Murder at the FBI (19 page)

“I know, I know, Jake. Thanks.”

“What about this Richard Kneeley?” Perone asked.

Saksis covered her surprise by asking in a flat voice, “What about him?”

Perone looked at Stein before he said, “That print-out Barbara Twain ran on him is interesting, especially since there was that R.K. in Pritchard’s book, and a Raymond Kane on the sign-in sheet.”

“I found it interesting, too,” said Saksis. “I was the one who asked Barbara to come up with it.”

“What are we doing about it?” Stein asked.

“We’ll follow up,” Saksis said.

“Want me to do it?” Stein asked. “I’ve read his last couple of books, the best-sellers. He digs deep, that’s for sure. He evidently knows how to get the goods out of the agencies.” He asked Perone, “How do you figure he does it, Joe, finds some disgruntled employee, pays him off, and ends up with the files?”

“How else?” Perone replied.

“You know what I was thinking, Chris?” Stein said, lacing his fingers together and staring at the ceiling. “I was wondering whether Kneeley was involved in a book about us.”

“Us? The FBI?”

“Yeah. Why not? He wouldn’t be the first.”

“And maybe Pritchard was mixed up in it in some way,” Perone said.

Both men stared at Saksis. She avoided their gaze, then deliberately met it. “That thought crossed my mind, too, but there’s nothing to substantiate it.”

“I’ll see if I can come up with something,” Stein said.

“No, not now,” Saksis said. “I’d rather have you pursue the business of Helen Pritchard being here in the building that night.”

“I thought you’d gotten close to her,” Stein said.

“I did, but… Look, I’ve talked to Kneeley,” she said.

“You have?” Stein said. “Did you tell me that?”

“You know I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to follow through on it myself, that’s why.” It had reached a point where she was beginning to resent Stein’s tone. She leaned on the desk and said, “Jake, I understand and appreciate everything you’ve said here, but I think there are two things to be considered. One, I have been put in charge of Ranger in Ross’s absence. Two, I report to
him
.”

“No argument about that, Chris. I just want to see Ranger succeed—for all our sakes.”

“Yes, I know that.” She lightened the mood. “Let’s take what’s left of the weekend and enjoy it, forget about Ranger and George Pritchard. I need time away from it, and I’m sure you do, too. We’ll meet first thing Monday morning and really lay out every scrap of information that
we’ve
managed to gather.”

“Ross will be back Sunday,” Stein said.

“Yes, I was told. Maybe he can join us and—”

“Are we wrapped up here for today?” Perone asked, looking at his watch. “I have another thing to get to.”

“We are as far as I’m concerned,” Saksis said.

Stein and Perone went to the door. Stein looked back at Saksis and asked, “Plans for tomorrow?”

She shook her head. “Sleep late, some tennis, the gym, maybe even find time to finish a book I started before all this happened.”

“My kid’s seventh birthday is tomorrow,” Perone said. “Fifteen little monsters at a bowling alley. I’d rather be in a shootout with the ten most wanted.”

They all laughed, and Perone and Stein left, closing the door behind them.

“Oh, boy,” Saksis muttered. She checked her watch. It was a few minutes before five. She’d have to go home and pack, gas up the car, and do it fast if she was to be on time to pick up Bill.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Saksis yelled.

Melissa Edwards opened it. “Miss Saksis, here’s that photograph you wanted.” She handed Chris a small envelope.

“Thanks,” said Saksis. “Have a good weekend.”

She opened the envelope. Inside was a photograph of Rosemary Cale from her personnel file. She put it in her purse, gathered up some papers she wanted to take with her, and was about to leave when the phone rang. She hesitated, then picked it up.

“Miss Saksis?”

“Yes.”

“This is Assistant Director Gormley. I’d like to see you in my office.”

“Well, sir, I was about to leave and—”

“It won’t take long, Miss Saksis, and it is important. I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.”

“Of course, sir.”

Gormley was seated behind his desk when Saksis arrived. He didn’t bother getting up to greet her. She glanced about the office, decided to take one of two red leather wingback chairs, and lowered herself into it. Gormley’s expression hadn’t changed since she entered his office. It was stern.

