Mitch Freeman drove to the abandoned Texaco service station off Route 190. It looked deserted; the Texaco sign was faded and broken, hanging drunkenly from a rickety pole. The dusty driveway was choked with weeds, the ancient gas pumps were rusted; the hoses had been ripped off them, likely by some scavenger. The awning over the gas pumps was equally corroded; holed and lopsided, almost ready to collapse.

Mitch pulled up next to one of the rusting gas pumps and hopped out of his car and approached the dilapidated roadhouse diner. It looked even more forlorn than the gas stand. The sheet-iron roof that had once been adorned with a Texaco logo was hitched and broke-backed, holed in places and corroded. Windows that were not boarded over were dirty and cobwebbed and most of them were cracked.

As Mitch approached the doors, which hung drunkenly on their hinges, he passed a rusty old Coke machine with a faded decal bearing the image of a smiling woman in a bikini drinking an ice-cold beverage with the words For Real Refreshment peeling off it.

Incongruously a shiny new stainless steel chain and padlock had been threaded through the metal door handles, which despite being tarnished, were still serviceable. Mitch had put the chain on the doors when he had scouted out the place. He wasn’t sure if it would keep people out if they desperately wanted to get in but why would they?

Mitch unlocked the padlock and dragged the doors open wincing at the protesting screech of the hinges and the grating of the bottom of the doors against the concrete floor.

Most of the furniture had been taken away or vandalised beyond use. The place smelt musty; a lingering stench of mildew, stale cigarettes, stale liquor and a faint undercurrent of ancient fried food. The filthy floor was littered with beer and liquor bottles, drug paraphernalia, cigarette butts and decaying used condoms.

Some joker has pinned a pair of lime green satin panties to the flaking dry wall like they was on display in the lingerie section of a department store. The same joker had scribbled graffiti on the wall besides the undergarment I fucked Stephanie here 05/12/21 with an arrow pointing to the crotch of the panties. Whoever Stephanie was, she was long gone and she was sans underwear.

Beside the panties a series of nineteen-sixty era framed advertising posters had been hung from the wall, probably in an effort to provide cheap decoration to cheer up the baby-shit yellow painted walls. They plugged cigarettes, beer, motor oil and other products one would expect in a gas station. There was also an advertisement for Hanes Underall Pantyhose. It featured the buttocks and thighs of a woman clad in sheer pantyhose with the slogan ‘pantyhose & panties all in one’. Someone had drawn an ejaculating penis between the buttocks of the woman with a sharpie.

In the corner of the decrepit diner a space had been cleared of detritus and a relatively new mattress covered with a clean fitted-sheet and two pillows with fresh pillowcases had been placed on the floor. There was a cardboard box containing bottled water, sanitary wipes, gel lubricant, liquid hand wash and sanitizer beside it. Two lithium ion Coleman lanterns were arranged at the head of the mattress. Mitch was glad to see that no one had broken in and stolen anything.

Seeing that nothing had been disturbed Mitch locked up the diner and drove his car out back to what had once been the service bay but was now a decrepit dark hole stripped of anything useful. Rusty chains hung from the ceiling and the inspection pit was full of slimy fetid water. The nondescript Toyota sedan he had stolen a week earlier was still parked in the bay. Mitch unlocked it and transferred his go-bag into the trunk and locked his own car and set the alarm.

He checked his phone for messages, checked the time, and then climbed into the Toyota and pulled onto the 190 and headed east towards Balwyn keeping just below the speed limit.

Mitch Freeman sat in the Toyota parked in a gloomy alley just off the south side of Bridge Street and watched the passing parade: the tranny hookers plying their trade and the johns coming and going. Some girls climbed into cars and were driven away, some led johns into the foyer of the Ambassador Hotel where rooms were rented by the hour, some just led their john into the dark alley and serviced them behind the dumpster or in the doorways of the decrepit buildings.

But they all returned back to the street. Didn't matter if they’d done their business in the back of a car, on the stained sheets of the Ambassador Hotel or on their knees or bent over in the alley… they all returned back to the street.

Except for Loretta Dubbin. She wouldn’t be returning back to the street.

“Fucking tranny whores!” Mitch hissed through clenched teeth.

He spent some time thinking about Susan, his college sweetheart. She had been beautiful, feminine and sweet. Susan liked to kiss him and hold his manhood in her fingers while her sweet tongue explored his mouth. Susan knew he liked to press himself against her silky mound and she would lie on the bed with her legs spread and her skirt hitched up so he could. Susan knew that he would always gasp with delight when she rolled over and pulled down her panties to expose her soft, creamy white buttocks. Susan gasped in turn when he slid his manhood inside her.

Susan had been perfect. Until she wasn’t. Susan knew that Mitch wanted nothing to do with the ugly appendage she kept tucked between her legs. He hadn't even complained when she sometimes whimpered and wet her panties while he was fucking her. He knew that it was the horrible snake between her legs had caused her panties to become wet. He knew that smell. The musky swampy scent of semen but it was ok because he didn’t have to see it… to touch it.

But Susan had betrayed him. She had set it free and tried to make Mitch touch it. He remembered the revulsion he felt when the back of his hand had brushed against the warm swollen flesh when she’d tried to guide his hand there.

“Fucking tranny whore!” Mitch barked.

He was sweating despite the cold. His cock was rock hard, his fists were clenched and his teeth were gritted. All his pretty girls turned out to be tranny whores: the girls in Bangkok were he had spent two weeks R&R during his tour of duty. The trans callgirls in Houston, Dallas and Fort Worth where he would spend his long weekends and vacations. The girls here in Balwyn. All the pretty girls. They were all tranny whores!

He didn't know why he thought of his mother when he ground himself against them. He knew it had something to do with seeing and touching that perfect silken-clad mound. Her thrashing his behind as he lay across her knees; her pantyhose feeling like soft silken butterfly kisses on his skin while his buttocks burned bright red as his mother flailed him.

As he got older they both knew that what she was doing was wrong. Had she felt his penis become hard when she paddled his ass? Did she deliberately walk around in her underwear so that he would watch her so she would catch him watching her and punish him? She must have known when he ejaculated. She must have felt the fiery heat of his ejaculate scalding her thighs. She had certainly felt it the one and only time she had let him lie on top of her and press his engorged member against her panty-clad cunt, making him promise not to tell anyone.

They didn’t know that his father had returned home early from a business trip and intended to surprise his wife by springing on her naked, undressing himself as he had silently climbed the staircase.

Mitch remembered his father pulling him off his mother and thrashing him within an inch of his life. His father was hard, erect in anticipation of fucking his beautiful wife but instead he lay into his son as he cowered on the floor, his father standing over him with fists raised, his penis erect and proud.

