Murder at the FBI

by Margaret Truman

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 Every other emotion had been replaced by intense anger.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

  20

  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.”

  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?”