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?”