Murder at the FBI (20 page)

Chris looked at him through sleepy eyes. “She’s a girl friend?”

“No, but we did have our moments. Hey, when you walked away I had to choose between a lifetime of celibacy or normal me Tarzan-you Jane relations. I debated it for months before I—”

“Spare me the details.”

“The only reason I brought it up was that I had planned on calling her as long as I was here, maybe grab some lunch. Interested in joining us?”

“When? I’ll be out at Fire Island tomorrow.”

“It’s already today. Maybe we can make it dinner.”

“Sounds fine.”

“Good. I’ll get a hold of her in the morning and set something up. I’ll leave a message here at the hotel.”

“I’m going to bed. I feel as though I’ve been stampeded by a herd of cattle.”

He laughed. “You can take the maiden out of the wigwam but you can’t—”

She poked him in the ribs. “What do you mean by that?”

“Here you are, big-city special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, having forsaken your Indian heritage, and you use a stampede metaphor instead of a bus, or a fleet of runaway cabs, or—”

“Good night, Bill.”

“I’m coming, too.”

“Good, only this is a perfect night for you to reconsider your decision.”

“What decision?”

“Whether to be celibate or not. It’s a good time to give it a try.”

***

Bill was still in bed when Chris was about to leave their room the next morning. She knelt on the bed and kissed his cheek. He opened his eyes, grinned, and said, “I made my decision.”

“What decision?”

“Celibacy. It’s not for me.”

“Good. I’ll be back by five, maybe six. Do me one favor.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t tell your friend Billie why I’m here. Don’t talk about the FBI or anything even remotely connected with it.”

“Why?”

“Because. Just because. Promise?”

“Sure.” He grabbed her around the neck, pulled her down next to him, and kissed her with passion.

“Brush your teeth,” she said as she disengaged and went out the door.

It was a lovely day. The first faint hint of fall was in the air. She opened her windows as she exited the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and headed east on the Long Island Expressway toward Bay Shore. Despite what had happened in Assistant Director Gormley’s office the night before, despite the fact she was on her way to what undoubtedly would be a difficult interview, she felt free and at peace with herself. Something her father often said came to her: “Freedom is within each of us. What happens outside is of little consequence.” He was right. She was alive, the air was cool-crisp, and the day was before her, rather than trailing behind.

This time, the crossing to Cherry Grove was smooth and tranquil. The narrow, twisted streets were filled with the village’s primary inhabitants, homosexual men, most young and good-looking, some older—“old bucks,” she’d heard them referred to. Some male couples walked hand-in-hand, or with arms over shoulders. A female friend who’d spent a day in Cherry Grove termed the overwhelmingly
gay population “a terrible waste of beautiful manhood.”

She walked until she realized she was lost, stopped a young man wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, and asked for directions to Kneeley’s house. It was only a few hundred feet away, he told her pleasantly, on the other side of a long string of dunes.

She surveyed Kneeley’s house and property from a distance. An imposing fence surrounded the house. It was at least six feet high, and a roll of nasty looking barbed wire ringed the top. There were signs in red that warned against trespassers, and that the fence was electrically wired.

The house was three stories high and was covered with slats of gray weathered board. Large windows on every level afforded unencumbered views of the ocean. The grounds were typical of a beach resort, mounds of wind-blown sand pressing against long strands of snow fence, pieces of gray and brown driftwood tossed casually into intriguing patterns on the beach. Gulls swooped low in search of food and announced their mission.

She approached a gate on which a doorbell was attached, pushed it, and waited. When nothing happened, she rang it again in a triplet and peered toward the front door. A shutter opened and a face appeared. The shutter closed, the door opened, and a man stepped onto the small porch. He wore a pair of cut-off jeans, a black T-shirt, and sandals. His head was shaved, which created the impression of a perfectly round ball resting precariously atop a pair of immense shoulders. His legs were as thick as redwoods, and the muscles of his chest
prevented his arms from touching his sides. His gut was huge and solid. Saksis assumed he was Jubel, the bodyguard the bartender had mentioned. He’d been right—Jubel was made for professional wrestling. He stepped down from the porch, waddled toward the gate, and held Saksis in a long, questioning stare.