It wasn’t long after this that he had found Susan. Susan was safe because she didn’t have the secret parts that his mother kept inside her panties but she was dangerous because she had the same parts as his father. So long as Susan kept those parts hidden away it didn’t matter; she was perfect.

All his pretty girls were perfect… until they weren't.

Mitch knew that he could pay some psychiatrist thousands of dollars to tell him all about his Oedipus complex and Freud’s sexual inversion hypothesis which caused Mitch to transfer the desire he felt for his mother to men who presented as beautiful women. The paradox for him being that because they didn’t have a vagina in his mind it was not incestuous but the illusion would be destroyed if he was forced to confront their penises.

Mitch came out of his reverie when he saw Jaylene Foster strutting down Bridge Street in her fuck-me pumps. Her hair was teased her makeup heavy and she wore a micro-miniskirt and a faux fur coat.

This was the most dangerous thing he would ever do; his timing had to be perfect. Although he was a logistics officer in the army he had undertaken infantry training prior to being deployed and he knew how to take down an opponent.

He had followed Jaylene home from the college and had briefly thought of taking her inside her flat but it was too dangerous. Instead he’d activated his contingency plan. Common sense would mandate that Jaylene would take the most direct route from her apartment to Bridge Street and he had gambled that she would take the shortcut down the dark alley connecting Balwyn’s commercial district to the tenderloin district of Bridge Street.

The contents of his go-bag had been carefully laid out on the front passenger seat. He took the chloroform-soaked rag out the Tupperware container and secreted it up his sleeve as he got out of the car. He left the back door of the car open and opened the trunk, pretending to be searching for something as he listened to the click-clack of Jaylene’s high heels on the pavement as she got closer.

When he sensed that she was right behind him he turned and sprang on her, grabbing her from behind. It was only at the last second as he pressed the chloroformed rag over her mouth that he realised that it wasn’t Jaylene Foster.

It didn’t matter. It was too late. The woman struggled briefly and then became a deadweight which he dragged onto the back seat. He quickly secured her hands and feet with cable ties and put a canvas bag over her head, leaving the chloroform soaked rag inside the bag to keep her drowsy. He slammed the door shut and closed the trunk and took a look around.

The alley remained quiet and deserted.

Mitch slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. He turned left on Bridge Street and took a final look at the whores working the street. In his mind they seemed to be mocking him.

Never mind.

He had another pretty girl to play with.

Mitch didn’t realise that the woman's handbag had fallen off her shoulder during the brief struggle and lay in the gutter.

*****

The Task Force was busy. Penelope and Alice had compiled an evidence pack consisting of the facial composite, a summary of the perp’s MO and signature behaviours and the perp’s fingerprints to accompany the state-wide bulletin requesting a comparison be made against any unsolved murders involving trans women.

They knew that Jaylene’s identikit picture wasn’t that great but that was all they had. She had seen him only briefly behind the windshield of a car on a dark street.

Steve had forwarded the composite to Panti Down and asked her to send it to everyone she knew who engaged in any form of female impersonation. He asked her to distribute copies to the bars on Bridge Street frequented by the LGBTI community which she did. She also posted a blog on the Transgender Education Network of Texas website claiming that a killer was targeting trans women in Balwyn and uploaded the facial composite.

It took only twenty four hours before Gary Rasmussen was summoned to the office of the Chief of Police and was ordered to escort him to the Mayor’s office to explain what the fuck his Special Task Force was up to.

“Handle those fuckers Gary. Get them to keep a lid on this. I don’t wanna see anything in the mainstream media. You feel me?” the Chief of Police growled at Gary as they walked back to his office, both their asses sore from the figurative kicking they had both received from the Mayor.

Gary went down to the Task Force office and passed on the message.

“I just got my ass handed to me by the Mayor. It’s ok, I can take the heat while you work the case but you better get this thing solved,” Gary ran his hands through his thinning hair.

“We’re working it hard Chief,” Steve replied.

“We’ve had some responses to our state wide request for assistance and Penelope and Alice are working the data looking for comparisons but so far we don’t appear to have any cases that match,” Steve pointed to his crime wall.

“That’s a good thing and a bad thing I suppose. It’s good that our killer seems to be confined to the Balwyn area and has only taken two victims that we know about. It’s a bad thing because we don’t really have any corroborating evidence from cases where the perp may have used the same MO or signatures in other cities,” Steve sighed.

“We do have a bunch of mug shots of offenders who have targeted trans women in the past. Sexual assault, indecent behaviour, stalking, the usual bullshit,” Penelope interjected.

Gary looked at her, both hopefully and quizzically.

“Tranny chasers,” Penelope explained.

Gary winced at Penelope’s use of offensive language but rationalised that as a transgender woman it shouldn’t be taken as offensive. It was the same as African Americans using the ‘N-word’ or homosexuals referring to each other as fags. Minorities stole back pejoratives and reappropriated them, empowering themselves, neutralising the effect of the slur when used by intolerants.

“I’ll get Jaylene Foster to look at them and see if she recognises any of them,” Penelope said.

“We get them at the club sometimes. Guys infatuated with female impersonators. They’re mostly harmless and some of the girls milk them for tips or whatever but the creepy ones are kicked out by security and are banned. Penelope is working that angle,” Steve explained.

Gary guessed the ‘whatever’ Steve was referring to was getting them to pay for sex.

“Assholes and elbows people. Get this thing solved,” Gary left the office.

Penelope and Alice looked at Steve who gave them both a grim smile.

“You heard the man ladies; assholes and elbows,” Steve went back to work.

Penelope contacted Jaylene Foster who told Penelope that she was too busy to come down to Police Plaza, besides which she didn’t want to be seen there too often in case the other girls thought she was a snitch. She was busy trying to educate herself and get off the streets. When she wasn't at college she was studying and when she wasn’t doing that she was working Bridge Street to pay for her education and to pay her rent.

Jaylene agreed to let Penelope come round to her place and show her the pictures after college, before she went to work.

Penelope pulled up outside of Jaylene’s apartment block which was only three blocks over from Bridge Street. Jaylene had joked that it was convenient because she could walk to work.

Penelope and Jaylene had built a rapport during the time they had spent together at Police Plaza working on the identikit, taking her statement and looking at mug shots. Jaylene respected Penelope for who she was, someone who had worked hard and overcome adversity and was still considered a hero by most in Balwyn despite the fallout from the Lipstick Killer case.

