Murder at the FBI (30 page)

She got up and went to the window. The storm
had abated; a hint of sun to the west threatened to break through the fast-moving low gray clouds.

“I hear you’re going to Montana,” he said from the couch.

“Yes,” she said, still looking out at the ocean.

“You don’t have to.”

“No?”

“I can square it with Gormley if you want. I wouldn’t be doing it out of altruism.” He came up behind her. “You know, Chris, now that this is over maybe we can pick up where it got nasty. There was too much pressure on the relationship for it to run smoothly. I miss you.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. She violently shook it off, moved to the side, and looked at him incredulously. “You’re sick,” she said.

“I’m in love,” he replied.

“You’re—”

“Look, I made mistakes, Chris, but—”

“Like killing Sue White Cloud? Was that a mistake?”

“What?”

“Sue White Cloud, the Indian teenager in Arizona. Was that just ‘a mistake’?”

He shook his head. “Is this what happens when you sleep with your Apache boyfriend, Bill what’s-his-face? The Indian paranoia and fantasies come out to play?”

“I know you killed her, Ross.”

“You know nothing. Where did you ever come up with such garbage?”

“George Pritchard.”

“Really?”

“Yes,
really
.”

“Tell me more.”

“Why? I’d rather tell the bureau and the Arizona authorities.”

“They’d laugh at you.”

“Not with what I have.”

He said like a parent having fun with a small child, “And just what is it you have, my pretty little maiden?”

“Proof. Pritchard’s own words.”

“Show me.”

“Some other time, Ross. Besides, I’m not the only one who knows. Helen Pritchard does, and so does Kneeley.”

He slowly turned and went to Kneeley’s desk, perched casually on its edge, and allowed one foot to dangle back and forth. He reached under his jacket and came out holding a .22 revolver. “The difference between you and them, Chris, is that they’re pragmatists. They understand a deal and aren’t filled with adolescent idealism.” He laughed. “Helen Pritchard tried to put the arm on me once she saw her book deal going down the drain. They invented the word
greed
for her. We had a little talk and she very quickly saw that it was in her best interests to view it differently. That’s the sign of maturity, Chris, the ability to shift gears. Being too rigid never works in the end.”

“But why, Ross? What happened in Arizona?”

“A misunderstanding, that’s all. What do you have, a set of notes from Pritchard? I doubt that. Helen says she gave Kneeley the originals. Well now, wait a minute. I know Kneeley put everything on disk. The material you intercepted last
night when he was transmitting to his publisher didn’t mention it.”

“You know about that?”

“Sure. You tapped him, we tapped you. Everybody was hooked in, a nice little network.”

“How long?”

“Were you tapped? A couple of weeks. The difference is your tap on Kneeley was illegal. Ours was legal.”

“Ours?”

“The bureau. Jake Stein’s unit.”

He was dazzling her with confusion.

“The redundancy squad, Chris. Did you miss that lecture at Quantico? Happens on lots of big cases. You set up a unit like Ranger, then you staff it with somebody who’s investigating the investigators. Stein was a torpedo in Ranger to keep tabs on it for Gormley. Your problem was you kept running in your own direction. That’s not the FBI team spirit, Chris. Maybe you’re lucky to have Montana to go to. If it were up to me, I’d—”

“Kill me?”

He frowned, then nodded. “Yeah, kill you. All things considered, I’d rather…” He grinned and started walking toward her. “Tell you what, Chris. This thing resolved itself pretty neatly except for you. Why not join Uncle Sam? He needs you. I need you. Everybody has some dark side, some shoebox in the closet that’s all taped up and sealed. I have a skeleton in my closet, and I bet you do, too. Let’s drop it, forget it, and get on with our lives. I really like you, Chris. You turn me on like few women have before. Let’s play grown-up. Give me what you have and you can walk away, go to
Montana and get your career back on track. Is it in your purse, back at the apartment, where?”

“It’s…”

He slowly brought the revolver up so that it was aimed at her face. “I’m all through being nice, Chris. I don’t have any trouble pulling a trigger.”

She knew he was serious. He could shoot her and claim she was part of the Kneeley-Pritchard conspiracy to expose the bureau. And what did she really have? Nothing, a disk that didn’t contain any reference to what happened in Arizona.

