The weather in Washington, D.C., at seven A.M. was bright, sunny, and crisp, but by the time the Pan Am jet reached New York’s LaGuardia Airport at 8:05, rain poured from the skies.
The first rental car wouldn’t start; the second one did, and Chris Saksis drove east toward Bay Shore and the ferry to Fire Island. She’d used a coin-operated copying machine at National Airport to make a duplicate of the print-out of Kneeley’s transmission to Sutherland House, and slid the original beneath the driver’s seat. She also had with her the photo of Kneeley and Pritchard together, as well as a series of notes and questions she’d drafted after the transmission had been interrupted.
As she pulled into the parking lot and was handed a receipt by the attendant, she realized how tired she was. She found an empty parking space, turned off the engine, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. One thought kept crossing her mind: why did she care? Assistant Director Gormley had gotten her off the hook, in a sense. She could go to Montana, do a good job, and allow the past few months to fade into a fuzzy memory.
Obviously, the bureau was content with its story of foreign terrorists having murdered George Pritchard. That was its business. Why should she care?
She thought of the philosophy her father had passed on to her before he died, the concept that each person was a mere speck in the universe, sharing it with a leaf, a toad, each grain of sand, and drop of water. She wasn’t that important. No, that wasn’t it. She was important; her travails were not. Life was not to be trusted, and it was given as a loan, temporary, the days of one’s life simply installments against that loan until, when it was time to be paid, the regularity of payment was considered in some grand ledger that determined one’s eternal credit rating.
The thought of her father, and of her mother, was at once comforting and painful. What would they think of her now? She often wished that they were alive to see that she’d succeeded, at least in terms of the society around her. They were such proud people—that was it. That was why she was there, in a parking lot about to confront a writer named Richard Kneeley about what she thought had happened to George Pritchard. It wasn’t Pritchard that mattered, and she knew it. It was Christine Saksis who counted. She’d been smeared and manipulated as though she were a toy to be abused and discarded by noon on Christmas Day. That feeling opened her eyes, propelled her from the car and toward the ferry.
Saksis’s third ride to Cherry Grove was as rough as the first one had been, the vessel’s windows splattered with water, the lower passenger cabin filled with the wind’s whistle, the bow constantly elevated and slammed down by the water’s swells, loose gear in the cabin threatening to go its own way at any moment. There weren’t many people on board. An old man wearing a yellow rubber slicker and carrying a white miniature poodle pressed his nose against the glass and peered out into the gray, wet weather that engulfed the ferry. The dog panted and licked the old man’s face.
“Hi.”
Saksis turned at the sound of the man’s voice. It was the bartender to whom she’d spoken her first time in Cherry Grove.
“Paul, remember? I bought you a club soda.”
“Sure, I remember. How are you?”
“Pretty good. Coming over to pack up the apartment and head for Florida…. Ever find him?”
“What?”
“Your brother—stepbrother. Any luck?”
She had to go back in time and resurrect her lie. “No, no luck. Still trying, though.”
“That’s the way, hang tough. Ever catch up with Dick Kneeley?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I haven’t seen him at all. I guess he’s holed up working on his latest book.”
Saksis thought of the photo in her purse. “Oh,” she said, “let me show you something.” She handed him the picture of Kneeley and Pritchard she’d purchased from the young Fire Island journalists.
He held it up, nodded, and handed it back. “That’s Dick,” he said.
“What about the other man?”
“Sure. He came in once with Dick, and I think he came in alone a couple of times. Why? That your stepbrother?”
“No,” she said, “just an old family friend.”
They stood beneath an overhang on the Cherry Grove side. The rain continued to pour down. “Got an umbrella?” he asked.
“No, but that’s okay.” She said good-bye and took off for Kneeley’s house. When she was on the other side of the dune from his property, she stopped and gathered her thoughts. It was as though she’d arrived at that precise place and moment in time by rote, every system on automatic pilot since receiving the partial print-out of Kneeley’s chapter.
She rounded the dune and walked to the locked gate. The rain obscured a clear view of the house, although she could see that all the drapes were closed. What if he weren’t there, or wouldn’t see her, both distinct possibilities. She’d considered calling first but decided against it. All he had to do was say no, and then what could she do, go to someone in authority within the bureau and lay it out on the table for them? They’d dismiss it.
There’s nothing to lose, she told herself as she pushed the gate’s doorbell. When it didn’t bring any movement at the front door, she pushed it again, holding it a lot longer this time. Again, no response. She now attacked it with a series of thrusts. A drape parted; she couldn’t see who’d done it. She waited. Nothing. Again, she pushed the button. Now, the door opened. She’d expected Jubel, but it was Kneeley himself.
“It’s Christine Saksis,” she yelled.
He stood on the porch and looked at her as though he enjoyed seeing her standing in a deep puddle and being rained on.
“I want to talk to you,” she shouted.
He continued to stare.
“You’d better talk to me!”
He went inside the house, and a minute later Jubel appeared with a large striped golf umbrella, waddled to the gate, unlocked it and glared at her as she stepped through and headed for the open door.