“What you did was to rise through the ranks using just hard work and dedication. You saved people’s lives, you solved crimes. Any girl with good looks, a great body and a modicum of ability can compete on Drag Race and become famous,” Jaylene had pointedly made the comparison between Penelope Bishop and Felicity Benson; Balwyn's two trans femme heroines.

“What about all that charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and, talent that they prattle on about?” Penelope had replied.

They both looked at each other and burst out laughing. A bond had been formed.

Penelope was buzzed into Jaylene’s studio apartment which although pokey was immaculately clean and tastefully decorated. Penelope looked around the apartment appreciatively.

“What? You expected a prostitute’s hovel?” Jaylene asked from where she was seated in front of a small mirror applying the last of her makeup.

“No. I expected exactly this. A small place well within your means that would be clean and well kept,” Penelope said dropping the folder containing the pictures on the tiny dining table which was pushed against the wall.

Jaylene applied the last touches to her mascara and stood up.

“What’s that?” she pointed at the folder with her chin.

“Pictures. Pictures of men who have targeted transgendered women,” Penelope spun the folder in a circle on the table top.

“Targeted?” Jaylene took one last look in the mirror and picked a stray skerrick of lipstick out the corner of her mouth.

“Men who have committed sexual assault, indecent behaviour or stalked them. Men from all over the state,” Penelope replied.

“Do you know that most of the men who solicit my services consider themselves straight? They want to kiss me, caress me, they want me to suck their dicks and they want to fuck me in the ass. A surprising amount of them want to suck my dick and have me fuck them in the ass,” Jaylene stepped into the tiny kitchenette.

“But they aren’t gay. They go home to their wives and girlfriends and tell homophobic and transphobic jokes in bars. They change the station when anything ‘gay’ comes on the TV. But when the compulsion takes them they come on down to Bridge Street and take me into the Ambassador Hotel to make their secret fantasies come true,” Jaylene took a bottle of scotch down from a shelf and took two glasses out of the cupboard.

“I know those men. I’ve known them all my life. From college to the academy, from being a beat cop to heading up a Task Force I’ve had those men approach me. The Sleeping Beauty killer captured me. It was never made public what he did to me but you can guess,” Penelope whispered.

“Like all men who rape women, it’s about power more than sex,” Penelope straightened the folder on the table.

Jaylene came over to Penelope and held out a glass of scotch.

“I’m an alcoholic,” Penelope shook her head.

Jaylene snatched back the glass as if it held poison.

“I'm sorry; I didn’t know,” she apologised.

“Why would you?” Penelope smiled at Jaylene who smiled back.

Jayleen poured Penelope’s drink into her own glass and took a can of Coke out the fridge for Penelope and sat down at the table.

Jaylene was dressed for work. Her makeup was heavy, her hair teased, she wore a black leather miniskirt and red satin blouse, her legs were sheathed in shimmery hose which when she sat were disclosed to be hold-up stockings. Her black heels were ridiculously high. Penelope noted the faux fur coat hanging on the back of the door. Jaylene would wear it to keep warm on the streets but leave it open to display her wares. Penelope knew what these women had to do to make a living.

Penelope sat down at the table at right-angles to Jaylene, the space so small that their knees touched under the table. Penelope opened the folder.

“Do you mind if I drink this? I should have asked,” Jaylene raised the glass she had half-filled with scotch.

“It’s my addiction not yours,” Penelope said opening the Coke with some difficulty using her fingernail.

“I only have two glasses, I should have rinsed the other one out,” Jaylene apologised.

“Out of the can is fine,” Penelope raised the Coke to her lips and took a slug.

The sugar hit her and she needed it. She had hardly eaten all day.

She studied Jaylene closely. She looked older than her years. The streets were wearing her down. Penelope realised that she must be sleep deprived, attending college during the day, working Bridge Street at night, studying. Only just making ends meet. Penelope had been in her apartment less than ten minutes and Jaylene had apologised to her twice. The trash-talking hard woman who had bantered with Penelope and Steve on the streets was gone.

“Look it’s a long shot but please study these pictures and tell me if any of them look like the man you saw in the BMW the night Loretta was taken,” Penelope got down to business.

She handed the pictures to Jaylene one at a time and Jaylene studied each one carefully and handed them back shaking her head each time. When they had gone through all the pictures they both sat at the table feeling a little exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” Jaylene whispered, sounding world-weary.

Penelope reached out and took Jaylene’s hand.

“Stop saying you're sorry. You have nothing to apologise for,” Penelope tried to engage Jaylene’s gaze but she turned away.

“You must think I’m ludicrous, a prostitute living in a hutch, studying fashion design. I’m pathetic,” Jaylene sighed.

Penelope turned Jaylene’s face to hers.

“I think you’re amazing. I know where you came from; I read your juvie file. Thrown out on the streets as a kid because you were confused about your gender. Children’s home, foster families, some who took you in only for the stipend and some who abused you. Back on the streets. The busts, the beatings. Rising above it all to make something of yourself,” Penelope squeezed Jaylene’s fingers gently.

“I came from privilege. My mother worshipped me and accommodated my transition. She didn’t want me to follow my father into law enforcement but I did anyway. I rose to the top of my profession and threw it all away… twice. Two failed marriages and a failed career, so who’s pathetic?” Penelope gave Jaylene a grim-faced smile.

They rested their foreheads together.

“We’re both pathetic,” Jaylene giggled nervously.

Penelope held her breath when Jaylene touched her lips to hers. She could hardly breathe. The last time she had been intimate with a witness it had been a disaster.

Jaylene pulled away abruptly.

“I’m sorry. I got the signals wrong. You wouldn’t want to… not with someone like me,” Jaylene clumsily got to her feet and smoothed out her skirt.

“I’ve got to get to work,” Jaylene cleared her throat.

Penelope straightened the pictures and put them back in the file and closed it. She stood up and tucked the file under her arm and put the strap of her purse across her shoulder.

She went to the door and Jaylene followed her and opened it for her.

Penelope turned to Jaylene.

“I’m sorry…” Jaylene didn’t get to finish her sentence.

Penelope let the folder fall from under her arm; the pictures scattered across the floor. She pulled Jaylene into her arms as she kicked the door closed.

Their lips mashed together, their tongues entwined. It was an awkward dance as Penelope half pushed half guided Jaylene across the room to the bed in the corner. They fell on the bed still entangled in each other’s arms. Penelope struggled to toss away her purse and shuck out of her jacket whilst still kissing Jaylene.

Jaylene tasted of scotch and Juicy Fruit, Penelope tasted like the cigarette she had smoked on the way over to Jaylene’s flat. Penelope kicked off her heels and Jaylene did likewise. Penelope pushed Jaylene down on the bed, crushing her lips against her. She pawed at the buttons on Jaylene’s blouse and Jaylene fumbled with hers. They both shucked out of their blouses and bras and then kissed again.

