Fate of the Union

Seven

On her nightstand, Patti Rogers’s cell did the vibration dance.

On call 24/7, like all FBI agents, she despised being wakened by a ring or ringtone, and the vibrate setting always roused her sufficiently. Her eyelids rose like reluctant curtains on a terrible play and she saw the clock face: 5:04 a.m.

Was it just four minutes ago that she’d hit snooze?

The alarm would go off again at five fifteen. The vibrating stopped. She would check the call first thing and return it, if it proved worthy. For now, she settled in for another eleven glorious minutes of that blissful state before the second alarm.

Then the phone began its dance again, and she sat up, wide awake, grabbed it, checked the caller ID.

LUCAS HARDESY.

What the hell did he want? Couldn’t he wait till she came in to the office before being a pain in her ass?

“Yes?” she said to the phone.

“You may have been right,” he said, biting off each word.

“How so?” Did he need to sound so surprised?

“Your serial killer theory. A cop buddy texted me about a DB he caught about an hour ago.”

“Does the victim fit our profile?”

“We don’t really have a profile,” Hardesy reminded her. “But... yeah, the method at least. Two bullets to the head.”

“Double-tap again.”

“Yeah. Vic doesn’t fit, though. Drag queen name of Karma Sabich.”

“That’s a new wrinkle.”

“Yes it is. Somebody really wanted this motherfucker dead. Put him/her in the tub, popped her. Or him. Whatever.”

“Hate crime?”

“Maybe.” He took another beat. “Look, I know we sometimes, uh... grate on each other. But do you think you could trust my gut on this?”

“That all you have, your gut?”

“No. This kill has that professional touch we keep running into. Even though the vic doesn’t match the others, you know, not a middle-class professional? It’s just too... precise. Think you could come over and have a looky-loo?”

“Where?”

He gave her the address.

“Not far from me,” she said, mostly to herself. Her apartment building was on Joyce Street in Arlington. “Give me half an hour to rejoin the human race.”

“Appreciate this, boss.”

First time he’d called her that.

She showered, dried her hair, did her makeup, dressed, and stopped at the lobby Starbucks for a to-go coffee — all in seventeen minutes. Then it was a quick two-mile drive to the corner of Columbia Pike and Oakland.

The once swanky enclave was a rectangle of buildings set up to look like row houses with a parking lot in the middle. Slowly getting gentrified after years of neglect, the complex was, by neighborhood standards, a perfect example of what locals termed “shithouse chic,” where drug houses and hookers shared unlikely space with young executives and new families.

This morning, though, that center parking lot was alive with the blinking lights of an ambulance and police cars. Rogers parked to one side and got out into an ice cube of a morning, glad to be bundled in a gray Ann Taylor peacoat.

Despite the early hour, the neighbors were out to gawk. What primitive part of the human brain, she wondered, attracted the species to a scene of tragedy? If there was a one-car fatal accident in the Mojave Desert, hundreds of miles from supposed civilization, rubberneckers would still find their way to the side of the road.

The victim’s house was immediately recognizable by the police tape cordoning it off. A uniformed officer, who looked like he’d driven here from his academy graduation ceremony, stood just inside the yellow-and-black border keeping people back. But the crowd was growing and he would soon need a hand.

Rogers displayed her credentials and the young cop leaned in for a look, then gave her an impressed little smile as he raised the tape for her. He really was new — hadn’t learned to hate the dreaded “Fibbies” yet.

She rewarded his attitude, saying, “I’ll try to get you some help, officer.”

The rookie flashed a grateful smile. “Thanks, ma’am.”

He was so young and helpless looking, she could even forgive him the “ma’am.”

Up the sidewalk she found Hardesy waiting on the butcher-block front porch.

“In case you’re wondering,” he said, hands in the pockets of his dark-gray overcoat, breath pluming, rocking on his heels, “all these neighbors? Nobody saw shit. Nobody heard shit.”

“Sounds unanimous. You talk to them yourself?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t want to risk my amateur standing. Because I got a friend on the team, they’ve filled me in some.”

“And what do they have?”

“Bupkus.”

“How did your police pal happen to clue you in?”

“I’d told him, and a few other PD contacts, to be on the lookout for double-taps. You know, just in case.”

She nodded. “Nice work, Luke.”

He said nothing. Glanced away from her, uncomfortable with the compliment.

“So why are you changing your tune,” she asked him, “where the serial theory is concerned?”

“I’m not, exactly. To me, this is one guy doing hits, and I don’t consider that a serial. That’s more like taking care of business.”

“So you see a professional killing here. A drag queen among the young white collars.”