“Miss Saksis, what I have to say is extremely unpleasant, and I wish it weren’t necessary. But it is.”

“Yes, sir?”

He drew a deep breath, got up and stood behind his red leather swivel executive chair. He gripped its edges, moved it slightly back and forth. “Miss Saksis, it’s come to my attention that your assignment to Ranger and to the Pritchard investigation represents a serious conflict of interest.”

“It—how so, sir?”

“I’m sure you’re aware, Miss Saksis, that there is a bureau regulation against—how shall I say it?—against close fraternity between male and female special agents.”

If the situation weren’t so obviously serious, she might have laughed at his choice of terminology, but if there was one thing Chris Saksis wasn’t interested in at the moment, it was humor. The affair with Ross Lizenby had surfaced. Of course it had. They’d played it out too publicly for it not to have happened. How could she have been so stupid? How did he find out? What were the official ramifications? Those questions, and a dozen others, managed to invade her thoughts during the few seconds of silence in the room.

“You do know to what I’m referring, Miss Saksis.”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“You don’t? I’d like to believe that, of course, but considering the circumstances, it’s difficult.”

“Mr. Gormley, I’m not trying to be coy, but I would appreciate a clearer statement of what it is you’re getting at.” She hoped she hadn’t been too forward.

A tiny smile formed at one corner of his mouth. “Yes, of course, I appreciate directness. I was just trying to be delicate.”

“About what?”

“About your affair here within the bureau.”

She realized that there was no sense in denying, in playing games with him. He knew, and that was that, and the only thing that might mitigate the situation was further directness on her part. She said, “If you’re alluding to a relationship that has begun to develop between me and another special agent, I can do nothing except acknowledge it, chalk it up to a lapse of judgment, and assure you that it no longer exists.”

What she’d said evidently amused him, judging from the smile that again originated at one corner of his mouth and almost made it all the way across to the other side.

“Is what I said funny, Mr. Gormley?”

“No, no, please forgive me, Miss Saksis. It’s just that—”

“Yes?”

“It’s just that when someone in a relationship dies, it’s assumed that the affair is over.”

“I—”

“Miss Saksis, the point is that your role as an investigator into the death of Special Agent George
L. Pritchard is blatantly and inexcusably inappropriate.”

“My role in—George Pritchard? There must be some mistake.”

“Is there? I think not.”

“Oh, no, you’re wrong, sir, very wrong. Are you suggesting that Mr. Pritchard and I had an affair?”

“I’m suggesting nothing, Miss Saksis. I’m presenting you with an unfortunate fact that
you
should have made known the moment you were assigned to the Ranger unit.”

“Why?” She stood. “Why would I have suggested such a thing when it never happened? I knew Mr. Pritchard, but only casually, in the halls, around the building, the cafeteria. We never so much as had a cup of coffee together.”

He shifted into the role of the understanding uncle, coming around the desk and sitting on its edge.

“Mr. Gormley, I deeply resent this,” Saksis said. She crossed the office to a far wall where framed photographs of Gormley with politicians formed a precise gridwork, every picture in line vertically and horizontally with the next. She felt tears begin to sting her eyes, and she was aware of a slight trembling in her legs. She summoned up what control she could, turned, and said, “You are very wrong, Mr. Gormley. I demand to know the source of your erroneous information.”

“‘Demand?’ I don’t think you are in a position to demand anything, Miss Saksis. You’ve breached a serious bureau regulation. But, more than that, you’ve allowed a personal relationship to intrude
upon an investigation that has serious meaning to this agency. The world is looking to us to clean up our own house, and it is assumed that we have used good judgment in pursuing that goal. Obviously, we’ve made a mistake.” As he spoke, each word took on an increasingly hard edge.

“Mr. Gormley,
you are wrong
!”

“And you are in trouble, Miss Saksis. I offer you this. Pack up your things in Ranger and return to the Indian division. Do it quietly. Say nothing to anyone in the bureau, or outside. Otherwise—”

“Otherwise
what
?” Every other emotion had been replaced by intense anger.

