Several of the university hospitals in the Washington, D.C., area have achieved great advances in sexual reassignment surgery to the point that the region’s gay prostitution scene has added fully transformed T-girls to its list of pleasures to be had in the city’s Dupont Circle area. An artist, Griffin Gould, is creating a series of transformed T-girl art works, and a major hotelier, Erick Royal, has come to town not only to buy this art for a specialty offering island resort he is developing in the Bahamas but also to recruit a stable of T-girls to serve the high-roller patrons of the resort. Amid this, a serial killer is working his way through the ranks of the area’s for-rent T-girls, hitting those who have posed for Gould’s artwork more than once. This brings not only the D.C. police Vice cop, Hardesty, in on the case, but his high-end male escort roommate and lover, Toby Drake, as well. Although not transformed himself, Toby has posed once for Gould and is on the cusp of modeling for him for a second time. Hardesty doesn’t have much time to run his serial killer to ground, and there is more than one suspect in the case.
“Oh, no, not Nicola too,” Natalie wailed and collapsed on the ground. Hardesty crouched down and consoled her. Natalie perked up a bit at being in the embrace of the hunk that all of the girls were salivating over. He didn’t just police the girls and guys, he handled them—and manhandled them like most of them liked when they knew it wasn’t going to get out of hand. Most street prostitutes weren’t all that aroused by vanilla sex anymore. What revved their engines was something kinky or fetish or forceful. Sex with a cop was kink—especially a cop that was from Vice and had kinky fetishes himself. This Hardesty was reputed to be a pro with the bindings and the whip—even the fist. The book on this hunk was that he did it all and left his sex partner melted and begging for repeats.
“But what’s your story tonight?” Hardesty asked. “What has you running around the park without your shoes if you aren’t part of what’s happened to Destiny here?” There was still the possibility that she was involved in this, he was thinking.
“Yeah, I might be. A cabbie picked me up at the exhibition at the Artechouse over on D Street not more than an hour ago, and he didn’t take me where I told him to go. He pulled up in the park over by the Washington Monument, and he assaulted me in the backseat of the cab. I think he was going to off me. Maybe—”
“Maybe it’s connected, and he’s our guy. Yes, that’s possible. Did he . . . is there a possibility of getting DNA.”