“Likewise,” Carol said.
Chris drove directly into Manhattan, parked in a lot on Forty-eighth Street across from the Hotel Inter-Continental, and entered the large, sprawling lobby that was dominated by an elaborate bird cage beneath a huge Tiffany glass skylight. She stopped to admire the exotic birds, then went to the information desk, where she was directed to the administrative offices. The same assistant manager with whom she’d spoken on the phone came out of her office and asked, “Was anyone expecting you?”
“No,” Saksis said. “I’d originally intended to not bother anyone officially and just spend a little time downstairs, but I thought better of it. Could we talk in your office?”
Saksis showed the assistant manager a photo of George Pritchard she’d brought with her. “What I’d like to do is show this to the people on your staff who have public contact to see if anyone remembers him being here recently.”
“That’s no problem. Where would you like to start?”
“The restaurants, I suppose, the bar, the front desk.”
“I’ll send our PR director with you to smooth the way.”
A few minutes later, accompanied by a personable young blond woman named Linda Kam, Saksis started making the rounds. They started in the bar, a handsome masculine room with aubergine suede on the walls, large leather chairs, and plush velvet semicircular banquettes. It had the distinct feeling of a private club; men in dark business suits spoke in hushed tones over drinks. The bartender and waitresses looked at the photo of Pritchard and shook their heads. “He looks pretty much like everybody else who comes in here,” said the bartender.
They moved on to La Recolte, the hotel’s four-star and spectacularly decorated nouvelle cuisine restaurant, where people lingered over late lunches in Mozartean splendor. None of the staff recognized Pritchard, so they went to the third restaurant in the hotel, the oak-paneled Barclay, where they met with the same result. It wasn’t until they’d joined dozens of well-dressed men and women on the Terrace that the photograph brought a spark of recognition. It was an older waiter in a black tux who carefully positioned half-glasses on his nose, squinted, and adjusted the photo to catch just the right light. “Sure,” he said, “I’ve served him. I think he had a moustache and glasses, but I recognize the eyes and the ears.”
“Eyes and ears?” Saksis asked.
“Yeah. You get to notice those things dealing with people all the time. I’ve been here thirty years.” He began to recount experiences, when Linda Kam pleasantly interrupted him. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask?” she said to Saksis.
Saksis looked at the waiter. “Do you recall the circumstances when you saw him—the time, date, who he was with?”
The waiter frowned. “Let me see. I’d say it was late afternoon. No, no, now I remember, it was late at night. They came in here, took a seat over there by the piano, and ordered a Blanton’s for him, a—I can’t remember what she had. Might have been—”
“Blanton’s?” Saksis asked.
“Bourbon, the best. Expensive though. That’s why I remember him ordering it. It’s not that popular because it costs so much.”
“You said he was with a woman.”
“Yes, nice-looking gal, tall, good figure. I notice those things. Good-looking woman with lots of red hair.” He laughed. “I’ve seen lots of redheads here over thirty years, but this one was—” He suddenly appeared to be embarrassed. “Maybe I shouldn’t be—”
Saksis said, “Could you describe her in more detail for me?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Let’s see, very pale skin, milky-white like redheads usually have, tall, dressed like a million bucks. He tipped good. I remember a ring she was wearing, took up half her finger, great big oval-shaped diamond with little rubies around it. He went for big bucks on that.”
Chris asked the waiter, “Did you hear the red-headed woman talk at all?”
“Yes, I did. I like talking with my customers, establishing a rapport because—”
“Was she southern?” Saksis asked.
He grinned. “I was just about to say that. I think she was, had a little bit of an accent like that.”
“One more thing,” Saksis said. “Do you know the author, Richard Kneeley?”
“Sure, he practically lives here,” the waiter said.
“Was the man in the photo ever with him? Did you ever serve them together?”
“No. I’d remember if I did. I serve Mr. Kneeley all the time. He’s a good man. He always tells me I should write a book about my experiences here. I will some day. He said he’d help me.”
“But you’ve never seen them together?” Saksis said.
“No, ma’am, I don’t think so.”
“What about the red-headed woman?”
He shook his head. “I’ve only seen her once, with the man in the picture. Just once.”
“Was she a guest?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was he?”
“I wouldn’t know that, either. He didn’t sign the check. He paid cash.”
***
There were two messages on her answering machine when she arrived back at her apartment that night, one from Bill Tse-ay asking where they would meet for breakfast, the other from Ross Lizenby asking the same thing. She returned Bill’s call first and said, “I’m sorry, Bill, but something came up while I was in New York that fouls up tomorrow. I have to cancel.”
He didn’t try to hide his disappointment.
“Let me square things away,” she said, “and I’ll get back to you later tomorrow. We’ll find some time, I promise.”
There was no answer at Lizenby’s apartment until eleven. He was brusque, almost angry.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No. What about breakfast. Usual place?”
“Yes, usual place.”
“Feel like company?” he asked.
“Now? No, Ross, I’m beat.”
“What happened in New York? Why didn’t you tell me you were going?”
