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.