Murder at the FBI

by Margaret Truman

Saksis awoke with a start the next morning. She’d forgotten to call Bill Tse-ay. She looked over at Ross, who was still asleep, quietly slid from the bed, and was halfway to the bathroom when he said playfully, “Get back here. I’m not finished.”

  She turned and smiled.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he said, sitting up and propping his head on one hand as he took in her naked body.

  “Duty calls,” she said as she continued to the bathroom.

  He was anxious to make love again, but she dissuaded him in the interest of getting to work early. “We’ll have the weekend,” she said.

  They had melon and coffee in his kitchen after showering and dressing. “Let’s do it again tonight,” he said.

  “Ross, I’m not available tonight,” she said. “My friend, Bill Tse-ay, is in town and I owe him some time.”

  He didn’t look up as he said, “What the hell is this, some kind of a game?”

  “Pardon?”

  His eyes were cold as he focused on her face. “That’s right, a goddamn game. You sleep with me, plan a weekend together, and then go off and sleep with your Apache.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, incredulous.

  “You’d better start. I’m serious.”

  “I don’t sleep with—he’s my friend, Ross, that’s all. There used to be more, but that’s over, and he’s not—not an Apache.”

  He grinned. “I thought he was. You told me he was.”

  “What I mean is I resent the way you said it.”

  “Great. And I resent being played with like this.”

  “I told you I’m not… I want to go.”

  “Go.”

  “My car’s at work.”

  He slammed his spoon down on the table and went to the bedroom. Ten minutes later he was back. “Come on, I’m ready,” he said.

  They did not talk on their way to the Hoover Building, continued their silence on the way up in the elevator, and went to their respective offices without breaking it.

  Saksis didn’t know which emotion to play out—anger or sadness, to cry or to throw the telephone through the window. She didn’t have a chance to do either because Rosemary Cale called.

  “I wondered if we could find an hour together today,” Saksis said.

  Cale replied with a cynical laugh. “My turn, huh?”

  “If you want to look at it that way,” said Saksis. “Feel like stopping up here at my office?”

  “No. I’d rather get out of the building.”

  “Fine with me. Lunch?”

  “No. Why don’t you stop by my apartment this afternoon.”

  Saksis thought of Bill Tse-ay. She was hoping he’d be free for dinner and didn’t want anything to interfere with it. “What time?” she asked.

  “Any time after two,” she said.

  “Four?”

  “That’ll be fine.” She gave Saksis an address on N Street, in Georgetown. “Don’t be late. I have an appointment at five.”

  “I’ll be on time,” Saksis said, wondering why she’d be off so early.

  Rosemary Cale’s slight southern accent stayed with Saksis for the rest of the day. She managed to reach Bill Tse-ay and apologized for not getting back to him the day before. They made a six o’clock date for dinner at Tandoor, in Georgetown. She had lunch in a local sandwich shop with Barbara Twain and Ray Okawa, the pathologist, who was leaving Ranger because there was nothing more for him to do on the Pritchard case.

  After lunch, she went through the latest batch of Pritchard’s personal effects once again, put the Fire Island ferry ticket in her purse, and carefully read the computer print-out Barbara Twain had run on Richard Kneeley. It was long; the nature of his books had certainly brought him to the bureau’s attention over the years. But there was more, a detailed section on his personal life. The report pegged him as a homosexual despite two marriages. Transcripts of conversations he’d had in hotel rooms that had been bugged by the bureau supported the homosexual allegation, although most of them dealt with mundane telephone calls concerning his business—talks with his agent, a couple of publishers and assorted friends, male and female. There was nothing in his file that touched upon government contacts he might have made to gain the classified information he used as the basis for his books.

  Kneeley’s politics were left of center, and there was a page in the report about his involvement years ago with a writer’s group that had been branded “subversive” by the FBI.