Oddly, that thought fit the neighborhood.

With a shudder of cold, Hardesy said, “Like I told you on the phone — too precise, and not just this one. All these damn killings are just too damn perfect. No muss, no fuss, no mess. Something is going on here.”

“But not a psychotic serial killer.”

He shrugged, nodded. “Your behaviorist guy, Ivanek, is right — serial, you would expect more ritual or something. But these are so mechanical, so businesslike — and now five victims? Something’s definitely goin’ on, boss.”

Boss again? Was she finally winning him over?

Her own breath pluming, gloved hands in her pockets, she asked, “Who’s the detective in charge?”

“My in. Keith Ferguson — know him?”

She shook her head.

“Good guy. He’ll play ball. If this is a serial, by any definition, he knows it’s our deal.”

“All right,” she said. “He inside?”

“Yeah — finishing up with the friend. She/he is the one who found the victim.”

“Both dressed as women?”

He nodded.

“Let’s stick with ‘she’ then, okay?”

Hardesy gave her a what-the-hell nod.

Rogers was about to send her fellow FBI agent in to see when Ferguson would be available, when a heavyset, blunt-featured guy in an off-the-rack gray pinstripe came out on the porch and announced himself as that very person. No topcoat for him — he’d been inside working for a good while.

Like Hardesy, the detective in charge had a shaved head, which was about all the two had in common, other than likely shared second thoughts about going around hatless in this cold. Despite his boxer-battered features, Ferguson had easy eyes and an easier smile.

Hardesy made the introductions and the DC detective stuck out his hand.

“Heard a lot about you, Agent Rogers,” Ferguson said.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Rogers said, giving Hardesy a sideways look. Then to Ferguson: “This is where you say, ‘Not all bad.’”

The PD detective managed a tight smile. “Well, it isn’t. Anyway, I read about you and your friend, Reeder — what you did last year, fine work. Brave as hell, too.”

“Stop or I’ll blush,” she said, kidding on the square. “The friend you’re talking to — is that who found her?”

“Yeah. Virginia Plain. Stage name. Same goes for the vic — Karma Sabich.”

“I kind of guessed that.”

“It’s those kind of detective skills,” Ferguson said cheerfully, “that makes the FBI so great. Anyway, Karma Sabich is really one DeShawn Davis. Virginia’s real name, Kevin Lockwood... but if you wanna talk to Kev, call him ‘Virginia’ or ‘Miss Plain.’ He won’t answer otherwise.”

Rogers nodded. “Transsexual?”

“No. He made a point of saying he was a transvestite. But still wants to be referred to as a ‘she.’”

“We’ll honor that. Or at least SA Hardesy and I will.”

Ferguson smirked. “What’s that, some FBI political correctness directive?”

Rogers shook her head. “No. Not that a little human decency would hurt any of us. But you know how it is, Detective — respect runs both ways.”

He grinned. “Not downhill, like shit?”

That seemed rhetorical, so she ignored it and asked, “Did Virginia tell you anything of interest?”

The big cop shook his bare head. “Nope, not really. Stays over sometimes. He... she... arrived, found Karma dead, upstairs, in the bathroom between bedrooms.”

Rogers let out a smoky breath. “Mind if I talk to her?”

He gestured to the door. “Special Agent Rogers, I am a lot of things, but a proud man isn’t one of ’em. About now, I’ll take any and all the help I can get. Please.”

She gave him half a smile. “Call me Patti.”

“And I’m Keith.”

“By the way, Keith, that kid at the cordon is looking a little overwhelmed. Might wanna get him some help before these neighbors stampede.”

He nodded and went down the steps, talking into his radio.

“Luke,” she said to her fellow agent, “you want in on this?”

He frowned in thought. “I do, but my gut says no.”

“That gut of yours again.”

He nodded. “I saw this guy, gal, what-have-you, being interviewed before, strictly by men, and whatever he/she/it is was clearly uncomfortable.”

“All right. I’ll handle it. By the way, did you attend that sensitivity seminar last quarter?”

Hardesy half smiled. “I hear you.”

“Listen, why don’t you head into the office. Take over the morning briefing — I may be here awhile.”

“Okay, boss.”

He went away, and she went inside.

As Rogers stood in the entryway, getting her bearings, a uniformed officer was coming down the stairs, headed for the front door. Going to assist the crowd-control kid, she figured. In front of her was the kitchen and a dining area. To her right, the living room.