“It just dawned on me, Chris, that I’m wasting my time with you. It doesn’t matter what you have. Hell, what does it amount to, the ramblings of a man who was selling out the bureau, and who was looking to make the story more sensational to sell more books.” He defiantly stuck his chin out and smiled. “You’re a loser like all the other Indians. You’re dirt. And you’re dead.”

“I’ll give it to you,” she said. “You’re right. No one would believe me anyway.”

He visibly relaxed and lowered the gun. She opened her purse and went to reach inside.

“No games,” he said. “Leave the magnum in there.”

“I know.” She handed him the disk. As he took it, she lunged for the hand holding the .22 and grabbed his wrist, the momentum of her move sending them across the study. She rammed his gun hand against the wall, and the revolver flew into the air, landing in the center of the room. She twisted his arm up behind him and brought her knee sharply into his back. He grunted and fell to his knees.

She released her grip and tried to catch her breath. He suddenly propelled himself to where the gun had landed, sprawling on his belly a foot from it. She ran to the door, opened it, and stumbled outside. Directly in front of her was the spiral stairway. She grabbed the railing and started down but missed the first step. Her hand wrenched free of the railing and she tumbled down, head hitting metal, feet clawing for a foothold, one shoulder wrenched as she attempted to break her fall. She stopped falling halfway down by landing on her rear end, got up and continued.

She heard footsteps above her. Lizenby had reached the middle of the stairs and then stopped. He pointed the .22 at her and said, “I loved you!”

Then, from behind, the thick hulk of Jubel appeared. He raised both hands and brought them down on Lizenby’s neck. The gun floated into the air and Lizenby came crashing down the stairs, landing at Saksis’s feet. He was out cold.

Saksis looked up at Jubel.

“I heard,” he said. “I’ll tell them. They pay me.”

“They? The FBI?”

He nodded and came down the stairs. “Kneeley was bad. They had to stop him. Paul’s my friend.”

Kneeley. They had to stop
him
. Neutralize him, she thought. Jubel was an informer—had been recruited by the bartender, Paul, who was undercover—an Unkempt.

She could manage only to say “Thank you” before the pain in her shoulder, arm, head caught up with her. She went to a chair and sat heavily in it.

“Can I get you something?” Jubel asked.

“No, nothing. How long?”

“What?”

“How long have you been an informant?”

“Not long. I’ll take you to the ferry.”

“All right, but first I have to make a call.”

Bill Tse-ay sat on a hard wooden bench in the first floor lobby of the Department of Justice Building. His hair had grown back sufficiently to almost cover the scar on his head that had been left by the surgery. A cane rested against the bench. His left leg still went its own way on occasion, but Dr. Goldberg was confident that he’d regain full use of it in time.

He checked his watch; Chris Saksis had been giving her formal statement for almost three hours. He’d brought some magazines to read, but found it impossible to concentrate. More than anything, he wished he could be with her. He knew the psychic pain she must be suffering.

Ten minutes later she came through a heavy set of doors. At her side was her attorney, Roland King, an Oglala Sioux who was active in many
Native American causes. Their footsteps echoed from the marble floor as they crossed the broad lobby and joined Bill on the bench.

“How did it go?” Bill asked.

King shrugged and looked at Chris, who’d obviously been crying.

“Chris?” Bill took her hand.

“It went okay, I guess, everything considered. I’m sorry you had to wait so long.”

“Come on, tell me, what’s the verdict?”

King’s smile was rueful. “I doubt if there’ll be one,” he said. “The FBI seems—how shall I say it?—seems reluctant to prosecute Mrs. Pritchard and Mr. Kneeley.”

“Really?” Bill asked Chris.

She nodded. “It’s pretty obvious that they’ll stick to their deal with her—not prosecute for the murder of her husband in return for…” She choked up, swallowed, and finished. “For ‘neutralizing’ Kneeley.”

“So much for justice,” Bill said.

“
They
consider it justice,” King said. “Making sure that Kneeley doesn’t give the bureau a black eye with the public is justice enough. Besides, Kneeley didn’t kill Pritchard, so letting him off the hook for the murder makes sense, I suppose.”

Chris said, “Helen Pritchard’s gone to California. She’s getting married again.” She managed a thin smile.