  For Saksis, however, the most important piece of information came from a list of all the books Kneeley had written. He’d used a variety of names early in his career, and one of them was Richard Kane, a pseudonym used for a series of paperback westerns. That item, coupled with the ferry ticket, helped make up her mind. She’d return to New York the next day, this time with Fire Island on her itinerary.

  Rosemary Cale’s apartment was on the second floor of an elegant row house on Georgetown’s sedate and fashionable N Street, where the Kennedy House, a gift from Senator John F. Kennedy to his wife upon the birth of their daughter, Caroline; and Cox Row, named after Georgetown mayor Colonel John Cox, who built its string of houses in 1817, stood as understated testimony to the neighborhood’s gentility.

  Cale’s apartment was large, sunny, and tastefully furnished. She wore a powder blue terrycloth robe when she opened the door to Saksis, and was obviously in the process of getting ready for a date. She was barefoot; the ends of her red hair were still moist from the shower. Usually, Cale wore quite a bit of makeup, at least compared to Saksis. Now, there wasn’t a trace of it, and the result was a naturalness that only enhanced her beauty.

  “Sit down,” Cale said. “You’ll have to excuse me for a minute. I was in the middle of something.”

  “Sure,” Saksis said.

  “If you want somethin’ to drink, it’s over there. I’d offer coffee but I’m in too much of a rush. There’s juice in the refrigerator, and milk. Help yourself.”

  “I’m fine,” Saksis said. “Take your time.”

  Saksis took the opportunity to look around the living room. Built-in bookshelves contained an array of leather-bound editions of classics, probably from a club, she decided. The overall impression was a collection for show, rather than for reading. One wall was covered with prints in heavy frames. The furniture was obviously purchased in one swoop, as a set, a conversation pit formed by a series of modular pieces in a chocolate brown corduroy fabric. The parquet floor was partially covered with a large, authentic Oriental rug in yellow and red tones. A large piece of furniture housed a 26-inch color TV monitor, VCR, and a Sony component stereo system with a dual cassette deck and graphic equalizer. The room was, at once, tasteful, yet packaged, one call to a furniture store, a swing by a print gallery, and a fast stop at an electronics outlet—functional, comfortable, and lacking in personal touches.

  Rosemary Cale returned. “Nice apartment,” Saksis said.

  “I like it, especially the neighborhood. The neighborhood’s more important than the place, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s a pretty street.”

  “An expensive street, but it’s worth it for peace of mind.”

  Saksis sat in the conversation pit. “Rosemary, you obviously know why I’m here.”

  “George L. Pritchard.” Cale stood in the center of the pit, hands on her ample hips, the robe falling open to her waist, giving a generous view of her milky-white breasts. “Did we have an affair? I suppose so, if a sexual fling qualifies for that nice term. How long did it last? A month, maybe two. Who broke it off? George L. Pritchard. Was I unhappy? For a day or two. Was it a satisfyin’ affair? Oh, yes. The man knew what a woman likes, could sustain the interest and mood, if you get my drift.”

  Saksis smiled. “I think I do.”

  “Of course you do, a knock-out woman like you.”

  “Thank you. What I wanted to ask was—”

  “Whether I killed George L. Pritchard. Hell, no. He wasn’t that good.” She til
ted her head to one side and grinned. “Any further questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ask away.”

  “When did the affair end?”

  “Too long ago to remember.”

  “That long ago? The way you describe Pritchard, I’d think it would be etched into your memory.”

  Her laugh was raucous. “Come on, Miss Saksis, I’m sure there have been enough good men in your life to blur the dates of their comin’ and goin’.”

  Saksis could only smile.

  “See, I’m right. Look, I really have to get on the road. Maybe you didn’t hear. I’ve resigned from the bureau.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Oh, yes. My time with the house that Hoover built is over. It’s amazin’ how much more the private sector is willin’ to pay for talent.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. So, if you don’t mind, I really have to ask you to—”

  “I’ll go,” Saksis said, “but there’s one point that we haven’t covered.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s my information that you and George Pritchard were in New York together the week before he was murdered.”