Kneeley was waiting in the foyer. He wore white jeans that were too tight for his expanding middle, a maroon V-neck velour sweater, and deck shoes. His silver hair was as carefully coifed as ever. He’d added additional chains and charms since she was last at his house, and he wore glasses tinted a delicate pink.
“Miss Saksis,” he said with a phony sweep of his hand and a slight bow from the waist. “Mr. Hoover’s finest.”
“Mr. Kneeley.”
“You’re wet,” he said, a hint of mirth in his voice.
“Yes, I am.”
“You must change before you catch your death.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“I insist. I keep various wardrobes in the house and I’m sure you’ll find something to your liking.”
“Mr. Kneeley, I—”
“Get dry. Then we’ll talk. I can’t stand women with water dripping from their noses. It’s gross.”
She realized he was being deliberately fey, and wondered why, considering his awkward attempt to seduce her the last time. She followed him to a small bedroom, where he removed a yellow terrycloth robe and a pair of women’s slippers from a closet. “Come to the study when you’re done,” he said.
She was reluctant to undress, considering the circumstances, and opted for replacing her shoes with the slippers and putting the robe over her dress. Warmer now, she walked into the study, where Kneeley was looking out the window over the wind-swept Atlantic. He turned, smiled, and said, “So, Miss Saksis, you’re back. Is this an official visit? Should I call my attorney?”
“No to both questions, Mr. Kneeley, although I didn’t exactly drop in for tea.”
He laughed. “Would you like some? I have an excellent variety.”
The thought of something warm to drink was appealing. “Yes, that would be nice.”
He called downstairs to Jubel and ordered two cups of tea. “Give Miss Saksis the rose petal. I’ll have black currant.”
“Fancy,” she said.
“It’s called gaining revenge by living well. Now, why don’t you tell me exactly why you’re here.”
She sat in an orange director’s chair to the side of his desk, and he leaned against the credenza behind the desk, arms folded, a challenging smile on his face.
She took a moment to organize her thoughts, then said, “The last time I was here you told me you didn’t know George L. Pritchard, the special agent who was murdered.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t recall saying that. I think I told you I might have met him socially.”
“I’m talking about knowing him better than that.”
“Oh, my,” he said, sitting in his chair and swiveling. “You come here and I graciously invite you inside because—frankly, Miss Saksis, I don’t know why I’m this accommodating unless—well, I am known as a gracious host and as a patriotic American.
“The fact is, Miss Saksis, I’m thoroughly charmed by your company, but I have nothing to offer your investigation, absolutely nothing.”
She picked up her purse from the floor, removed the photo of Kneeley and Pritchard together on Fire Island and slid it across the desk. Kneeley didn’t move. “Would you look at this, Mr. Kneeley?”
“Must I?”
“I think it would be easier here in the comfort and privacy of your own home than in a courtroom.”
His face reflected mock terror. “Not only is the lady beautiful, she’s tough as nails.” He laughed, took the photo, leaned back, and looked at it for a long time. Finally, he tossed it on the desk.
“Well?” Chris said.
“Well what?”
“That’s you and George Pritchard. I also have witnesses on Fire Island who’ve seen you with him on more than one occasion.”
“Witnesses. Many?”
“More than one.”
“Two. Not very intimidating.”
“One’s enough.”
“You say that man with me is this deceased agent, Pritchard. I think the man with me is my lawyer.”
“I don’t think he’s your lawyer, Mr. Kneeley. I know that man is George L. Pritchard.”
“Oh, you know George.”
“Pardon?”
“George Pritchard, my attorney.”
Saksis was suddenly filled with anger at herself for allowing a game to be played between them. She was a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; she should be dealing from the strength that her position afforded her. I should have shared what I know with the bureau, she thought. It was too late for that.
She looked across the desk and said, “Mr. Kneeley, you were involved with George Pritchard because of the book you’re writing about the FBI.”
He again adopted the expression of exaggerated shock, but he didn’t sustain it. The corners of his mouth slacked, and he ran his fingers absently through his hair.
“Don’t deny it, Mr. Kneeley. I know what I’m talking about.”
“You tapped me?”
“I—yes.”
“A legal tap?”
“How did you know about the tap?”
“Was it legal?”
“That’s my business.”
“Not when my civil rights have been violated. You might find yourself up on charges, Miss Saksis.”
“We’ll see.”
“How did I know I was being ‘crashed,’ as the computer world terms it? I got sloppy, Miss Saksis. I always check for line drops in impedance before transmitting, but last night I started sending without taking precautions. After a few minutes I remembered what happens to people who get sloppy. I checked the meter. Sure enough, it had dropped, so I terminated the feed.”
She smiled. “I thought it was my equipment.”
He smiled, too. “Your equipment is fine. So, you have an inkling of the project I’m currently working on. The pages you did manage to see—they mentioned Pritchard.”
“A great deal.”
“And?”
“And I think your presence in the Hoover Building the night he was murdered, and the link between you and Pritchard makes you—well, Mr. Kneeley, I certainly wouldn’t rule you out as a suspect.”
He frowned as Jubel opened the door. “You’re interrupting.”
