by Radclyffe
“Baby, Dr. Torveau said—”
“I hate this. The way I feel—like something is missing.” Michael’s fingers trembled as she continued to caress Sloan’s face. “That hurts almost as much as the headache.”
The anguish in her voice was more than Sloan could bear.
“You were hit by a car, out in front of the house.” Sloan spoke slowly, carefully, gauging how much to say by the cadence of Michael’s breathing. She listened fretfully for any sign that Michael was upset. “It happened Saturday night.”
“I can’t remember.”
Sloan drew away enough to meet Michael’s gaze. “You will. It’s normal not to be able to remember for a while. It’s going to be okay, baby. I promise.”
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“No.” A muscle in Sloan’s jaw bunched and quivered. Pain lanced behind her eyes. “No one else. Just you.”
“The other driver?”
“He didn’t stop.” The words felt like acid in her throat. Sloan’s hand clenched into a fist where it rested on her blue-jean-covered thigh. God damn it. It was supposed to have been me!
Michael felt her lover tense and saw the white-knuckled fist. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Michael. Baby.” Sloan’s voice was nearly pleading. “You just got home. You’re supposed to be resting. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
“Promise?” Michael drew Sloan’s head back to her shoulder and kissed her forehead. She waited until Sloan gradually relaxed in her arms again. “I have to know what happened so that I can put this all behind me. You have to help me with that.”
“I will. I promise.” Sloan nuzzled her face against Michael’s neck, needing to feel the heat of her skin and the rush of blood through the rippling vessels, so vital, so alive. Her voice was hoarse as she whispered, “I love you so much.”
“I’m here. Right here.” Michael pressed against Sloan’s body, drawing solace from her nearness even as she offered Sloan the comfort of her embrace.
“Don’t ever go.”
“No, love. Never.”
*
Sarah walked from the guest bedroom at the far end of the loft into the living area and discovered the two lovers asleep in one another’s arms. She gazed at them, a tender smile on her face, wishing that the peace they shared at that moment could last forever. Unfortunately, the ringing of the phone shattered the silence, and the brief interlude was over. Sarah grabbed it, but not before Sloan stirred, fighting to open her eyes while mumbling with the last vestiges of exhausted sleep. “Who...what?”
“Sloan and Lassiter residence,” Sarah said, turning her back to the resting women and trying to speak quietly.
Silence.
“Hello?”
“Sarah?”
“Jasmine?”
“What are you doing there?” the rich contralto voice inquired. “Is something wrong?”
“No, Michael came home from the hospital a little while ago, and I volunteered to stay with her for a few days.” Puzzled, Sarah mentally flipped through the calendar in her mind. “Where are you?”
Another beat of silence. “Downstairs.”
“Why? You don’t have a show tonight, do you?” Sarah glanced over at the couch where Sloan had shifted to a sitting position, leaning with elbows on knees, her head in her hands. She looked weary beyond imagining. Sarah covered the mouthpiece. “Sloan—go back to sleep. It’s Jasmine. I’ll tell her to call back later.”
“Jasmine?” Sloan said the word as if it were foreign to her, then suddenly straightened. “What time is it?”
“Almost five.” Sarah held up a finger as she listened. “She’s awake now...What? When?...What kind of meeting? With the police?...You’d better come up.” She replaced the receiver and stared at Sloan, who gave her an apologetic smile. “We don’t want to wake Michael.”
Gingerly, Sloan rose, then bent to tuck the blanket around her lover. She crossed to the huge double metal doors, touched the code into the keypad, and the doors slid soundlessly open on well-oiled tracks as the gears hidden within the walls engaged.
Just beyond, a woman who resembled an older version of Sandy stood waiting. Her layered hair was slightly longer and dark where Sandy’s was blond, but she was lithe and sensuous like Sandy. Her skin-tight black pants, body-hugging Lycra top, and scarlet silk blouse left open and tied casually at her narrow waist gave her an aura of confident sensuality. Her make-up was understated but artfully applied, subtly accentuating the sweep of arched cheekbones and the curve of her full lips. She might have been a high-priced call girl or a runway model.