  “That’s your information?”

  “Yes, at the Hotel Inter-Continental on Lexington and Forty-eighth.”

  “Well, Miss Saksis, your information is wrong.” She gestured with her left hand to emphasize her point, flashing her oval diamond-and-ruby ring in Saksis’s face.

  “You’re sure it is?”

  “Very sure.”

  “The affair with Pritchard didn’t continue until recently?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What were you doing in the Hoover Building the night he was killed?”

  “Giving the Federal Bureau of Investigation another drop of blood for minimum wage. Working late. That’s why I’m leaving. Too much work and not enough pay.”

  “I have someone in New York who’ll testify that you were there with Pritchard the week before he died.”

  Another hearty laugh. “Then, by all means have him testify. Have we reached that point? Am I about to be accused of murder?”

  Saksis shook her head and stood. “Of course not. By the way, have you ever met the author Richard Kneeley?”

  Cale thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Can’t say that I have, although I wouldn’t mind. He’s a very handsome and successful man.”

  Cale walked Saksis to the door. “Give my best to Ross,” she said.

  “Ross? Oh, of course.”

  “He’s such a divine-looking man. You’re lucky.”

  “Meaning what?”

  It was a knowing smile between sorority sisters that formed on Cale’s lips.

  Saksis almost challenged her, but knew that it would only compound the embarrassment she was feeling. She asked, “Besides being good with—”

  “You’re referring to George?”

  “Yes. Besides—”

  “Besides bein’ good in the sack, he was a swine. I always felt sorry for his wife and daughter.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, I did. You know, Chris, I always intended to get a little closer to you, become more friendly. I’d love to know more about American Indians. I’m interested in those things.”

  Saksis stifled a smile. “I would have been happy to educate you,” she said.

  Cale pressed her index finger against her lips, removed it, and said, “I’ll give you one more bit of information for your files.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I did go to bed with Director Shelton.”

  Saksis looked at the floor before saying, “I really don’t care about that, Rosemary.”

  “But I do. Between us girls, he wasn’t very exciting.”

  Saksis wanted very much to bring up Ross Lizenby’s name again, but successfully fought the urge. “Thanks for seeing me, Rosemary.”

  “You take care, Chris. The FBI is a dangerous place for little gals like us.”

  ***

  Saksis got to Tandoor an hour before Bill Tse-ay. She nursed a Pimm’s Cup, absently stirring it with its cucumber stick until he arrived.

  “I feel as though I’ve been granted an audience,” he said as he kissed her.

  “No shtik tonight, Bill. I need a serious ear.”

  “Have you ever seen ears more serious than these?” he said. “You look troubled.”

  “You’re very observant. Could we go back to my apartment instead of having dinner here? I can make something.”

  He smiled. “Actually, I’ve been in deep Apache prayer all day that we could skip dinner. I can’t stand Indian food.”

  ***

  They finished talking at four the next morning. Chris told Bill everything, including the details of her relationship with Ross Lizenby. Bill provided the serious listening she needed. His final words as he left the apartment were, “Let me do a little checking. I was going back to Arizona tomorrow night, but I think I’ll stay around a few more days.”

  16

  Saksis’s seven A.M. flight the next day to LaGuardia Airport was delayed twenty minutes because of deteriorating weather up and down the East Coast. It was drizzling as she started her drive to Bay Shore, but by the time she reached it the rain was coming down in wind-blown sheets. She parked the car in a lot adjacent to the ferry slip and was given a receipt identical to the one found in Pritchard’s effects. It was stamped with the date and time by the Fire Island Terminal Company.

  She leaned into the wind and went to the ticket window, where she was told the next ferry to Cherry Grove would leave in forty-five minutes. She bought her ticket, spotted a coffee shop across the parking lot, and allowed the wind to propel her in its direction. It was crowded with Fire Islanders waiting for the ferry, and with local fishermen who ate clam chowder and discussed the weather.