“Chris Saksis,” she said through the gate. “I have an appointment with Mr. Kneeley.”

“I know.”

“You’re Jubel?”

He hesitated, then mumbled, “Yeah, I’m Jubel.” Then he inserted a key into the padlock that secured the gate to the fence. He swung it open and Saksis stepped through.

He closed the gate, attached the chain, snapped the lock, and led her to the house. She stepped into a foyer of blanched wood and Mexican tiles. Sprays of exotic plants rose gracefully from redwood pots to create an archway leading to a large living room at the rear of the house. Chris went to it and looked through sliding glass doors onto a swimming pool in the shape of a guitar.

She turned. Jubel stood in the doorway. He said, “Richard will be down in a minute. Coffee? Tea?”

She had to adjust to his voice. It was small and high, and didn’t belong in such a bulky, muscular body. “Coffee,” she said.

“You take sugar, milk?”

“Black.”

He disappeared, leaving her alone in the room. She looked up. Rough planks weathered to a silver gray extended up two stories to a white ceiling dotted with skylights. A balcony ran the length of
the wall opposite the sliding glass doors. Large abstract paintings of vivid red, yellow, and green circles and lines broke up the room’s monochromatic color scheme. A gleaming black Steinway grand occupied one corner, an elaborate bar another. The furniture was a mix of white leather couches and love seats, and a dozen director’s chairs in a variety of colors. The title of each of Kneeley’s books was stenciled in black on the back of each chair. A large telescope on a tripod stood in front of one of the sliding doors. The soft strains of a Haydn symphony emanated from speakers in each of the room’s four corners.

“Miss Saksis.”

She looked up to the balcony where Richard Kneeley stood. “Yes, Mr. Kneeley.”

“Jubel said you were here. Come. My study’s upstairs.” He pointed to a black wrought-iron spiral staircase. Saksis climbed it, emerged on the balcony, and was greeted with a firm handshake and a broad smile. Kneeley was taller than she’d expected, and heavier. His full head of silver hair was carefully combed. He wore a pale blue silk shirt open halfway to his navel, which allowed a mat of gray chest hair and a cluster of gold charms on a chain to poke through, tight chino pants, and white canvas deck shoes.

“It’s a beautiful house,” Saksis said.

“I like it, especially the view. Come on, let’s talk.”

He led her along the length of the balcony to another staircase. At the top, on the third floor, was his study, a huge room with one wall of glass overlooking the ocean.”

Saksis let out what was almost a whistle. “It’s breathtaking,” she said.

“Thank you. Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t get more work done without a view, but I can’t give it up. Sometimes I close the drapes, but then my claustrophobia takes over and I open them. Sit down.” He pointed to a modular setup of couches off to the side of his work area, which consisted of three long tables formed into a horseshoe. In the middle of it was an elaborate word processing system connected to modems and printers.

“You’ve entered the computer age, I see,” Saksis said.

“My days sitting under a birch tree with a yellow legal pad are over. I suppose it’s because I’ve been doing nonfiction lately. I’d go mad trying to keep track of source material.”

“I can understand that.” She got up and entered the horseshoe. “Impressive,” she said.

“It works,” he said. He came into the U-shaped area and sat in an expensive ergonomic chair in front of the computer’s keyboard.

Saksis went to a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookcases and perused its contents. “Quite a library.”

“I’ve been building it for a long time,” he said.

She turned and surveyed the rest of the study. It was warmer than the downstairs area. The floor was covered with thick burgundy wall-to-wall carpeting. Every available inch of wall space contained books. There was a large safe in one corner. Next to it was a row of four-drawer file cabinets. She counted three telephones. The answering machine she’d reached on her earlier calls to him was next to two dictating units and other electronic
equipment on a credenza directly behind where he sat. He was obviously fascinated with gadgets. There were a number of calculators on the credenza, as well as an automatic telephone dialing unit, a fancy weather-forecasting rig, and a high-speed printer that didn’t seem to be connected to the main word processing unit.

“I always swore I’d never be seduced by electronic gadgetry, but I succumbed. You must spend some time with technology at the bureau.”

She nodded. “Yes, we keep up. Do you write everything on the computer?”

