Part 5 (1/2)

”Robert left it. Copies of the homicide report, I guess. He knows I'm playing Nancy Drew.”

”Alison.” Stacy's voice was a hoa.r.s.e whisper. ”Who is this?” Her hand was shaking as she extended a photocopy.

Alison turned it over. ”It says it's Tamara Garrity, the first victim.” What in the world was the matter? Her name had been in the papers now; it couldn't be a surprise. Perhaps Stacy was upset because the woman in the xeroxed photograph was so plainly dead. Or was that only obvious to someone like herself, who had been in the morgue more than once?

Stacy made a little choking noise. She wrapped her arms around herself and began rocking, murmuring something over and over.

”What?” Alison had to lean forward to hear.

”It wasn't the name she gave me.” Only after she repeated it twice and then waved the photo did Alison understand.

”You mean you knew her, too? But why didn't you ever ”

”It wasn't the name she gave me,” said Stacy again. ”It says her name is Tamara, here, but the only name she ever gave me was Laura.” She s.h.i.+vered and wrapped her arms back around herself. Alison s.h.i.+vered in imitation, somehow unable to ask the only question that was in her mind. When Stacy said she knew these women, did she mean they were clients?

Alison was still puzzling over this the next day when she left the Blue Ryder. She had thought that Jenny, the owner, would recognize the photo of Melanie right away. She had expected Jenny to say that Melanie had come in every Thursday regular as clockwork. But Jenny didn't remember ever seeing her in the bar. In fact, she had reminded Alison, she had seen the body and thought it was strange that Melanie had been left by a bar of which she was not a patron.

Alison had scored in one way though. On impulse she had described the encounter with Malcolm to Jenny, and the answer had been a prompt, ”Yes.” The Crusaders had been to the bar a number of times, and on at least one occasion a woman had been grabbed.” Jenny didn't know if the goal had been s.n.a.t.c.hing or roughing-up-either way, other d.y.k.es had intervened.

So, she had to think of a new line to follow. What about Tamara Garrity? Did she have a lover or neighbor or roommate who could give her some answers?

Six.

Tamara's address was not far from Alison's own, but there all similarity ended. Alison had pictured a divided Victorian, like the one she and Mich.e.l.le lived in, and had imagined it in the middle of the gay ghetto. But Tamara had lived in what was, for Denver, practically a high rise. Alison's hopes of an intimate neighbor went down. Still, she was here and might as well try.

No one answered the door of number 445 though Alison knocked much longer than was polite. She stood for a minute, chewing her lower lip and trying to decide on her next move. The elevator clanged open and she glanced over her shoulder. A small, round woman dressed in a mail carrier's uniform exited the car. The woman gave her a quick once over, followed by an 'I-know-you-know' look. Maybe this was going to be her break. Alison knocked on Tamara's door again.

Bingo. The woman approached her, a look of concern on her face. ”Um, excuse me, um, I don't know if you know...um, are you a friend of Tamara's?” She was having trouble blurting out the news. Alison didn't blame her-for all she knew, she could be an unsuspecting out-of-town lover who might go into hysterics.

”I know Tamara is dead. I was hoping that she lived with someone. I'm investigating the murder.” Alison hadn't known that she was going to say this until it came out, but she was pleased. It was much neater than the 'I'm a police officer, but I'm on vacation and this isn't official' line, and it shouldn't get her in trouble at work because, after all, anyone could ask questions. Now all she had to do was hope that the woman was a fan of d.y.k.e-detective novels and would recognize one great chance to help a sleuth and be forthcoming. She pulled in her stomach and tried to look cool without actually changing position, wis.h.i.+ng she had put on a black turtleneck and shades, instead of her paint-stained Holly Near T-s.h.i.+rt. d.y.k.e detectives were always quite attractive on the page, and had at least one affair per story with a witness, victim, or suspect. Oh, well, at least her notebook looked official.

”I probably knew Tamara better than anyone else in the building. Do you want to come in and talk to me? My name is Becky, by the way.”

”How well did you know her?” Alison asked as the woman led her into a pleasant, cluttered apartment.

Becky shook her head and dropped into an armchair. ”Not well. I mean, I think it's awful that she was killed-I was really freaked out. But, in kind of a generic way-you know, more freaked out that another d.y.k.e was killed than that a friend was killed. I didn't cry. We had a chit-chat d.y.k.e-talk in the hall kind of thing. We never went out or asked each other in. It's scary-two d.y.k.es killed at two different bars now-makes you wonder.”

”Did she go out to the bars a lot?”