The decor was like IKEA and a Salvation Army store had a baby. A newish blond coffee table, piled high with fast-food wrappers, squatted in front of a worn-out-looking sofa with mismatched replacement cushions, opposite which a medium-size flat-screen rode the wall. Most everything else, tables, lamps, chairs, looked like turn-of-the-century remnants. The upright La-Z-Boy recliner was newer but still looked frayed and tired.

So did its occupant, Virginia Plain.

Rogers had encountered her first transvestite in the service, back in MP days. After returning to Iowa, where she’d served as a deputy sheriff before getting the FBI nod, she had met a couple more. She learned a long time ago that people were just people — with all the good, bad, and ugly that went along with it. She could tell that the slender man — though he was seated — was a foot taller than her in those gold heels. Rogers could also see he... she... was in pain.

Virginia’s dark hair was a glorious mountain of curls, her smeary makeup probably perfect before the tears. She clutched at a tissue, several more wadded on a small table next to her. She was still in her faux-fur coat, though it was fairly warm in here, her sequined black cocktail dress nicer than anything in Rogers’s closet. Long neck, sharp nose, delicate cheekbones, wide fawn eyes red-rimmed from tears.

“Virginia, I’m Special Agent Rogers with the FBI. I thought we might talk. All right?”

A tiny nod.

Rogers pulled over a hardback chair and sat directly in front of her interview subject. “You found your friend?”

Virginia’s eyes went automatically toward the stairs off the entryway, and began to well. She nodded again, head still turned that way.

“Look at me, please,” Rogers said.

Slowly, tears brimming, Virginia faced her.

“Terrible thing,” Rogers said, “making a discovery like that.”

Virginia swallowed, nodded.

“You and Karma were close?”

“... Yes.”

Finally, a word.

Rogers asked, “How long have you been roommates?”

“Not roommates, not lately,” Virginia said, in a warm alto-ish voice. “Karma took me in when I didn’t have anywhere else to go... when I first moved to DC. I’ve got my own place now, but I still crash here sometimes.”

“You could stay over whenever you wanted?”

She nodded.

“Karma sounds like a good person.”

“The best. I have an early call at my other job, in the morning, so I stay here at Karma’s those nights, because it’s a lot closer.”

“What’s your other job?”

“Waitstaff. I take an occasional shift at Bob & Edith’s. I’m supposed to work lunch today.”

Rogers knew the diner, not quite a mile northeast from here on Columbia Pike. She ate there occasionally, but didn’t remember ever seeing Virginia. It was the kind of all-night, no-questions-asked place where the late crowd would be... interesting.

She said to Virginia, “You better call in. You won’t be done here for hours.”

Virginia let out a tired sigh. “I will. I will. Just not right now.”

“Okay. Did Karma have any enemies that you know of?”

“No. Everybody loved her.”

That was a familiar refrain in homicide cases. “Can you tell me anything at all that might bear on what’s happened?”

Virginia let out a long breath, wiggling fingers in front of her face, willing herself to get composed. She sat up a little straighter, shrugged out of her coat.

“I’m thinking,” she said. “Gathering my thoughts.”

“Take your time. I understand you worked together? Maybe we can start there.”

“Yes. A club called Les Girls.”

“I’ve heard of it. Highly rated.”

Virginia nodded. “Last night, after work, I looked for Karma — thought we might grab a sandwich and coffee, which we do a lot. But she wasn’t around.”

“Didn’t leave a note or tell anyone to tell you...?”

“No, it’s not like that. Sometimes we caught a bite, sometimes we didn’t. She might have a date, so I didn’t sweat it.”

“She date a lot? Anybody steady?”

A bittersweet smile came. “Karma... whoa, that one, she did like to party.”

“So, then — a lot of guys?”

“Some girls, too,” Virginia said, with a shrug. “She had... varied interests? But mostly guys, and she had a couple who liked to... you know... buy her things.”

“She was hooking?”

“No, not really. She just had friends, who, uh...”

Rogers said nothing.

Virginia shrugged again. “A little hooking maybe.”

“You know any of the johns?”

“No! That is not my business, and not my thing. We keep that part of our lives separate. Kept, I mean. Hard thinking of her as something, someone... in the past.”

“See anybody here, at her house, ever?”

“No. No, wait... I’m wrong. I did see an older guy here a couple of times.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Older, white, nice suit, maybe even tailored. Successful. And, course, cheating on his wife.”

“What’s ‘older’?”

Virginia gave a really elaborate shrug. “I don’t know, you know, old... fifty, maybe?”

Rogers, in her midthirties, didn’t think fifty sounded all that ancient anymore. How old was Virginia? Thirty maybe?

She gave Virginia a warm supportive smile, then stood. “I have to go upstairs. That’s where she is, right?”