“The tea.”
“Just put it down and get out.”
Jubel placed the tray on the desk, looked at Saksis, and left the room.
“He’s cute, but the elevator doesn’t reach the top floor,” Kneeley said of his manservant.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Tell me, Miss Saksis, about the announcement made by Director Shelton. Unless my ears are failing—which is possible—I heard that Pritchard was killed by a member of the terrorist group he’d infiltrated a few years ago.”
“Your ears aren’t failing. That’s what was said.”
“And?”
“And I don’t buy it.”
“Oh, my goodness, you are in trouble, questioning the word of the director himself.”
“I’m in trouble no matter what,” she said, wishing she could retrieve the words.
“Are you? I’m so sorry. Add to it the illegal tap you put on my phones and—”
“I’ll take my chances with that. Frankly, if it turns out that you murdered Pritchard, I don’t think anyone will be too critical of me.”
“Don’t count on it. If I did murder Pritchard, and I walk free because of your sloppy police work, you’ll be lucky to find a secretarial job on the reservation.”
She knew he might be right. “How well do you know Helen Pritchard?” she asked.
“Never met the lady.”
“Not true, Mr. Kneeley. She sold the Hoover files and her husband’s notes to you. Was Pritchard about to blow the whistle? Is that what got him killed?”
“You know a lot, don’t you?”
“I know what I hear.”
“Good sources?”
“The best.”
“Tell me about them.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You look ravishing in that robe. The color complements your copper skin.”
“Mr. Kneeley, this pleasant game is wearing thin. The files you possess, the ones about Mr. Hoover, were secret. Your possession of them is illegal.”
He shrugged. “Have your tea, Miss Saksis, before it gets cold.”
She ignored him. “No matter how you cut it, Mr. Kneeley, you’re in trouble.”
His laugh bubbled up from deep inside. He made a great deal out of trying to stop so that he could talk. “Miss Saksis, I hate to say this, but you are a beautiful Native American pain in my butt.” He stood and walked to the window.
She wasn’t sure how to proceed. He obviously had the upper hand and was playing it for all it was worth. She didn’t have proof that he’d killed Pritchard, which ruled out arresting him for it. She could take him in for possession of stolen classified documents, but that presented two problems: he’d make a big deal out of having his First Amendment rights violated and, more important, no one in the bureau had instructed her to barge in on Richard Kneeley and arrest him for anything.
“Come here, Miss Saksis,” he said without turning.
She joined him at the window.
“Lovely view, isn’t it, even in a storm, particularly in a storm.”
He sighed and touched the window pane with the five fingers of his right hand. “Are you happy with the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
“Happy?”
“Content with your job and the way you’re treated.”
“Yes.”
He glanced at her. His face reflected cynicism. “It isn’t the nicest organization in the world, Miss Saksis. With all its highpower PR, it’s really quite tough underneath.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Of course you would.”
“Mr. Kneeley, if you think that by damning the FBI you’ll manage to get me on your side, you’re operating under a big misconception.”
H
e thought for a moment, then crossed the room to his desk, sat in front of his computer, and clicked it on. He looked back at Saksis and motioned with his hand. “Come, come, let me present lesson number two in the real FBI.”
She stood behind him as the screen came to life—a vertical green line on the right side, a horizontal one along the bottom. He looked up at her and said, “Ready?”
“For what?”
“An eye-opener.”
He took a floppy disk from a locked case next to the computer, inserted it in one of the disk drives, and pushed a key on the keyboard. A long list of files stored on that disk filled the screen. He moved a cursor to one labeled G.P. Notes; SPOVAC—“Irony,” pressed a key, and waited. A moment later the screen was filled with text.
Kneeley got up and offered Saksis the chair. “Sit, Miss Saksis, read and enjoy. You scroll through it using these keys.”
“I’m familiar with it.”
“Oh, of course, you must be. Take your time and digest it, my dear. When you’re done with this, there are dozens more disks that spell out in exquisite detail that dark and rotten underbelly I spoke of.”
“Mr. Kneeley, why are you showing this to me?”
“Because I almost consider you a collaborator by now, a partner. You’ve already managed to see some of it through your illegal tapping of my phone. You might as well see the rest. Besides, I have a feeling that once you do, you might view me in a slightly more positive light.”
“But even if I do,” said Saksis, “it doesn’t change things. If you murdered George Pritchard, all the dirt in the world about the bureau won’t—”
“Scroll and read, Miss Saksis. Then we’ll talk. This particular disk contains the verbatim transcripts of long, introspective notes George Pritchard had made about his career. He was a remarkably fastidious man, describing everything in his daily diaries, neatly printed and quite literate for a cop. Enjoy. I’ll be back.”
He went to the door and flipped a switch that killed all lights in the room. It was very dark outside because of the storm; her face was illuminated by the green phosphorescent light from the screen.
Chris stared at the screen. The text displayed on it was the beginning of a new diary entry, according to Pritchard’s notes as to the time and place it was entered, the subject—“The Irony of SPOVAC”—and some general comments about his state of mind at that moment. He’d written:
Murder at the FBI Page 22
