look a fright! With as much dignity as I could muster, I reached around behind my head and pulled my wig the rest of the way off. The bicyclists gasped. Then, I carefully pulled it back on, from the front in approved Eva Gabor fashion, and pinned it back into place. Next, I bent over, giving the gawking exercise enthusiasts a good look at my bruised(but still lovely) butt, retrieved my purse from where it was lodged under the body, and proceeded to repair my make up. Beautiful at last, I blew the cyclists a big, juicy kiss.

I heard a rustling in a clump of shrubbery to my right. "You can come out now" I called, voice once again under control, feminine and lilting.

My associate, Frenchy, stepped out of the bushes, a video camera in one hand and a cigarette dangling from the other. Her hair was long and straight, dark brown, and topped with a red beret, from whence came her rather politically incorrect nickname. She was wearing jeans, sneakers and a "Lesbian Avengers" tee-shirt. She looked singularly unimpressed.

"Lucky for you he had a knife," she said. "I caught it all on tape,and it'll show self-defense, probably."

"It WAS self-defense," I said stoutly.

"Sure. Whatever." She sounded as if she didn't much care one way or the other. "Are you done prettying yourself up, because the cops are going to be here any . . ."

She stopped, listening. I heard it too -- the ululating whine of a police siren, getting closer. Shortly, a black-and-white careened around the corner and proceeded straight up the bike path, screeching to a halt in front of us, lights flashing. Great, I thought, a rookie fresh out of cop school, with too much cops-and-robbers TV shit under his belt.

Sure enough, a uniformed officer who was obviously too young to shave clambered out of the cruiser. He stood in the open door of the car,surveying the scene and talking on his radio, undoubtedly calling an ambulance. Plainly, the action was over for the moment. There was actually a look of disappointment on the young cop's face. Finally, he holstered his night stick and swaggered over, giving as wide a berth as he could to the body, and trying unsuccessfully to hide his intense interest in my breast forms. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Frenchy with a sardonic smile playing at her lips.

"I'm Officer Kress. What seems to be the problem here, Miss?"

"The problem SEEMS to be that this man is dead. I shot him. I'm a private investigator," I said, flipping open my ID. "Name's Dawn Benedict. This asshole was blackmailing my client, him and another jerk-off, and I got him to try to blackmail me. That was a mistake on his part. When we met for the exchange, he pulled a knife and I had to shoot him."

"Uh, huh," replied Kress, still examining my ID. "This says Donald Benedict, and it's got a picture of a GUY. This you?"

"I'm under cover. Look, my partner here has it all on video . . .why don't you take a look at it?"

"We'll have to wait `till homicide gets here. Say, can I ask you a personal question?"

I sighed. "Go ahead."

"Well, er, how do you get, you know, so good looking? I mean, if I didn't know, I'd think you were a gorgeous girl."

"It took a lot of hard work," I replied. "First, all the shaving and plucking, then at least an hour on the face." Behind the cop, Frenchy tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle.

He stared at the smooth front of my skirt. "Where do you put, you know, IT?"

"Why, what a RUDE question," I said with my best flirtatious smile."A girl has to have SOME secrets, you know." Frenchy opened her mouth wide and made gagging motions with her forefinger.

We were all saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of an ambulance from St. Mary's General. Glad for the distraction, Officer kress hurried over to the corpse to confer with the paramedics. What followed was typical of crime scenes everywhere -- much scurrying around, talking on the radio, examining the deceased, taking measurements, more talking on the radio, and then more examining the deceased. The place was chaotic, not at all like on television, where the macho cop directs everything with cool precision. By the time the lab boys arrived,Frenchy and I had settled on a nearby bench for the duration, she on her second pack of Camels and me with my legs crossed, showing quite a bit of thigh, and longing for a smoke. We watched the techies do their work. They occasionally glanced over at us, then hurriedly away, as if we had the plague. Hadn't they ever seen a "Lesbian Avengers" tee-shirt before?

By the time a green un-marked sedan pulled up, it was close to seven-thirty, and the city was fully awake. The smell of exhaust battled the fresh salt tang of the sea, and I heard the occasional sound of sirens from various parts of town, as other ambulances and other policemen hurried to other emergencies. The sedan had a flashing, blue portable bubble stuck on the driver's side, a beefy guy behind the wheel, and a small, rat-faced individual riding shotgun. I knew the little one . . . it was my old partner from Seattle P.D., Bernie Peterson. His partner got out of the car, and sauntered over to where the coroner was making notes over the corpse. Peterson headed our way, trailed by the earnest young Officer Kress.

"Hi, Frenchy," he said to my assistant.

"Hi yourself, Bernie," replied Frenchy with a smile.

"What the hell happened here, anyway?"

"Better ask Dawn."

"I will, I will . . ." He turned to Kress. "Peterson, homicide.And you are?"

"Peter Kress. Fourth Precinct."

"Have you taken a statement yet?"

"Sir, this . . . person . . . says the deceased came at her, uh,him with a knife, and she (no, he) had to shoot him. The other . . . woman, Ms . .."

"La Tour," Frenchy replied helpfully.

"Ms. La Tour, seems to have gotten it all on video. I told them we had to wait until you got here."

"That's fine, Kress, you can go now. You did a fine job." I could see that Bernie was trying to stifle a grin. When the patrolman was out of earshot,he turned to Frenchy. "La tour?"

"It goes with `Frenchy', doesn't it? Where did you get that kid,Bernie?Junior High?"

"They DO seem to get younger every year, don't they?" He shook his head, and looked at me. "Hi, Don. Nice outfit"

"That's Dawn, Bernie, D-a-w-n."

"That's what I said -- Don."

"No, it's pronounced Dawn, drawn out like a yawn." I demonstrated. "Dawwwn .. . oh, never mind." Maybe it was time for a name change.

"So, Daawwwn, what happened here today?"

I told him the whole story, describing at length, with detail and precision that only a former cop could muster. When I was done, Bernie looked at the tape through the eyepiece of the camcorder, twice. After the second time, he looked up at me with something approaching admiration.

"Not bad, old pal. Looks like a fairly straightforward case of self-def.Of course, you'll have to come downtown and make a statement. You too,Frenchy. But, I imagine after the D.A. sees the tape, there won't be any charges."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "That's great, Bernie. I guess I'm lucky that it was you who took this case."

"Well, it wasn't exactly luck," he said. "Frenchy gave me a call."

I looked over at my associate and she patted the cellular phone hanging from her belt. I made a mental note to give her a bonus.

While Frenchy collected her equipment, Peterson and I walked back toward his car. I asked a him a question.

"Since when have you been working homicide, Bern?"

"I just got kinda tired of vice. You know how it is, you get sick of dealing with the scum. All the hookers, pimps and assorted perv . . ." A look of mortification came over his narrow face. "Oh, Jesus, Donnie -- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . ."

I guess he could see the hurt in my eyes. "That's Ok, Bernie," I said quietly. "I know you didn't mean anything by it."

"Hey, how `bout I buy you and Frenchy a cuppa coffee on the way into headquarters? I know a great latte shop only a couple of blocks from here."

I shook my head, laughing. "God, Peterson, I thought I'd never catch you at a latte shop."

"A guy can change, can't he?"

"He certainly can, Bernie, he certainly can." He didn't flinch,much, when I took his arm as we headed on toward the car.