A nod, a trickle of tear. “Where I found her, yeah.”

“You sit right here. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

“Not going anywhere,” Virginia said, softly, bleakly.

Snapping on latex gloves, Rogers trudged up the stairs, eased past two EMTs who were playing games on their phones, leaning against a wall on the landing.

Holding up her credentials, she asked, “ME been here yet?”

Without looking, the older of the pair said, “Still waiting.”

She nodded. Not a surprise.

The bathroom was in front of her, two bedrooms on either side. She entered the bath, where Karma lay in the tub, clothed, with her back to Rogers. Curled fetally, the victim had two small nasty holes at the base of her skull; a trail of dried blood down her back; bits of skull, brain, and blood speckling the tile wall and far side of the tub.

Despite a close-cropped Afro appropriate for either male or female, Karma’s wardrobe put to rest any doubt about her chosen identity. She wore a cocktail dress similar to her friend Virginia’s, though hers was a hot-pink sequined number, her preposterously high heels a silver that matched bangly bracelets on both wrists and the rings on her every finger.

Her expression in profile seemed almost peaceful, makeup still perfect except for blowback teardrops of blood. Her wide brown eyes stared, her mouth seemed slightly puckered, as if about to kiss.

Why the tub?

Of the other four victims, none had been found in the bathtub. Rogers made a note to ask Ivanek about it.

Not a hell of a lot more to see. Crime scene unit would dust for prints and any other clues, probably to no avail.

But at least she now had no doubt there was a serial killer on the loose, or rather a multiple murderer, since Hardesy was likely correct that the shooter was a pro.

She went to the back bedroom first, larger of the two, likely Karma’s as the permanent resident. The queen-sized bed had not been slept in, a lavender comforter neatly in place, a stuffed unicorn leaning against the pillows. Next to a window sat a four-drawer dresser, with framed photos of friends and family on top.

Rogers went over for a closer look, thinking the “old” john might be among the photos; no candidates, though. She looked over Karma’s dressing table — a show-biz bulb-framed mirror, a ton of makeup, but nothing jumped out as a clue. The closet was home to clothes that ranged from thrift-shop blouses to higher-end dresses — courtesy of the generous old john, maybe? Only that seemed even the faintest clue to possibly identifying Karma’s killer.

The guest bedroom where Virginia sometimes stayed was neat, bed made, as anonymous as a motel room but for a pile of romance novels on the nightstand. No help.

She went back downstairs where Virginia was still in the upright La-Z-Boy, using another tissue.

“After these cops finish with you,” Rogers said, “go home and climb in bed. You’re going to be physically ill for a day or two. Trust me.”

Virginia managed a feeble smile. “Thanks. I’ll do that. What was your name again?”

Rogers told her, then handed her a card. “Anything else occurs to you, anything at all, give me a call, okay?”

“Yeah,” Virginia said. “Is... is this your case?”

“Right now it’s the DC police’s, but we’ll be looking at Karma’s death through our end of the telescope, too.”

“Good.”

“Seriously, Virginia, I’m not going to bullshit you. Finding Karma’s killer is going to be tough. Everybody on this thing needs all the help they can get — myself included — and right now you’re the most likely source. You and Karma were BFFs, right?”

“Right. Agent Rogers, if I think of anything, I’ll call you. You have my word.”

“Good enough for me,” Rogers said with a smile. “Listen, while you’re waiting for them to dismiss you, do me a favor — make a list of all of Karma’s friends. Maybe one of them can help. I’ll send a cop in with paper and pen.”

Virginia was nodding, all that beautiful dark hair bobbling. “Glad to. I need something positive to focus on, not just... what I keep seeing...”

“Give that list to Detective Ferguson. I’ll have him send a copy to me at my office. Can you do that, Virginia?”

“Absolutely.”

After a nod, Rogers turned, but the transvestite’s voice stopped her: “Agent Rogers — thank you.”

“What for, Virginia?”

“Treating me like a person.”

“No problem,” Rogers said, glancing back. “You didn’t deserve something shitty like this happening.”

“Neither did Karma.”

“And neither did Karma. Stay in touch.”

She found Ferguson on the porch and gave him a rundown of what she’d learned, requesting that he keep her in the loop, including that list Virginia was putting together. She gave him her card.

“If you don’t get me,” she said, “try Hardesy.”

“You got it.”

She was back in the car, about to pull out, when her cell vibrated again. Now what? Caller ID read: REEDER. She answered.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“So talk.”

“In person.”

“Where are you?”

He told her.

“Okay,” she said.