Bill spun the cane in front of him and stared at the movement of the handle, saying without taking his eyes from it, “What about Lizenby?”

Chris and Roland King looked at each other.

Bill glanced up. “What about him?”

Chris replied, “He tried to make a deal with Gormley. If the bureau would help get him off the hook for the Sue White Cloud murder, he wouldn’t tell what he knew about Pritchard’s notes and Hoover’s files.”

“And?” Bill asked.

“And they turned him down,” King said. “In a sense, Helen Pritchard redeemed herself a little, with the help of some pretty heavy arm twisting. She’ll testify against Lizenby in Arizona based upon her knowledge of her husband’s notes and files. The Arizona authorities think there’s enough of a case against Lizenby to prosecute successfully.” He paused, gauged Chris’s reaction before adding, “They want Chris to testify against him, too.”

“Will you, Chris?” Bill asked.

“No.”

Bill’s eyes met King’s. “Shouldn’t she?” he asked.

“Not necessarily, although by not testifying, her own stock in the bureau doesn’t go up. In fact—”

“I resigned,” she said flatly.

“Resigned? Do you feel you have to?” Bill asked.

“No, not at all. If I testify against Ross, all sorts of good things await me. My assignment to Montana is canceled and I stay here in Washington as special agent in charge of national American Indian affairs for the FBI.” She spat out the initials FBI as though trying to fling them as far away as possible. “If I don’t testify, I go to Montana for a six-month probation period. My files will include a negative report from Director Shelton himself for failure to cooperate in ‘matters vital to the bureau’s reputation.’”

“That tough, huh?” Bill said.

“That tough.”

“What do you say?” Bill asked King.

“As an attorney, I’ve counseled Chris that she should testify. I think she owes herself that, and if it helps convict Ross Lizenby, a wrong has been righted. But, as a friend, I can only suggest that Chris follow her own conscience. Obviously, there’s more at stake here than seeing justice done. It might not be just for her.”

King stood and tucked his briefcase under his arm. “I learned a long time ago, Bill, that justice has many definitions. You know that working as you have on Native American affairs. There hasn’t been any justice with our people since the beginning, but we’re not unique. I doubt if there’s anyone alive today who hasn’t been on the receiving end of injustice at least once in their lives. It isn’t
just
for Sutherland House to have agreed to drop all plans to publish Kneeley’s book. They have enough to proceed, assign another writer, bring at least
some
of the story to the public.”

“They won’t do that?” Bill asked.

“No. They’ve decided to cooperate in the spirit of—of patriotism and honor.”

Chris and Bill watched King cross the lobby and exit to the street.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“About what?”

“About not testifying against Ross. I know you want me to because of Sue White Cloud and—”

“Chris.”

“What?”

“I only care if your reason has to do with some lingering feeling for him.”

She shook her head. “Believe me, it doesn’t. If I thought he’d walk free, I would, but I think Helen Pritchard’s testimony will do it. What I’d have to offer is third-hand. It’ll rise and fall on her. Funny, but I think more about his ex-wife. I suppose we’ll never know about that unless he decides to tell about it.”

“You know what confuses me, Chris?”

“What?”

“I’d think the bureau would want it the other way around, have you
not
testify against him. Hell, it’s embarrassing to have a special agent assigned to a unit investigating serial murders end up the killer of a teenager.”

“There’s been a leak. The press knows about Lizenby and Arizona. The bureau has no choice now but to cooperate. They’re good, Bill, the best in the world. But I don’t fit, at least not anymore. I’m off the team. I just hope those who stay do the job. I’ll miss it. Aside from a few proverbial bad apples, it’s okay.”

They stood on the street in the sunshine. The air was cool; October would soon arrive.

“What will you do?” Bill asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Can I suggest something?”

“Sure.”

“Give me a second.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, leaned on his cane, and read slowly: “
Kat cuwitpotu knoqtuhkayin
.”

“Huh?”

“It’s the only Passamaquoddy I could come up with to fit the situation.”

She started to laugh. “What does it mean?”

“Roughly, ‘You shouldn’t live by yourself.’ Hey, don’t laugh, it took me a long time to find even that.”

“I’m not laughing,” she said. She touched his cheek, closed her eyes, and laughed even harder.