“Jesus, you look...great.” Sloan was tired, and her defenses were down. She always found Jasmine attractive, but sometimes the intense visceral response actually left her uncomfortable. She understood its involuntary nature, but there were any number of reasons why it troubled her, and the fact that she was happily married and had no desire for any woman but Michael was only one of them. The other was that not only was Jasmine committed as well, she was also a man. A straight man, at that, and Sloan’s best friend. Most of the time she was able to balance her affections for Jason and Jasmine, but there were times, like now, when she looked at Jasmine and saw only a beautiful woman.
“Hello, sexy.” Jasmine kissed Sloan on the mouth. “You look like roadkill.”
“Thanks.” Hastily, Sloan cautioned, “Michael’s asleep.”
Jasmine stepped around her into the room while the doors silently closed. Sarah waited close by, and Jasmine kissed her cheek almost shyly. “Hi.”
“Hi yourself,” Sarah replied, her tone subdued. Briefly, she touched Jasmine’s hand. “New slacks?”
“Mmm. This afternoon.”
“Nice.” Sarah gestured with her head. “Let’s go into the bedroom, and you can tell me where you intend to wear them.” She gave Sloan a hard look. “And just what you two are getting yourselves into.”
*
“Did you get anywhere with Jimmy Hogan’s files today?” Rebecca asked as she and Watts waited to be buzzed in at Sloan’s front door.
Watts flipped his cigarette into the street, where it died in a shower of sparks. “Nowhere to get. The guy was like a ghost. He had no regular contacts in narco, even though he was supposed to be a narc. I talked to three or four guys I know there, and they all said the same thing...” The green light on the electronic keypad blinked and he followed Rebecca into the cavernous garage. “He’d leave phone messages about drug buys from time to time...mid-level kinda stuff. Never led to any really big busts. And never any indication that he was closing in on anyone or anything big.”
“Yeah,” Rebecca said disgustedly as they moved toward the elevator. “That kind of intelligence he was probably saving for Avery Clark and Justice.”
“Well, we know he was feeding Cruz intel, because the day they got taken out wasn’t their first meet.”
It was still hard for Rebecca to talk about her previous partner. Harder still for her to believe he was dead. “That was almost always small stuff, too. That chicken house up on North Broad was the biggest thing we got from him, and I’m still not sure he knew what was there when he tipped us.”
“Well, Hogan knew something that got him killed.”
Rebecca stepped into the elevator. “Maybe he didn’t know he was on to something. Maybe he was trying to get something from Cruz, and not the other way around. Christ, I wish Jeff had told me what was going on.”
“Hey,” a voice called from behind them. “Hold that, will you?”
Rebecca braced the door with a hand and turned. Sandy hurried toward the elevator. At Watts’s obvious look of surprise, Rebecca explained quietly, “I don’t know what Jason has in mind, but Sandy is our eyes and ears on the street. I figured she’d have the best sense of whether we can put someone undercover where we need to and make it work.”
“Jesus, it’s not even dark,” Sandy complained. “I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“Hi, Sandy
.” Rebecca smothered a smile.
Sandy grunted a greeting and pointedly ignored Watts, who was studying her sheer V-neck blouse and painted-on Capri slacks with interest.
“It’s September, ya know. Aren’t ya cold?”
“I’m hot-blooded.”
“No foolin’.”
Her glance was withering. Watts hummed something tuneless and rocked back and forth on his scuffed black wingtips, his hands in his pockets, jiggling change.
When the elevator stopped, Rebecca led the way down the hall to the conference room. Sloan was already there, leaning against a counter with a cup of coffee in her hand. Another woman stood nearby, one hip tilted against the end of the conference table. Mitchell, having arrived just before Rebecca and company, sat on the far side of the table in her usual spot.
“Hey,” Sloan said as the group filed in.
“Sloan,” Rebecca acknowledged, studying the dark-haired woman at Sloan’s side. She was certain they hadn’t met, but the stranger seemed familiar nonetheless.