They reached for each other’s breasts, stroking and caressing the soft flesh, fingering nipples to full bloom. The feel of Jaylene’s mouth on her mouth and her hands on her breasts excited Penelope so much that her erection was painful; tapped between her legs held there by her hose and panties.

Jaylene’s cock has sprung free and was tenting her panties, her skirt high on her waist, her cock pressed against Penelope’s belly. Jaylene snaked a hand between their bodies and pushed her fingers under Penelope’s tight suit skirt. She slid it inside Penelope’s pantyhose and freed Penelope’s hard throbbing cock.

Penelope snatched Jaylene’s hand out of the way and hiked up her skirt as she straddled Jaylene’s body, never breaking the kiss. She pushed Jaylene’s hands up behind her head and kicked her legs open. Penelope lay on top of Jaylene kissing her brutally as she pressed her cock against Jaylene’s erect penis and her breasts against Jaylene’s tender bosom.

Their cocks rubbed together through layers of satin and nylon, their panties soon wet with pre-ejaculate. Jaylene suddenly pushed up with all her strength and rolled Penelope off her and onto her back. She sprang on Penelope who gasped when Jaylene took Penelope’s penis into her mouth and began to suckle it.

Penelope clawed at Jaylene until she turned around on the bed so that Penelope could use her mouth on her. They suckled on each other’s cocks using their lips, their tongues, and even their teeth until they were both close to extremis.

Penelope suddenly pushed Jaylene’s mouth away from her penis and dragged her onto her back and fell between her legs, lying on top of her. Jaylene opened her legs wide and lifted her buttocks. Penelope pulled aside the gusset of Jaylene's panties and began to prod at her sphincter trying to find her puckered bud. Jaylene reached down and guided Penelope’s penis to the crinkled entrance to her anus and looked up longingly into Penelope’s eyes.

Penelope could feel the slippery lubricant that Jaylene had squeezed inside herself in anticipation of her night’s work. She lowered her face to Jaylene’s and kissed her softly as she slowly entered her.

Jaylene sobbed at the tenderness of it. The frantic foreplay had transitioned into kind, considerate love making. Penelope kissed the side of Jaylene’s mouth and Jaylene mewed as Penelope slid another inch of her cock into Jaylene's tight passage. Penelope stoked Jaylene’s hair and pressed her lips on hers as she slid another inch into Jaylene's velvety sheath. Jaylene murmured an endearment and a tear ran down her cheek.

Penelope lapped up the salty tear and then kissed Jaylene softly.

“Are you ok?” she whispered.

Jaylene locked her hands behind Penelope’s neck and lifted her face to kiss her. She looked into Penelope’s beautiful green eyes and gave a wry smile. She locked her calves against Penelope’s and raised her abdomen up off the bed so that the last of Penelope’s cock slid all the way inside her.

Penelope lowered her face Jaylene’s and kissed her again, this time with passion, using her tongue. Their breasts mashed together, hard nipples pressing on hard nipples. Penelope lay still, too scared to move in case she ejaculated. Jaylene's anus gripped her cock like a velvet glove, her penis pressed against Jaylene's prostate.

They were both enraptured by the passion and the tenderness of it all. The sensation of soft breasts and hard nipples pressed together, the splendour of being filled with a hard throbbing cock, the deliciousness of a cock being cushioned inside a satiny tight passage, the taste of lipstick, the scent of perfume, the diaphanous feel of nylons rasping against each other. Both women were in sensory overload.

Penelope thrust once, twice, three times and ejaculated. Jaylene felt Penelope tremble in her embrace, her penis shuddered inside her anus, her breathing become ragged, the heat of Penelope issue deep in her bowel and she too climaxed. Penelope felt Jaylene’s scorching semen on her belly and she smiled around their impassioned kiss.

The lovers clung to each other, hardly moving whilst they shared the bliss of their climaxes and when they were both spent they didn’t move. They lay locked together kissing tenderly and softly caressing each other. Stroking hair, smoothing brows, caressing cheeks, looking languidly into each other eyes; smiling guiltily and sheepishly but lovingly.

Eventually they disengaged but only long enough to undress and then they snuggled together under the bedclothes.

“That better not have been a sympathy fuck,” Jaylene whispered and stroked a stray lock of hair out of Penelope’s eye.

“Right back attcha,” Penelope smiled down at Jaylene.

Penelope stayed the night with Jaylene unknowingly saving her life because three blocks over, Mitch Freeman was bundling a woman he thought to be Jaylene Foster into the back of his car.

*****

Mitch thumped the steering wheel as he drove down the 190. How the fuck had he fucked up so bad? The woman looked exactly like Jaylene Foster from a distance walking down that alley in her cooch cooler and fuck-me pumps. Her hair was the same, she was the same height, same build.

He looked over his shoulder at the woman lying trussed on the back seat. Her skirt had hiked up exposing the tops of her black stockings and her purple satin panties. His eyes were drawn to her mound. He heard the blaring horn of an oncoming cab-over-Pete and swung back into his own lane just in time.

He concentrated on the two tunnels light from his high beam until he arrived at the turnoff to the abandoned Texaco gas station and pulled up adjacent to the diner.

The chloroform had dissipated and worn off long ago but the woman lay silent and still. She was playing possum; lying doggo. Mitch went to the diner and unlocked the padlock and removed the heavy-duty stainless steel chain from the door handles and opened the door, the screech of metal on concrete sounded like the growl of a coyote.

The woman didn’t struggle when he cut the cable ties around her ankles and helped her out of the car.

“Don’t take off the hood. Just do what you're gonna do to me but don’t take off the hood. I won’t tell anyone what you did and anyway I won’t be able to describe you,” the woman said as he led her into the diner.

“What the fuck did you say?” Mitch asked.

“Don’t take off the hood. I’ve seen the crime shows. The girl gets killed because she can identify her attacker so if you leave the hood on me I won’t see your face,” the woman said, the panic evident in her voice.

Mitch guided her towards the makeshift bed in the space he had cleared amid the ocean of shit.

“I won’t fight. Hell, I’ll do whatever you want willingly. I fuck strangers for a living, just don’t kill me,” the woman pleaded.

Mitch’s anger dissipated and was replaced by amusement.

“In the interests of full disclosure I’ll tell you that I’ve picked up the wrong woman. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Mitch eased her down onto the mattress.

“I could probably just leave you here and drive away because as you said you can’t recognise me,” Mitch said.

