Murder at the FBI (13 page)

“That’s right.”

“What about him?”

“Whatever you want to tell me. I understand you worked closely with him on the terrorist case here on Long Island.”

Dawkins guffawed and finished the drink. “Nobody worked closely with George Pritchard,” he said. “Look, I know you’re working with Ranger and trying to find out who killed him, but I’ll be honest with you. I hated the bastard, and whoever killed him ought to get a recommendation in his file.”

Saksis allowed what he’d said to sink in. She looked around the bar—most tables were taken. A couple of men had acknowledged Dawkins as they came in, but he’d ignored them. Dawkins was obviously a regular here. Had he used the establishment as a base of operations during the terrorist investigation? Agents often did, meeting people at bars and restaurants, becoming familiar faces in communities, hanging around until they were accepted—and trusted.

This was not the sort of place where terrorists congregated. It was too genteel, too middle-class. But, if she were trying to establish herself as a disgruntled high-roller and former member of the military establishment, she might try it here.

Then again, she realized, Dawkins might simply have latched on to the Jolly Fisherman as a watering hole and pleasant spot to have lunch.

“You come here often?” she asked.

“No.”

“They all seem to know you.”

“That’s
their
business.”

The bartender served him his second drink.

“Why did you hate Pritchard so?” she asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “Because he tried to railroad me out of the bureau.”

“Why?”

“Read the file.”

“I’ll do that when I get back, but that’ll only represent his version.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, drinking again. “I’m leaving anyway.”

“Oh? Because of George Pritchard?”

“No, because the FBI is a sham.”

She wasn’t sure how to react, decided to keep asking questions. “Why do you say that?”

He swiveled around on his bar stool and faced her. “The FBI sells one thing to the public, deals another way with its own people. I was really gung-ho when I applied, worked my ass off at Quantico, put in twenty hours a day on my first assignments. You know what that does to a marriage?”

“I can imagine.”

“I gave it everything I had. You know the result? A wife and two kids down the drain, a ton of debt, and a lousy letter in your file that gives them the right to walk all over you.”

“All because of George Pritchard?”

“Yeah, Pritchard, with the blessing of Shelton and Gormley, and the other fat cats who don’t know what the… Ah, look, I’m not out to spill
on you. You like working here, that’s your business. All I know is I’m getting out.”

“Does Mr. Finch know that?”

“Nope. I plan to tell him tonight. We’re having dinner. Finch is a good guy, only he’s too used to shuffling papers and counting the days to retirement. I’ve got a new wife and a new job with a private security agency. Screw the FBI.”

Saksis started to say something, but he interrupted. “What’s the real story on Pritchard getting it? Who’s the smart money on?”

“No bets so far.”

It was a sardonic laugh. “You know something, Miss Saksis, I don’t feel even a twinge of sadness that the son-of-a-bitch got it. I’ve met a lot of people in my life who I didn’t like, including real scum, but nobody was as bad as George L. Pritchard. The worst thing was that he was such a goddamn phony, the dedicated agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation who wasn’t above selling out his own mother if it put a buck in his pocket.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dawkins, but you’re presenting a side of him that doesn’t match up with what I’ve learned. I know he wasn’t personally popular, but everyone I’ve talked to claims he was a dedicated and principled special agent.”

“That’s your decision to make.”

“Yes, it is. How close did you work with him on the terrorist case?”

“Damn close. He gave me all the dirty work, then turned around and slammed me with an unfavorable evaluation. It was worse than that. He went down to Washington and demanded that I be dismissed with prejudice.”

“On what grounds?”

“Incompetence, insubordination, gross negligence, you name it.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Did I deserve it? Who cares? I’ve got a nice job lined up, and the bureau, the precious bureau, can take Pritchard’s evaluation of me and shove it.”

“I’m sorry you’re so bitter,” Saksis said.

“I’m not bitter. I just got smart, that’s all.”

“Before I go, could you tell me about the terrorist group Pritchard infiltrated?”

“It’s all on paper.”

“A contact. My information is that he maintained a contact inside that group, that it was linked in some way with Paraguay, and that the contact he kept might have been in Washington the day he was murdered.”

“Impossible,” Dawkins said.

“Why?”

“His contact—the one who blew it open for him—is dead. Pritchard arranged it.”

“He killed his contact?”

“Maybe, maybe one of his people.”

“What people?”

“The army.”

She paused, then said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. The army?”

“The Unkempts, the dirty dozen. Come on, you know about them.”

“No, I don’t, I really don’t.”

Dawkins finished his drink, put his glass on the bar. “Ask your boss about it,” he said.

“My boss?”

“Lizenby. He’s one.”

She was about to ask another question when a
tall platinum blonde approached them. Dawkins stood and kissed her. The blonde gave Saksis a “Who the hell are you” look.

“Chris Saksis,” Saksis said, extending her hand.

“This is Carol. It was good to see you,” Dawkins said. He reached in his pocket and handed her a business card: W
ILLIAM
P. D
AWKINS
—
SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR
. The name of a private detective agency was below it.

“Thanks,” Saksis said as she got up and prepared to leave. “Nice meeting you, Carol.”

“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.”

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.