“Yo,” Watts said, eyeing the woman, too, as he settled heavily into a seat. Sandy sat beside him, pointedly not looking at Mitchell across from her.
“Jasmine, this is Sergeant Frye, Detective Watts, and Sandy.” As they all nodded, Sloan continued, “Jasmine works at the Troc, and she knows some of the regulars at Ziggie’s.”
“Uh...doin’ what, exactly?” Watts asked, his gaze dropping from Jasmine’s face to her breasts and lingering a moment. “The Troc’s the kind of club that offers all kinds of entertainment.”
“I’m a singer,” Jasmine replied, her voice whiskey warm.
“That’s it?”
“What else did you have in mind?”
Watts glanced at Rebecca, who continued to study Jasmine intently. When the other detective made no comment, he continued, “It wouldn’t be such a bad thing if you did some...favors for the customers, now and then. At a place like Ziggie’s, that would be...natural. If you were into that, I mean.”
“Soliciting sex is illegal, Detective,” Jasmine said with a sensuous smile. “You’re not suggesting I break the law?”
Watts shifted in his chair, almost as uneasy at Rebecca’s silence as he was with the way Jasmine’s voice made his blood race. He didn’t usually go for hookers, but Jesus, she was something.
Abruptly, Rebecca stood. “Excuse me a moment, Miss...”
“Just Jasmine.” She nearly purred the words.
Rebecca smiled, then glanced at the blond beside her. “Sandy?”
Sandy rose, pretending not to notice the hard stare that Dell threw her way, and followed Rebecca to the far end of the room. They stood close together, backs to the others, and looked out the window to the Delaware River a few blocks away.
In a quiet voice, Rebecca asked, “Know her?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Seen her around before?”
“Nope, and I’d remember. She’s major competition.”
“What do you think?”
“She’s good. Really, really good.” Sandy shrugged. “If she works the streets, she wouldn’t do it in our neighborhood anyhow. Not the right clientele.”
“Who do you know who could check her out for us?”
Sandy shook her head. “I’m not sure. I know a few trannies, but...she’s different. Classy...I don’t think she’s selling it.”
“No, neither do I. Ever seen her in Ziggie’s?”
“I don’t hang there, I told you that.” Sandy shrugged. “Maybe she’s just what she says...a singer. The Troc has regular drag shows.”
Rebecca sighed. She needed a street contact badly, but she was loathe to trust someone she didn’t know, even if Sloan and Jas—“Son of a bitch.”
“Huh?” Sandy gazed up at the tall cop and was surprised to see a smile on her face. “What?”
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”
Sandy stared as Rebecca turned and walked back to her place at the table.
“Jasmine?” Rebecca asked. Blue eyes rose to hers. A full mouth smiled slowly.
“Yes, Sergeant?” The tone was openly seductive now.
“They know you by name in Ziggie’s?”
“Probably. I drop in there now and then with some of the other entertainers from the club.”
“Other drag queens?”
“Huh?” Watts straightened in his seat.
Mitchell swiveled on her chair, eyes narrowing as she looked at Jasmine.
Sloan grinned.
“We prefer the term female impersonators.” Jasmine tossed her head and moved closer to Sloan. She linked an arm through Sloan’s and leaned into her. “Although some of the other performers are drag queens, of course.”
“Huh? What’s she saying?” Watts’s voice had gotten louder.
“She’s a he, you twit,” Sandy said disparagingly.
“No.” Watts looked at Rebecca, who nodded. He slumped in his chair, shaking his head. “Fuck me.”
“How many people know who you are?” Rebecca asked.
Jasmine shrugged, her expression serious. “Not that many. Not in Ziggie’s, that’s for sure.”
“Because that’s the flaw in this plan,” Rebecca said. “Someone knows Sloan was investigating the porn ring. And if they know about Sloan, then they know about Jason.”
Mitchell suddenly gasped. “Oh man...Jason. You’re...beautiful.”
“What!” Watts exploded.
Sandy giggled, then burst into laughter. “You rock, Jasmine.”