“There you go cowboy. You can even fuck me a little if you want before you go, I won’t struggle,” the woman sounded more confident.

She was used to negotiating with wicked men during her years on the streets.

“Trouble is I wanna see your pretty face while I'm doing it,” Mitch whipped the canvas bag off the woman’s head.

“No!” she screamed and screwed her eyes closed.

“You’re pretty. You even look like her,” Mitch commented as he gazed at her face in the light of the twin Coleman lanterns.

“Look like who? No! Don’t tell me!” the woman hissed.

She was kneeling with her legs wide apart to keep balance because her hands were still tied behind her back. Mitch had a perfect view of the V of her panties; the silky purple satin clung to her pubic mound defining its shape.

This was no illusion like Susan and the others. This was the real thing just like mother’s.

For that reason alone the compulsion wasn’t the same but the curiosity was there. He had tried dating women, mostly those that resembled his mother but they found his fascination with their panty-covered pubic mounds and his reluctance to let them take off their underwear and hosiery during foreplay disturbing. Or did they just have an instinct that there was something wrong with Mitch Freeman?

Now he had one all to himself. This woman did resemble his mother. He thought that he would like to play with her a little but he didn’t feel the pent up anger and hatred that he felt with his tranny whores. This one was a pretty girl but she wasn’t special like the others. Maybe he could play with her a little and then just let her go.

“Ok here’s the deal. I was trying to abduct a woman who is very special and dear to me. I wasn’t going to hurt her, I was just going to bring her here where it’s nice and quiet and try to convince her to take me back. To seduce her, to woo her,” Mitch lied.

The woman opened one eye and took in her surroundings.

She was no fool. Who the fuck was going to be seduced in an abandoned Texaco station surrounded by litter, used condoms and empty booze bottles underneath an Underall poster and a crusty pair of lime green panties nailed to the wall?

Mitch imagined the wheels spinning in the prostitute’s head.

“Look it’s quiet and out of the way; I know it’s a shithole but it’s what I got,” he explained.

“You are a victim of circumstance but let me reassure you that I mean you no harm. I’ll take you back to Bridge Street and you forget this ever happened ok?” he said reassuringly.

The prostitute nodded vigorously wanting to believe the lie.

“I tell you what. I’ll sweeten the pot,” he took off his jacket and lay it beside the mattress and took out his wallet.

He laid out five crisp Benjamin Franklins on the mattress. The hooker stared at the money and licked her lips.

“Turn around,” Mitch said taking the wire cutters he had brought with him from the car.

The hooker swivelled around so that Mitch could cut through the cable tie bonding her wrists together. She rubbed the raw skin to get the circulation flowing.

“Go ahead; take the money,” Mitch nodded at the Benjamins.

“And you ain’t going to hurt me?” the hooker looked at him with a pleading expression.

“Nope. I’m going to drive you back to Balwyn and say sorry for the mix-up,” he gave her his most ingratiating smile.

The woman snatched up the money and stuffed it in her bra. She’d dropped her cheap knock-off purse during the struggle in the alley but she wasn't going to tell this man that. There was nothing in there but her driver’s licence, her smokes, a lighter, condoms, lube and a single unmarked house key so what the fuck!

“Of course I’d like a little tail before I take you back,” Mitch grinned, beginning to get undressed.

The hooker looked at him carefully. He had a dad-bod and looked about as dangerous as her grandpa. She’d dealt with guys far more dangerous than him and now that she was free she bet she’d beat him easy if it came to fight. She knew how to use her heels, her fists, her nails and her teeth and had done so when required.

“Sure honey. You want half n’ half? A little head, a little tail?” she cooed at him.

She began to take on the dominant role, confident in her abilities.

“How about a little role play?” Mitch asked sounding a little apologetic for asking.

“Sure honey? No need to feel embarrassed,” the woman took off her coat and began to unbutton her blouse.

“No! No! No! Keep your clothes on. It’s part of the fantasy,” Mitch smacked her hands away from her blouse.

“Sorry… can you leave your clothes on?” Mitch mumbled and apology.

“Of course I can honey. Anything you like. You’re paying for it,” the woman grinned at him lasciviously.

“Ok. This is what I wanna do,” Mitch told her what his fantasy was and the hooker nodded knowingly.

Having sex fully clothed was not new to her and it gave her the advantage if anything untoward developed. He would be naked and she would be dressed and in a far better position to defend herself.

“Get over here you naughty boy, I saw you looking up mommies skirt,” the fantasy began.

Naked, Mitch lay across the prostitute’s lap while she slapped his ass, his flaccid penis pressed against her stocking tops.

It wasn’t working. The woman was no substitute for his mother. Mitch climbed off her.

“Just lay down,” Mitch said, the frustration evident in his tone.

The woman did as she was told. Mitch didn’t need to lift her skirt, the cooch-cooler didn’t cover her sex when she lay prone on the mattress. He stared at her pubic mound encased in shiny purple satin. It was starting work. His cock sprang to attention.

“Just let me…” Mitch lay on top of her and pressed his cock against her pubis.

That was the sensation he was looking for: the silky material rubbing on his cock, the fleshy protuberance of her sex enveloping his meaty shaft. He ground against the woman, breathing in her perfume. He looked at her pretty face and then moved in to kiss her. She turned her head to the side.

“I don’t kiss johns,” the woman said.

“You’ll kiss me,” Mitch growled.

The woman knew not to argue and she turned to face him and was responsive when he kissed her. She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his body and rose to meet his thrusts as he rutted against her. His cock was pressing against her clitoris through her panties and despite the situation it felt quite nice; it helped that he was good kisser and she began to put her heart into it.

This was what Mitch wanted. Now she felt like the other girls lying underneath him, his naked body pressing on her clothed body, her panties rubbing on his cock, her nylons caressing his bare flesh. He wished that she had been wearing pantyhose instead of stockings. His mother always wore pantyhose. Susan always wore pantyhose.

The woman’s mound felt different. It was pliant… fleshy… moist. It was like being with those other women; the other women who had found his sexual peccadilloes abhorrent. But this girl didn’t; she liked it. He could feel the heat of her cunt through the satin, feel the warm moistness of her secretions dampening her panties.

She put her arms around him and kissed him harder, using her tongue. She tasted like last night’s dinner. She ground her cunt against his hard cock and began to whimper. This was nice. This was different.

He had never taken a woman before and the idea intrigued him. He eased aside her panty gusset and placed his hard cock inside her fleshy mound. It was so different to his special girls. It was wet and squishy, the folds of her labia were spongy, almost succulent. The woman did something, wiggling her body, adjusting her position on the mattress and his cock slid inside her.