“Because you weren’t around. I’ll fill you in tomorrow morning.”
14
Ross Lizenby called Chris Saksis as she was leaving her apartment the next morning. “Let’s break the habit,” he said pleasantly. “I made a reservation at Joe and Mo’s. See you there.”
The steak house had only recently begun catering to the increasingly popular Washington “business breakfast,” but it was almost filled to capacity when Saksis arrived. She was led to a table against the far wall, where Ross was already seated. He stood, kissed her cheek, and held out a chair.
“Breakfast with the high and the mighty,” she said, looking around the room and recognizing familiar faces from politics and the media. “What made you decide to come here?”
He smiled and covered her hand on the table. “I just think we’ve gotten into a rut, Chris, and I’d like to get out of it—for our sake.”
She was on guard. He was so unpredictable, so up or down, angry one moment, charming and loving the next. She certainly preferred the latter mood but found herself increasingly ready to defend against the swing that was almost sure to follow.
“You know what I think,” he said.
“What?”
“I think we should chuck everything next weekend and go away, maybe down to the shore or even up to New York, catch some theater, a couple of good dinners, just relax and get off this treadmill.”
“It sounds appealing but—”
“Then let’s do it. Look, Chris, I know that I’ve been neglecting you lately, but it doesn’t represent how I feel. That’s why I want some time together, time alone so that we can discover each other and see where we’re headed.”
When she didn’t immediately respond favorably, he said, “Maybe you’d rather make it a tennis weekend, some sauna time, sweat out all the crap that gets in our way.”
“Are you talking about this weekend?”
“Yes.”
She wanted to say yes, the
idea of getting away was immensely appealing. She looked into eyes that were disconcertingly boyish. He was right, of course, that if they were ever to find out about each other, and whether a deeper relationship was in the cards, they’d need to get away from the tensions of the investigation and of working together. She wanted to know where they stood, if only to avoid a time down the road when she’d regret not having given it a running chance. His unpredictable actions over the past few days could be chalked up to the pressures and responsibilities of his job. She had to give him that benefit of the doubt. Besides, when he was like he was at that moment, any cognitive analysis of the situation was short-circuited by a pure rush of emotion, a tiny internal switch tripping off the conduit to the head and opening a valve to the heart.
Still…
He seemed to recognize it was prudent to back off and to let her think about it a while. He picked up a menu and said, “Whatever happened to breakfast?” There was the “Dave Butz Breakfast,” a twenty-ounce steak and ten eggs for $32, and a “George Starke Stack,” twenty large pancakes for $15. They settled on smaller steaks and two eggs for him, an omelette for her.
“Tell me about New York,” he said. “Who did you see up there?”
“A couple of people.” She told him about Terry Finch, Bill Dawkins, and the Hotel Inter-Continental. He listened intently, an occasional nod or grunt his only response. “I have a couple of questions for you, Ross.”
“Shoot.”
“Why did they choose George Pritchard to head up SPOVAC? Director Shelton didn’t like him, and Pritchard had no interest or experience in administration.”
Lizenby shrugged and sat back as a waiter delivered their juice and coffee. “He was one of the best undercover people in the bureau,” he said, then added with a chuckle, “The Peter Principle at work.”
“Could there have been another reason?” Saksis asked.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t get rid of the question. Did Director Shelton want him in headquarters to keep him close, to keep an eye on him?”
“I doubt it, but it doesn’t matter, does it? Drink your juice.”
She picked up her glass and looked at him over it. He dismissed what she’d said too quickly. She decided to go on to another topic. He obviously wasn’t about to offer more on that subject.
“Ross, what do you know about Richard Kneeley?”
“The writer? Nothing.”
“He must have a substantial file with us considering some of the books he’s done in the past.”
“Probably does. Why do you ask?”
She explained what she’d come up with so far.
“Doesn’t fly for me, Chris. I’d suggest we concentrate on more viable things.” He said it with an edge to his voice that stung her. She decided to drop that line of inquiry, too, and to simply proceed with her own background check on Kneeley. She asked about the CIA liaison, Bert Doering.
“Nothing there. There’s no link.”
Finally, when they were well into their food, she asked, “What do you know about Pritchard and Rosemary Cale?”
He was about to bring a forkful of food to his mouth. He slowly lowered it to the plate and sighed, like an impatient parent. “Chris, what does that have to do with the case?”
She, too, lowered her fork. “They’d had an affair, and she was in the building the night he was murdered.”
“That affair was over long ago. Are you suggesting that she’s a suspect?”
“I didn’t realize that anyone had been ruled out.”
“I’m not ruling her out, Chris, I’m just saying that there are better places to direct energy. That affair was over long ago.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. George talked to me about it. Besides, it wasn’t some full-blown thing they were into. She was one of many. What brings her up? Oh, the woman that waiter said was with Pritchard, the redhead. Pritchard was partial to redheads. Drop it.”
“Every point I’ve brought up this morning you’ve waved away, dismissed without even a modicum of consideration. Why?”
“Because I don’t have time to chase stupid leads and to run down blind alleys.”