Watts stared from face to face as if he had suddenly found himself surrounded by alien life forms. Then he half rose from his seat, his palms flat on the table. “Somebody better tell me what the joke is before I do damage here.”
Sloan took pity on him. “Jasmine is Jason’s stage name, Detective.”
“Jason’s stage name?” Watts looked as if he had been pole-axed. His head tilted from side to side as his face turned from red to purple. “Jason?”
Jasmine smiled kindly. “Jason isn’t here at the moment, Detective. He asked that I stop by to lend you a hand.”
Watts sat, placed his hands in his lap, and stared fixedly at the tabletop.
“How friendly are you with the girls in Ziggie’s?” Rebecca asked. “Because if there’s someone in there who knows about the porn videos, it would be them.”
“Nodding acquaintances. Most of the working girls consider us competition and there’s little love lost because of it.”
“You’re not competition,” Sandy remarked flatly. “Working girls can’t compete with chicks with dicks.”
Watts made a strangled sound. Mitchell’s eyes glittered as she fixed on Sandy’s face.
“I’m not selling anything.” Jasmine’s voice was soft, but edged in steel.
“Too bad—you’d bring in the bucks.” Sandy’s tone was conversational.
Finally, Jasmine smiled. “Why, thank you, honey.”
“What makes you think that you can get what we need in Ziggie’s if the girls won’t talk to you?” Rebecca asked.
“I might not be able to, but I have friends from the Troc who are very close acquaintances of the dancers at Ziggie’s.”
“No way,” Rebecca said sharply. “No more civilians.”
“No, I don’t want to use them either, but I was thinking I could put one of us with them. It would be a natural way in, and I’d be close by as backup, too.”
Rebecca frowned. “I don’t follow. We’ve already decided we can’t put Sandy in Ziggie’s.”
“The show at the Troc has both female and male impersonators,” Jasmine explained. “The drag kings are regulars at Ziggie’s. I can put one of us with them.”
“A drag...king?” Watts finally found his voice. “A girl pretending to be a guy? Are you kidding? Who?”
Jasmine turned and her gaze fell on Officer Dellon Mitchell.
Chapter Twelve
“No,” Rebecca said immediately. “Mitchell’s not trained for undercover.”
“I can do it.” Mitchell’s voice was quiet and sure.
“Undercover work takes practice, kid,” Watts interjected. “You gotta be the person twenty-four seven, because if you lose it for just a minute, you’ll get made. And then...”
He shrugged his shoulders, and a heavy silence fell around the table.
“Dell would be a sitting duck,” Sandy said into the ensuing void. “Nobody’s gonna take her for anything but a cop. Jesus, look at her.”
“Look at Jasmine,” Sloan remarked quietly. “She’s believable, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, but Jasmine is the real deal. And she’s probably been doing it for years.” Sandy tilted her chin at Mitchell. “You think Supercop can learn to pass as a drag king in a week?”
“Sandy,” Mitchell interrupted, her voice low. “Take it easy.”
“You’re just dumb enough to try it. Fuck, Dell.” Sandy slammed back in her chair, muttering something about moronic cops under her breath.
Rebecca glanced sideways at the young blond, contemplating the ferocity in her voice. It surprised her. Sandy rarely displayed any overt signs of attachment. At least not for anyone other than a few of her girlfriends in the life. Rebecca hadn’t missed the use of Mitchell’s first name, either. That’s just perfect. These two are already way too involved. God damn it. Another complication I don’t have time to deal with.
“There’s no point in even discussing it,” Rebecca said flatly. “We don’t have time to create a good background cover for you, Mitchell. You can’t just one day appear. You need a history, a backstory, contacts, people who know you as your alternate persona.”
“That’s where I come in,” Jasmine said, her tone mildly conciliatory. It wasn’t her intention to undermine Rebecca’s authority, but in this particular situation, she was the expert. “If I introduce him...” Jasmine glanced at Mitchell. “He has instant credibility.” Do you get it?
Mitchell’s expression was intent, sensing Jasmine’s question, hearing Watts’s warning. You gotta be the person twenty-four seven, because if you lose it for just a minute, you’ll get made. And then...