She was slippery and wet, her cunt clasped his iron-hard cock, almost like it wanted to express his seed. He didn’t like it as much as fucking his special girls in the ass but he liked it all the same. It was different.

The woman was arching and bucking beneath him; holding onto him desperately as she ground her vulva against him, her greedy cunt clinging to his manhood. She was making whimpering noises, begging him to fuck her harder, her kisses sloppy, her silken-sheathed legs cycling against his tender flesh.

At least he knew that she didn’t have a disgusting appendage between her legs. He knew that she wasn’t going to ejaculate. He liked the feel of her; she was different. But she wasn't as good as the others. He fucked her harder to get it over with.

He jackhammered his cock in and out of the woman’s cuntal sheath until he felt his orgasm building to the point of release. It was a relief when his quivering cock exploded inside her. The woman clawed at him, shaking with desire as she climaxed. Her kisses were feverous, her nails raked his back, her legs held him close, keeping him deep inside her as he disgorged his spend.

Mitch held onto her and kissed her, forcing every scintilla of pleasure out of the moment.

When they had both descended from the pinnacle of their climaxes Mitch lay on top of the woman panting; his cock still inside her. The woman lay back with her legs open wide, her head on the pillows, smiling up at him.

“That was good. I usually don’t come but that was amazing. You have a great cock,” the woman had a vacuous grin that Mitch didn’t like.

His reached out and found his jacket; his fingers went searching in the pockets.

“Yes that was good. Different,” Mitch smiled down at her.

She patted his back like he was a dog. He hated it.

“I said I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Mitch stroked her cheek.

The woman smiled up at him and nodded.

“I lied,” Mitch slipped the nylons over her head so fast that she hardly knew what was happening.

He wound them around her neck and pulled them as tight as he could. When the lights went out in her eyes he ejaculated inside her again.

That was much better.

*****

Penelope had just completed her morning run around City Park when the bike messenger approached her. He skidded to a stop beside her.

“Are you Penelope Bishop?” the young man asked.

“That’s me,” Penelope was half bent over with her hands on her knees catching her breath.

“You’ve been served,” the messenger slapped the thick envelope into her hands and cycled away.

“Fucking asshole,” Penelope slammed the envelope down on her desk in the Task Force office.

Steve Edwards and Alice Leasingham looked up at her but said nothing. They knew better than to talk to Penelope when she was in one of her moods. She would either tell them what was pissing her off or she wouldn’t.

“Bradley fucking Wilson is suing me for divorce on the grounds of adultery and uncommon grounds based on alcohol abuse and professional misconduct,” Penelope seethed.

Penelope was still dressed in her running clothes: black tights, pink spandex sports top and running shoes. Her suit was still in the car. She had intended to shower and change at work. She was getting back into her old routine, getting her life back in order.

“You wanna take the day? Get yourself together? Talk to a lawyer?” Steve asked.

“No! Yes! Fuck it! Yes I’ll take the day thanks Steve,” she snatched up the letter and left the office.

Jaylene Foster had finished her classes and was walking towards the gates of Balwyn College amid a crowd of students when she saw Penelope Bishop parked on the side of the road. Penelope was leaning on her car. She was wearing a bright short-sleeved dress with a floral pattern, tan hose and low heels. Her makeup was lighter than usual and she had let out her blonde hair.

When she saw Jaylene a beatific smile spread on her face.

Jaylene approached her cautiously. She was surprised to see Penelope waiting for her outside of the college. Did she have news about the case? She certainly wasn't dressed for work.

Jaylene was surprised when Penelope reached out and took her hand and leaned in and kissed her cheek. She was wearing a flowery perfume and smelled delightful.

“Is everything ok?” Jaylene asked.

Penelope had not let go of Jaylene’s hand and their fingers were entwined like young lovers.

“Everything is fine. I have a picnic in the car. Wanna come?” Penelope gently squeezed Jaylene’s fingers.

“Penelope. Everyone can see us. People know who you are,” Jaylene whispered.

“Fuck everyone,” Penelope leaned in and kissed Jaylene full on the mouth.

A small group of college students applauded and whistled.

“You go girl!” a young woman called out cheerfully.

Penelope and Jaylene found a sunny spot in a grove of Box Elders and spread out a blanket on the grass. From their hilltop position Penelope could see the fountain where she had twice met Melissa Doyle but Melissa wasn’t in Penelope’s thoughts.

Jaylene helped Penelope unpack the picnic basket they had carried from the car.

“I haven’t been on a picnic since I was a little boy. I imagined I was actually a little girl. A princess on a hill looking down at my castle,” Jaylene blushed as she told Penelope her story.

“At least one pleasant memory form your childhood then?” Penelope smiled.

“Yeah. That was before I told my parents that I was a girl trapped in a boy’s body,” Jaylene frowned.

“Sorry,” Penelope gave her a wan smile.

“What for? It’s not your fault,” Jaylene squeezed Penelope’s hand.

“This is weird. I’ve never had anybody meet me after school and take me on a date,” Jaylene blushed.

“Now I feel like a paedophile,” Penelope laughed.

“The age difference isn’t that much,” Jaylene said.

“Ten years,” Penelope sighed.

“Now I feel stupid,” Penelope bowed her head.

“I think you're wonderful,” Jaylene scooted closer, on her knees.

She lifted Penelope’s face and kissed her softly.

“I think you're wonderful too. I used to tease Silvia about being a U-Haul lesbian and here I am behaving just like one,” Penelope blushed.

“Oh you are sweet. Now let’s eat I’m starving,” Jaylene giggled.

They ate sandwiches and drank iced tea and Penelope told Jaylene the parts of her life story that she had omitted the last time they were together, concluding with being served divorce papers that very morning.

“What are you going to do?” Jaylene asked.

They were both lying on the blanket looking up at the big blue sky which was slowly darkening.

“I’m not going to contest it. He want’s half of everything and that’s fair; he brought most of the stuff to the marriage anyway. I’ll sell the house and still have enough for an apartment when I give him his half,” Penelope sighed.

“It’s really over?” Jaylene asked.

“It was over before it was over. We both knew it. My misstep with Melissa Doyle wasn’t the cause of our breakup it was a symptom,” Penelope turned to face Jaylene.

“I feel a little intrusive; like I’m peeking behind the curtain into someone else's house,” Jaylene confessed.

“I want you to know everything about me. I know everything about you,” Penelope said sagely.

“Why?” Jaylene inched closer.

“Because I feel something for you and I think you feel something for me. We didn’t just fuck the other night. We made love. We shared intimate secrets,” Penelope replied.