“I didn’t consider these things—”
He grabbed her hand. “This is why we have to get away from Pritchard and the bureau and everything else except us.”
She wasn’t sure what to say next.
“Look, Chris, I’m sorry, but to be honest with you, I’m having a lot of trouble concentrating on Ranger. I’ll be off it pretty soon.”
“Oh.”
“SPOVAC’s been neglected since Pritchard died, and the director wants me back on it full-time, which, frankly, is fine with me.”
“When?”
“Maybe next week. I have a meeting with Gormley this afternoon to discuss it. Chances are I’ll be out of town all next week if he decides to take me off Ranger.”
“Who’ll take over?”
“You.”
“I don’t want that.”
“You have a choice?”
“I suppose not, but I’m beginning to resent not having choices. Where will you be going next week? Phoenix?”
“Yeah, maybe, but how do you know?”
She smiled and turned her hands outward. “Well, you used to spend a lot of time in Arizona and I know there have been a number of SPOVAC conferences out there.”
“I don’t know where I’ll be.” He started to eat again. Then he looked up and said, “That’s why I want this weekend together.”
“Let’s talk about it later.”
“Okay. Tonight. Let’s have dinner and stay at my place.”
She closeted herself in her office and spent an hour writing down every thought she had about the Pritchard case. The final item on her list was Rosemary Cale.
Cale was a senior laboratory technician in the bureau’s fingerprint division. She certainly didn’t look like someone at home in a laboratory. Tall, voluptuous, with a thick mane of red hair that she usually allowed to fall loose down her back and to her waist, she could easily have been mistaken for a model, or actress—anything but a highly trained and skilled researcher. She’d received her master’s degree in computer science from the University of Maryland and was halfway finished with her doctoral studies at American University. Because she was so stunning, she was always the object of rumors around headquarters, including one that she was intimate with Director Shelton. All of them remained unsubstantiated rumors, except for the one about George Pritchard. She seemed to be truly smitten with him and talked openly with a few friends about their relationship. It was said that her openness was what caused Pritchard to end it, and it was the consensus that it was, indeed, over. But Saksis’s conversation with the waiter at the Hotel Inter-Continental caused her to view it in a different light. She was hesitant to approach Rosemary Cale about it. They’d never been friends. In fact, Cale had made it obvious after they’d first been introduced that there would be no friendship. Comments had been passed to Saksis that Cale resented having another good-looking woman around headquarters. Saksis dismissed those remarks, but as time went by she wondered if indeed there was some truth to them.
Rosemary Cale had made an open play for Ross Lizenby, but according to office scuttlebutt, he’d walked away from her advances. Saksis knew, of course, that he’d been involved with other women from headquarters, but they didn’t bother her. Rosemary Cale would have.
She decided that no matter how unpleasant approaching Cale about George Pritchard might turn out to be, it had to be done, despite Lizenby’s admonition to drop it. It was a matter of three things, she decided. One, the questions had been raised in her mind. Natural curiosity was at work. Two, she had to admit to herself that she wanted to be the one to solve the Pritchard case, just as she’d always wanted to finish first in the track meets that brought her public attention. She was a competitor, pure and simple, and she wouldn’t be comfortable with any other appr
oach to life. And three, it was her job.
She stopped by the fingerprint labs at noon and was told that Rosemary Cale had taken a personal day, but would be in tomorrow. She left a note asking Cale to call her and returned to her office, where she ordered in something from the cafeteria and went back to sorting out her thoughts, and the information that had been collected to date. Lizenby poked his head in at four. “What about tonight?” he asked.
She hadn’t thought about being together. “Sure,” she said.
“I’ll pick you up here at six. Feel like Japanese?”
“That’ll be fine.”
“Good. Oh, by the way, you might as well have this.” He handed her an eight-by-ten manila envelope.
“What’s in it?” she asked.
“Some more personal effects from Pritchard.”
“More? Ross, why haven’t these things been given to us sooner? How are we supposed to—?”
“Not to question, kid. It’s junk anyway. Just put it in the safe and forget about it.”
He left and she opened the envelope. Inside were a dozen scraps of paper, laundry receipts, a membership card for a San Francisco private club, a wallet-size faded and wrinkled photo of his daughter when she was quite young, two parking receipts from a Washington lot, and a parking receipt for the ferry that ran from Bay Shore, Long Island, to Fire Island dated six days before he’d been murdered.
“Damn it,” she muttered as she opened the safe and placed the envelope and its contents with other materials from the Pritchard case. “I don’t understand.”
She wanted to talk to Lizenby about it that night, but each time she started to raise a question about Ranger and Pritchard, he shushed her with a kiss, a touch, an “I love you.” Eventually, she was able to put the FBI out of her thoughts and concentrate on the pleasures at hand, the intense feelings that accompanied their lovemaking.
But after he’d fallen asleep, she sat up against the headboard and grappled with the confusion that had been there all day. Something was wrong, and she desperately wished she knew what it was.
15
Murder at the FBI Page 11
