Cohen nodded. “All you need are the words ‘undercover cop’ stenciled across your chest.”

“And what about you?” He laughed as he thumbed at Cohen’s suede jacket and khaki pants. “We’re supposed to be casing the skids, and you look like you just stepped out of a Land’s End catalog.”

A few feet ahead, Cohen saw what looked like a woman in a miniskirt, tight sweater, and spike heels sitting against the back wall of an old warehouse. Her face was hidden by the shadows from the building’s overhang, but she held her arms out in the weak light from the second-floor windows. Her pilled sleeve of her red sweater was pulled halfway up her left arm. In her right hand, she steadied a syringe against the skin of her left elbow.

Like Leetch, Cohen stopped and watched as she injected into her arm. The user pulled the needle out of her vein and then tucked the syringe away in her little cocktail-party purse. It wasn’t until after she had put the rig away, that she noticed the two cops. “What the fuck do you want?” the addict asked in a voice that revealed “her” to be anything but feminine.

“We’re detectives, darling.” Leetch feigned a Southern drawl. “You mind having a tiny little chat with us?”

The transvestite struggled up to his standing height of over six feet. He was as thin as Carol was, and like her, he had open blisters on his lower lip. The pallid skin on his face had so little padding beneath it that his jaw and cheekbones stood out so that his face looked to Cohen like a skull decorated with mascara and rouge. He reeked of a cheap perfume that even from five feet away almost made Seth’s eyes water. He swayed on his heels and pointed an unfocused finger at them. “You got nothing better to do than harass a lady?” he said in his deep baritone. Then, with both hands, he dramatically swept back the locks of his thick blond wig.

“Nah, I can’t think of anything better,” Leetch said. “How about you, Seth? This pretty much as good as it gets for you, too?”

Cohen shook his head slightly and stared at Leetch, silently telling him to ease off.

“I’m Detective Leetch and this is Sergeant Cohen,” Leetch said, the sarcasm gone. “We’re Homicide detectives with Portland P.D.”

“Homicide?” the man gasped in his deep tone. “I’m a lover … not a killer.”

“Yeah, I thought as much,” Leetch said. “What’s your name?”

“Chavon will do, baby,” he said with another sweep of his wig.

“It’s a lovely name,” Leetch said, and Cohen wasn’t sure if he was mocking the man or not. “But it won’t do for our report. What’s your real name?”

“Douglas Evans,” he said with a slight pout.