They kissed. Softly at first and then it became passionate. Jaylene was wearing tight jeans and a letterman’s jacket over a t-shirt. She hadn't tucked and Penelope could feel her becoming tumescent.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” Penelope whispered.

Jaylene nodded.

They lay in Penelope’s big bed exhausted by their lovemaking; their clothes left a trail from the front door to the foot of the bed.

Penelope was lying on her side propped on one elbow; her finger lazily circled the areola of Jaylene’s right breast.

“Is it too early in our relationship to say that I love you?” Penelope breathed.

Jaylene froze. She didn’t reply.

The silence in the room was unnerving. Penelope could hear her own heartbeat.

“I have to go to work,” Jaylene pushed herself to the edge of the bed and sat up.

“Don’t,” Penelope reached out and stroked Jaylene’s bare back.

“I have to,” Jaylene whispered.

“You don’t have to. Stay here,” Penelope’s voice was hushed.

Jaylene turned and leaned down and kissed Penelope on the forehead.

Penelope watched her pick up her clothes and get dressed. Jaylene left the room without looking back. When Penelope heard the front door close she began to cry.

*****

Penelope’s phone rang and she snatched it off the nightstand.

“Holliday’s over. We’ve caught another one. It’s an old Texaco out on Route 190; I’ll text you the coordinates,” Steve’s voice came through the phone.

Penelope ate a banana in the car on her way to the scene. That was breakfast. She hadn’t slept well last night because she had been woken by the sound of Ellery Gamble’s motorbike revving incessantly in her driveway at the change of shift. She’d come to the door carrying her service weapon and they had a huge fight which ended with Ellery calling her a drunken tranny skank, telling her he wanted nothing to with her, which suited Penelope entirely.

The boy was immature and selfish. She hadn't had a drink for over a week but he hadn't noticed and he didn’t mind that she was skank when he was bending her over a car out in the Longhorn’s parking lot. She was glad it was finally over.

Penelope was more concerned about her budding relationship with Jaylene Foster. Had she gone too far telling Jaylene that she loved her? She needed to clear her mind and get her head in the game.

The scene at the Texaco station was chaotic. There were police vehicles of all descriptions parked on the concrete apron, their rooftop light bars flickered lazily. The whole abandoned service station was roped off with police tape and uniformed officers were patrolling the perimeter because somehow the news services had found out. News trucks with satellite dishes were parked just off the entrance ramp. Stylishly dressed female reporters with short skirts, big hair and blowjob lips and handsome male reporters with fake tans and white teeth were taking into microphones using the old gas station as a backdrop.

One of the reporters recognised Penelope and made a beeline for her with his cameraman and sound guy running beside him. Penelope made it under the chequered tape just in time as the reporter began to yell questions at her. The questions were indistinct but she did hear the words serial killer and she bristled. She saw that Gary Rasmussen’s service vehicle was parked amongst the melee and she knew that was not good.

Alice Leasingham came out of the ramshackle diner and helped Penelope with her Tyvek overboots and handed her a pair of latex gloves. She followed Alice’s lead stepping on the crime scene tiles.

“We are pretty certain that it’s him but this one is different,” Alice said over her shoulder.

“Different how?” Penelope asked.

“I don’t want to contaminate your thought processes so I’ll let you evaluate the scene and make up your own mind,” she said.

Penelope took in the carnage in the diner: the wrecked furniture, the detritus of young people and the homeless looking for a place to party or a place to crash. The stained and faded ancient advertising posters on the wall and the obligatory pornographic graffiti. Crime scene lights had been rigged, their brilliant LEDs lighting up the tableaux like an island in a sea of crud.

The usual suspects were in attendance: Bob Tanner and his CSI techs and Brendan Scott the medical examiner. Steve Edwards was having an animated conversation with Gary Rasmussen, the Chief of Detectives, off to one side.

Penelope managed to push her way through the CSI techs and stood at the base of the mattress and surveyed the scene. A young woman lay on the mattress. She had been displayed in a similar fashion to April Summers and Loretta Dubbin. Her hair was teased, her makeup heavy, her micro-miniskirt was rucked up around her waist displaying her purple satin panties and black stockings; her legs were lewdly spread wide. She was wearing fuck-me heels and a faux fur coat lay on the floor beside the mattress.

The woman’s underwear and stockings were stained with what Penelope assumed was dried semen. It had also spattered on her skirt and on her satin blouse. The woman’s countenance just screamed hooker.

There was a pair of pantyhose embedded in the flesh of the woman’s neck.

Penelope was ashamed that she thought that the woman resembled Jaylene Foster when she was dressed for the street.

“Do you think it’s him?” Bob Tanner had sidled up to her.

“Looks like the same MO. Definitely the same signatures,” Penelope postulated.

“Look carefully,” Bob said.

Penelope carefully scanned the scene and then she drew in a deep breath when she realised what Bob was alluding to.

“She’s a genetic female,” Penelope got down on her knees and edged closer to the corpse.

“Can I confirm that?” she looked up at Bob.

“Go ahead,” he handed her a stainless steel extendible pointer.

Penelope used the tip of the pointer to move the crotch of victim’s panties aside so she could see the woman did indeed have vulva. Penelope could see a gobbet of semen caught in the woman’s labia.

She eased the panties back into place and got to her feet, handing the pointer back to Bob.

“I still think it’s him. Same signatures, similar MO. Maybe he’s morphing, serial killers sometimes change their MO or maybe it was a case of mistaken identity? Maybe when he picked her up he thought she was trans?” Penelope opined.

“What do you think?” Steve Edwards came over standing uncomfortably close to Penelope on the crime scene mats.

“I was just saying to Bob, I still think it’s our guy. Does she have any identification?” Penelope asked.

“None that we can find. I’ve been here since the crime scene unit arrived and we are in agreement that the signatures are identical to the other victims. Looks like consensual sex took place on the mattress then she was strangled and the perp spent some time with her sexually abusing her post mortem. The pantyhose around her neck look the same as the others. She screams hooker,” Steve summed up the crime scene nicely.

“Besides the obvious difference that this woman is genetically female, there are ligature marks on her wrists and ankles indicating that she had been bound, most likely while she was being transported. Another significant change to his MO,” Steve added.

Steve pointed to the cut cable tie beside the mattress.

“We found two more outside. Probably used to bind her legs, this one would have likely been used on her wrists,” he pointed to the cable tie with the toe of his shoe.

“We found a vehicle round back which we believe the perp used to bring her here. We ran the plates. It was stolen eight days ago from outside a house in Forest Gardens,” Steve referred to the tablet he was holding.

