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“You’re not sold?”
“Just trying to understand the entire situation before we declare it a revenge killing and a suicide. Take a right.”
Sampson did, and then he made a left, and we were into big-money properties, sprawling estates, some with high walls and security gates. It was dusk and lights were blinking on.
“Coming up on your right,” I said.
Sampson slowed, put on a blinker. We drove up a narrow road maybe a hundred feet long with gardens on both sides. At the end of it was a guardhouse, a turnaround, and a steel security gate set in a high wall.
The polished brass sign on the guardhouse read THE PHOENIX CLUB. PRIVATE. MEMBERS ONLY.
We’d no sooner reached the turnaround than a big, muscular dude stepped out in a blue polo shirt with the Phoenix Club logo on the chest and a Glock pistol holstered at his waist.
He held up his hand and came to the driver-side window.
“Are you members?” he said in a thick Eastern European accent.
“No,” Sampson said, and he showed his police badge and ID. “We need to talk to someone about Edita Kravic.”
“I don’t know her,” the man said, seeming unimpressed that we were cops.
“She worked here, and now she’s dead,” Sampson said. “So go inside and call whoever would know and tell them we’re not leaving until we speak with someone about her.”
The guard stared at Sampson. Sampson glared back. Then the security guy bit his lip and went into the guardhouse.
Twenty minutes later, the gates opened and out came a golf cart driven by a bald man in a finely tailored blue suit. He stopped the cart and got out. He was in his thirties, with slightly cauliflower ears, pale blue eyes, and extraordinarily large hands with knuckles that had been broken a few times.
“I am Sergei Bogrov,” he said, taking my hand and then laying his other mitt-like hand on top of mine, swallowing it. “I help manage the club. How may I help?”
“Edita Kravic,” I said. “She worked here.”
Bogrov’s face fell and he let go of my hand. “Yes, we hear this. Very sad. She was well liked by the staff and members.”
“What did she do?”
“She taught a hybrid of yoga and Feldenkrais therapy.”
“Level Two Certified Coach?” I asked.
“That’s right,” Bogrov said. “She also worked in the spa as a masseuse. She was an excellent one.”
“Good money in that?” Sampson asked.
“If the member is a generous tipper, it can be,” he said.
“So, what is the Phoenix Club?” I asked. “Health spa and…”
“Pools, tennis courts, fitness center, an excellent private restaurant, an extensive wine cellar, the best bar in Virginia, and the company of others who have achieved much in life and deserve more,” Bogrov said.
“You sound like you’re doing a marketing pitch,” Sampson said.
Bogrov smiled. “You caught me.”
“Can we get a tour?” I asked.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,”
Bogrov said. “Our members belong to the club as much for its strict privacy as for its amenities.”