“Otherwise, there might have to be a hearing on the ability of one special agent, Christine Saksis, to perform her duties with the Federal Bureau of Investigation to its satisfaction, based upon its high standards.” He went behind his desk, looked up at an oil painting of Director R. Bruce Shelton and said, “You told me when I called that you were on your way somewhere. I suggest you go there now. Good evening, Miss Saksis.”

Chris Saksis stared straight ahead from the passenger seat of her car as Bill Tse-ay drove toward New York City. She’d told him of her meeting with Wayne Gormley when she picked him up at his hotel. He’d registered appropriate shock but hadn’t pressed her with questions.

Now, as the first long shadows of evening crossed the highway, he glanced over and said, “Feel like talking more about it?”

She shook her head, said, “It’s not even real, Bill. I mean, it’s so farfetched that it’s difficult to deal with. If he’d been talking about Ross—and I assumed he was at the beginning—I could at least accept it and try to figure out some strategy. But George Pritchard? Oh, God.”

Bill passed a string of slow-moving cars, then
asked, “Any ideas about who came up with the story?”

“No. It would have to be someone who was really out to hurt me, some personal vendetta. I told you about the run-in I had with Rosemary Cale. I thought of her, of course, but that doesn’t add up any more than the others who come to mind. She’s leaving the bureau. Besides, I didn’t do anything to attack her personally. She knows I was doing my job.”

“What about Pritchard’s wife?”

“Helen? What would she gain from it?”

“You called her a liar.”

“Not in so many words. She’s a bitch, no doubt about that, but—no, not her. Not
anybody
, Bill.”

He started to say something but caught the words before they came out of his mouth.

“I know what you’re about to suggest. Ross Lizenby.”

“Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?”

She sighed deeply and leaned her head back against the restraining yoke. “I suppose everything’s possible, isn’t it, when it’s such a ridiculous story.”

Bill said, “Maybe it’s not a personal thing. Maybe somebody really wants you off the Pritchard case.”

She snorted. “That’s not hard. Reassign me.”

“But what if it’s someone who isn’t in that position, who has to resort to passing a lousy rumor in order to bring about a reassignment?”

“Sure, I can buy that. But whoever did it sure didn’t take into consideration the impact it would have on me. Gormley’s not talking about simple reassignment, he’s intimating big trouble for me.
The bureau’s a funny place, Bill. It has its own rules stemming from the Hoover days: the bureau first and individuals after. This could have a devastating effect on my career. From Gormley’s perspective, I’ve breached a very important tenet of that code. I put myself in an investigatory capacity that’s compromised because of my “affair” with the subject of that investigation. Add to that the fact that the Pritchard case reflects directly on the bureau and you have a wonderful reason to boot one Christine Saksis out the back door.”

“Do you really think it could come to that?”

“I won’t let it. I’ll find out who set me up with the rumor and square it.”

“Chris—”

“Yeah?”

“What if you don’t?”

“Then—then I think I’m in big trouble.”

It was almost midnight when they checked into the Hotel Inter-Continental. “Hungry?” Bill asked after they’d been shown to their room.

“Yes, but I’m too tired to eat.”

“We’ll have something sent up.”

An hour later the remains of turkey sandwiches from the “Supper Snacks” menu sat on a tray on a coffee table in front of a couch. They’d changed into robes; their bare feet were propped up on the table.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“A little.”

“We’d better get to bed. You have to be up early.”

“Not that early. I told Kneeley I’d be there at noon.”

“I’d like to come with you.”

“No, that would only complicate things.”

“Who’s his publisher?” Bill asked as he finished a small piece of leftover pickle.

“Kneeley? Sutherland House, at least for the last couple of books.”

Bill smiled. “I have a very good friend there.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, a gal named Billie Wharton. Her mother was Navajo, and I knew her father from some work I did with the Arizona equal rights commission. Billie got herself a degree in English from Arizona State and was looking to get started in publishing. Perfect profession for her. She read more books faster than any human being I’ve ever known. Anyway, I’d given Sutherland some free publicity on a book they published on Indian affairs and they owed me one, so I recommended her to them. They hired her, and the last I heard from her, about three months ago, she’d been promoted to assistant editor.” When Chris didn’t respond, he added, “If you and I hadn’t gotten together again, I would have stayed with her here in New York.”