Just then one of the crime scene techs hurriedly made his way over to Bob Tanner looking excited. Steve, Penelope and Gary huddled next to him so they could hear what he had to say.

“It’s him! It’s the same perp from the Summers and Dubbin crime scenes,” the tech said excitedly.

“I ran the prints we took from the lock and chain on the door and from the Toyota and they’re a match. We’ll have to wait a while for the DNA but it’s him,” the tech’s excitement waned when he realised the importance of what he’d just said.

The CSI crime scene van was a wonder of technology. It was basically a mobile lab with a high speed satellite data feed. But with all this technology at their fingertips they were no closer to finding the killer.

Gary moved away from the scene and found a quiet corner in the diner to make calls. When he came back he looked sombre.

“I’ve been told to address the media outside. I’ll do the talking but I want Bishop standing beside me,” Gary was addressing Steve.

“I know that you’re running lead on this but the victims are women and I want them to see that a policewoman is working the case. Also Bishop is well known to them from the Sleeping Beauty and Lipstick Killer cases. I want people to know we have our best working on this,” Gary explained.

Steve nodded. It made sense.

“When they find out that all the victims were prostitutes and that two of them were transgender women a lot of sympathy for the victims will dissipate. If the crimes weren’t so juicy the press wouldn’t be so excited,” Penelope stated the bleeding obvious.

“You know how this works Penelope. Stick to the usual tag lines and stay away from the specifics,” Gary motioned for Penelope to follow him outside to meet the vultures.

Later that day in the Task Force office Steve and Alice were updating their crime wall with the specifics of their latest victim while Penelope worked on the computer trying to get a photo-match for their latest victim.

“I think I’ve found her,” Penelope called out and Steve and Alice went over and looked over her shoulder at the screen.

“Pauline Sanders. Age 32. Originally from Denton Texas. She has raps for solicitation in Fort Worth and Dallas and has been cautioned here for soliciting outside of the Bridge Street free zone,” Penelope pointed to the screen.

“I’ll run her prints to confirm; they will be on file because she’s been pinched,” Alice went over to her work station.

“Steve! Check this out,” Penelope had run the name Pauline Sanders through the Balwyn Police database and scored a hit on a lost property report.

“They found her purse in Bolen Alley just off Bridge Street,” Penelope said pushing back her chair.

Steve followed Penelope down to the lost property section. Personal items handed in by the public were catalogued and efforts made to contact the owner if there was any form of ID or registration associated with the item. Unclaimed items eventually went into storage and were periodically auctioned if not claimed within a certain time period.

Penelope explained the situation to the Sergeant in charge, a veteran female officer who was close to retirement and happy to have an office job. She’d had her uniform tailored to fit her slim frame and was pushing the boundaries with her makeup and heels. She and Penelope had been drinking buddies at The Longhorn back when Penelope was running wild.

At Penelope’s request the Sergeant handled the purse with latex gloves and put it in an evidence bag and had it entered into the system as evidence. Penelope then followed the proper chain of custody procedure and signed the evidence out along with the lost and found data sheet.

Back in the office Penelope carefully emptied the contents out of the purse onto a pristine white sheet of blotting paper, handling everything with gloves. She catalogued and photographed the contents: Pauline Sanders’ drivers licence, a packet of Marlboro Menthol Lights, a disposable lighter, a packet of condoms, a tube of lubricant and a single unmarked house key.

She handed the purse to Alice to take away to be dusted for fingerprints and processed for DNA. She ran the driver’s licence through the system and came up with a current address for Pauline Sanders in Balwyn. It wasn’t far from where Jaylene Foster lived.

“What’s the bet that that house key opens the door to Pauline Sanders’ apartment?” Penelope picked up the unmarked key.

“Well it sure looked like a hooker’s purse. All the tools of the trade but nothing of value, just her ID which she is legally required to carry,” Steve commented.

“She’d keep her house key unmarked in case her purse got snatched or stolen,” Penelope agreed.

“I’ll get onto Denton PD and get them to standby to make a call on the next of kin once Brendan Scott makes the formal identification. Then let’s go check out Bolen Alley where the purse was found and then Pauline’s apartment. Looks like you and I have another date on Bridge Street interviewing hookers,” Steve said.

Penelope nodded and picked up her handbag. They drove to Bolen Alley which connected to Bridge Street and parked where the lost and found report said the purse had been found, in the gutter next to a recycled clothing outlet.

The Alley was cruddy, half the premises along it were for let and the other half were typical for the district: second hand shops, pawnbrokers, bail bonds and payday loans.

There was nothing there to help them. They showed Pauline Sanders picture to a few of the proprietors near where the purse was found but no one knew her.

Steve bought up Google Maps and entered in the address they had for Pauline Sanders. He showed the screen to Penelope.

“If she was working Bridge Street and she lives here, she would have used this alley as a shortcut to get to work,” Steve traced the route on the screen.

Penelope nodded and then she froze.

“Fuck! Get me to Balwyn College, now!” Penelope made a dash for the car pulling out her phone as she got in.

“What?” Steve sensed Penelope’s panic.

Penelope shook her head and began to madly text. A few seconds later her phone pinged with an incoming text. Penelope pressed dial and put the phone to her ear.

“Jaylene! Yes I know you're in class but this important. Stay at the college. Stay in a pubic area like the library or the cafeteria, can you do that for me please honey? Please just do it for me. Stay there until I come get you; I won’t be long,” Penelope pleaded into the phone.

She nodded and hung up.

Steve could only hear one side of the conversation but he picked up on the word honey.

Penelope pulled out her tablet and tapped it, swiping and typing frantically. When Steve stopped for a red light Penelope put the tablet in front of his face. The screen was split. On one side was a picture of Jaylene Foster on the other was a picture Pauline Sanders. They didn’t look like twins but they looked similar.

“Pauline lives only a few doors down from Jaylene. They both work Bridge Street. They have similar features and a similar build and they dress the same. They would both use Bolen Alley as a convenient shortcut to get to work. Remember what I said back at the Texaco? What if it’s a case of mistaken identity?” Penelope had to pause to take a breath.

“He was stalking her Steve! He was waiting for Jaylene to come down that alley so he could abduct her,” Penelope said excitedly.

“That’s one hypothesis but how would he know about Jaylene? How would he know that she was the one who saw him in the car the night he abducted Loretta Dubbin?” Steve sounded sceptical.

“Exactly Steve! How would he know?” Penelope slammed her palm down on the dash.

To be continued

Author’s Note: Some of you will recognise the abandoned Texaco gas station from my story ‘Fair Trade’. It was just too good of a plot device to be used only once so I decided to take it out for another outing.

Hugs and kisses, Michele