“Sure. I have another complete set-up down the hall that’s used when I have part-time help come in, but I do most of it myself.”

“I can understand that,” said Saksis, “considering the nature of your books.”

“That’s right. So, Miss Saksis, what can I tell you? What questions do you have for this aging writer?”

“First of all, Mr. Kneeley, did you reach your friends at the bureau to vouch for my authenticity?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And?”

“You never offered to show me your credentials.”

“I forgot. Here.” She offered her ID.

“Legitimate, the seal slightly covering the picture. By the way, you should insist upon having another photo ID taken. This one doesn’t do you justice at all. You’re quite beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Compliments are so utterly wasted unless they’re passed on. Okay, we’ve established that this gorgeous FBI agent named Saksis is who she said she
was. I’ve welcomed you into my house. Now, it’s your turn to do what you came here to do, ask questions.”

“All right, I will.”

“Before you start, would you like a drink, a sandwich, caviar, a pizza?”

“No, thank you.”

“Nothing? I intend to.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Coffee?”

“I asked Jubel for some while I was waiting for you.”

“And it hasn’t arrived yet. He’s slipping. Usually, he’s very fast.”

“It’s all right. I really don’t need it.”

“Well, Miss Saksis, I need something. I think I’ll have some caviar on toast, smoked salmon with onions and capers, and perhaps a drink. It is afternoon, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“And you?”

“The coffee, if it’s convenient, and maybe a sandwich.”

“Turkey, ham-and-cheese, egg salad…?”

“Anything.”

He picked up one of the phones and repeatedly hit the button. “Jubel, where’s Miss Saksis’s coffee?” A pause. “Fine, bring with it a nice, fresh sandwich for her, and caviar and salmon for me.”

He hung up, went to a portion of the wall that swung open at the touch of a button, and removed a bottle in a brown chamois sack from a concealed bar. He placed the bottle on his desk, held a brandy snifter to the light, then carefully removed the small,
delicately shaped bottle from its protective bag. “Bourbon?” he asked.

“No.”

“Don’t like bourbon?”

“I don’t drink whiskey. Maybe occasionally, but I really never developed a taste for it.”

He grinned as he removed the stopper, in the shape of a jockey on a race horse, held the bottle over the glass, and gingerly dribbled some of the whiskey into it.

“Beautiful bottle,” she commented.

“What’s in it is even more beautiful,” he said. “The world’s finest bourbon.” He handed the bottle to her.

The name that was discreetly woven into the message on the label was Blanton’s, the brand the waiter at the Hotel Inter-Continental said Pritchard had ordered.

“Take a sniff,” Kneeley said.

“Very nice,” she said, handing him back the bottle.

“Like fine cognac,” he said. “It just occurred to me that your American Indian heritage would—well, probably cause you to avoid hard liquor.”

“That’s true, although I can drink it and not go on a drunken rampage.”

He roared. “Another myth dashed. Good health!” He took a swig, smacked his lips, and swiveled in his chair so that his back was to her and he was facing the ocean. “One of the advantages of growing older, Miss Saksis, is the ability to truly appreciate things.” He suddenly completed his 360-degree swing and said, “And to not have to be afraid of anything.”

“I suppose I’ll find out for myself,” she said.

“Yes, you will. Those magnificent features will wrinkle and fade, the breasts will droop, the belly will refuse to conform, and the thighs will become lumpy, like tiny berries beneath the skin.”

She was startled by his sudden anger and hostility. She decided it was time to get to the point of her visit. “Are you a friend of George L. Pritchard?” she asked.

He stared at her for what seemed a very long time, smirked, and said, “The fallen FBI hero, slain in his own cave by his own species. Fascinating case. Are you in charge of bringing his slayer to bay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Why?”

“It’s a weighty responsibility for a woman.”

“No more so than for a man.”

“Debatable. Why do you ask whether we were friends?”

“Because my information seems to point to that.”

“What information?”

“Eyewitnesses.”

“Who?”

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t come in here, Miss Saksis, and toss around terms like ‘information’ and ‘eyewitnesses’ unless you’re prepared to back them up. I’m not some indigent unfortunate who cowers at being questioned by a member of Hoover’s finest. Spell it out, Miss Saksis, or find your free lunch elsewhere.”