”Well, she talked about it a lot. Whenever we were in the elevator together she always mentioned The Rubyfruit. You ever been there?”

Alison shook her head. ”Not for a long time.”

”Lot of leather d.y.k.es there. Lot of ultra-femme leather types. She liked pretty femme women-I saw her bring a couple home and they were all the leather skirt and high heels type.”

Like Stacy, Alison thought with a flash of jealousy. ”Do you know where she worked?” she asked, not so much because she wanted to know-it was probably in the report-but just to keep Becky flowing.

”In some bank downtown. It was a real kick to see her come home in her bank drag, you know, suit and pumps, and then to see her go out later in her butch stuff. Total transformation.”

”Did she have any special friends? People who came over regularly?”

Becky shook her head. ”She hadn't lived here that long. She was just transferred a couple of months ago. I think that was partly why she didn't seem to really know many people. But she was also a really private person- almost paranoid. You know, you'd ask her something casual like, 'Where are you from?' and she'd turn it.”

That explained the fake name to Stacy. ”Did you see her the night she was killed?”

”Nah. I'd gone out with a friend to catch the early show of I Heard the Mermaids Singing.”

Alison was momentarily distracted. ”I've been meaning to see that. What did you think?”

Becky made an awful face. ”Boring. It was the kind of film that was so arty that it should have had subt.i.tles even though it was in English. Slow plot. But my friend loved it and said I had the attention span of a five-year-old.”

Alison laughed, and now that she found Becky relaxed, she switched tactics, asking abruptly, ”Did you ever see her with her clothes off?”

Becky laughed. ”You don't understand. She liked leather women, and she liked femmes. Body-builder types. She did not go for fat mail d.y.k.es with frizzy hair. It was not that kind of relations.h.i.+p.”

”No, I didn't mean that. But there's a pool and a sauna in the building, right? I wondered if you had ever seen her changing clothes, anything like that.”

Becky took a moment to answer. ”Yeah,” she said slowly, ”I did run into her once in the locker room. I had forgotten that.”

”Did you notice any scars? On her back? A sunburst?” asked Alison, mentally referring to the police report.

”Yeah...when she was bending over...before she knew I was there. But I didn't say anything-like I say, she was pretty private. To tell the truth, she really hurt my feelings that day. As soon as I said 'h.e.l.lo' she jumped a foot and scuttled off into one of the cubicles, like I was going to drool on her or jump her bones or something. I mean, I may not be as hot-looking as she was, but I'm not desperate. Then I decided later that she might have been paranoid about the scars. It was obviously deliberate scarification-it couldn't have been from an accident or an operation. Maybe she'd been ha.s.sled about it before.”

Becky walked her to the door. ”Say,” she said suddenly, ”did you ever see those scars yourself?”

”No, I didn't know her. I've never seen anything but the morgue photo.”

”Oh, yeah, I guess that's right.” Becky looked a little queasy. ”Anyway, there was one thing about them. They made a starburst, like you said. But the last ray,” she made a downstroking motion, ”it wasn't like the others. They were all very neat, like they'd been made with a ruler. But the last one was more jagged, more like a hack than anything else.”

The elevator arrived, and Alison stepped in. Just before the doors clanged shut Becky called, ”The last scar I was telling you about? It was much pinker than the rest. That one was new.”

”Um, hi.” Stacy stared through the cracked door blankly. Oh, dear, thought Alison, this was a bad move. Not everyone liked being dropped in on without warning. She should have called first. She was losing her social skills. Well, she'd just have to go into Approach Number Two, the 'Do-you-have-a-few-minutes-so-I-can-ask-some-questions' mode.

She cleared her throat, but before she could launch herself Stacy's face cleared and she smiled.

”Oh, hi.” She pulled the door open wide. ”Come on in-I guess it is quitting time, isn't it? I'm sorry-I get so engrossed in my stuff that I lose contact.” She zipped back into the workroom for a moment to turn down the stereo. The room looked as if a fabric bomb had exploded inside it, but Alison was less interested in that than the philosophical question posed by Stacy's music-could a Dead Head ever find happiness with a Patsy Cline fan?

”Did you bring me a present?” Stacy asked like a three-year-old, looking at Alison's canvas King Sooper's bag.

Alison ceased her musing, which had gone beyond the music question and onto that age old question of why d.y.k.es thought about everyone in terms of Long Term Relations.h.i.+ps instead of dating.

”What I actually was thinking of doing was making dinner, if you're not busy?”

”Great! Real cooking! But I do have a gig at nine, so that time frame would have to be okay with you.”