  Saksis ordered coffee and a Danish, found a table near the window, and leaned against it. Her purpose in returning to Long Island was to show Pritchard’s picture around in the hope someone would remember having seen him with Richard Kneeley. She’d originally intended to simply contact Kneeley and ask about a link with Pritchard, but she’d learned long ago from her lawyer and investigator friends that the best way to ask a question was to already know the answer. If Kneeley denied knowing Pritchard, she wanted to be able to come back with something solid. It was helpful to know when someone was lying, as in the case of Rosemary Cale. Saksis didn’t have a doubt in the world that it had been Rosemary with Pritchard in New York, not with the red hair and southern accent and distinctive, expensive ring. Why had she lied? Pride? Embarrassment? Guilt? She hoped the answer would make itself evident soon.

  Now, it was time to build a case for the truth where Richard Kneeley was concerned.

  She went to the counter and showed Pritchard’s photo to the women behind it. They didn’t recognize him. She tried several men sitting at the counter but met the same response. No one asked who she was or why she was showing the photo. If they had, she’d decided not to mention her FBI affiliation, simply to chalk it up to a sister looking for a missing brother. No sense having them gossiping on Fire Island about an FBI agent snooping around.

  She paid her bill and ventured out into the rain. The girl at the ferry’s ticket counter didn’t recall ever having seen Pritchard, nor did two young men who were loading cargo onto the boat.

  Because of the rough weather, everyone was crowded into the enclosed lower deck. The wind buffeted the craft as it backed away from the slip, turned, and headed across the choppy expanse of water that separated Long Island from the smaller Fire Island. Saksis showed Pritchard’s photo to a couple of deckhands. Nothing. The man next to her was obviously a regular commuter.

  “Ever see this man on the ferry before?” Saksis asked.

  The man laughed. “Lose a husband?”

  “A brother,” Saksis said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make light of it. Nope, never s
aw him before.” He showed the photo to his friends, none of whom recognized Pritchard. Now, of course, Saksis was asked myriad questions about the disappearance of her brother. She answered some of them, eventually said, “It’s all too painful.”

  “Leave the girl alone,” the man next to her said to his buddies. His final word was, “He doesn’t look like you.” Saksis smiled and said, “Stepbrother.”

  Her raincoat and rainhat provided scant protection against the wet wind that swept across Fire Island. The tiny streets of Cherry Grove were virtually empty, except for a few young, handsome, well-built men, scurrying between stores and bars, darting out into the elements and escaping from them as quickly as possible. Saksis was disappointed. She’d hoped to stroll sunny streets and show the picture to people she bumped into. That wouldn’t be the case today.

  She started with a bar at one end of the main street, showing Pritchard’s face to employees and patrons. The bartender seemed to recognize the man in the picture, but he couldn’t be sure. “Something about him,” he said, “a look, an expression.”

  “He might have been with Richard Kneeley,” Saksis said.

  “With Dick? He’s always got somebody with him,” the bartender said. “Let me see it again.” He held the photo in better light. “Could be, but I can’t be sure. Why are you looking for him?”

  “He’s a stepbrother who disappeared.”

  “Oh, gee, that’s rough. Here, have something on me. What do you drink?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “Sure? Something soft?”

  “All right, club soda, with lime.”

  “You know Dick Kneeley?” the bartender asked as he placed the glass in front of her.

  “No, but I certainly am a fan of his books.”

  “He’s big, huh? Good guy.”

  “So I’ve heard. My stepbrother used to know him, which was why I wanted to come here.”

  “Have you called Dick?”

  “No.”

  “Your brother—he was—?”

  “Was what?”

  “I mean your stepbrother. Well, this is Cherry Grove.”

  She knew he was referring to Cherry Grove’s reputation as the popular homosexual village on Fire Island. She wasn’t sure how to play it. The bartender didn’t appear to be gay, although that didn’t prove anything. She decided to go along with the idea he’d introduced.