“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.”
His arrogance inspired her. She sat up on the couch and said, “Your offer of lunch doesn’t impress me, Mr. Kneeley.”
He cocked his head and smiled. “The feisty Native American special agent. That is the accepted term these days, isn’t it, ‘Native American’? I can never keep track—Negro, black, Chinaman, Oriental, Asian, Hispanic, Indian, Native American—it’s all too much for me.”
“It isn’t difficult, Mr. Kneeley. Call me whatever comes to mind. It’s easier that way.”
He fluttered his fingers in the air and rolled his eyes. “Don’t invite that, Miss Saksis. If I used the words on the tip of my tongue at this moment I would be faced with a very irate female.”
“Try me,” she said.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Kneeley yelled, never taking his eyes from her. Jubel entered carrying a tray. He arranged things on one end of the desk, sneezed, and asked whether Kneeley wanted him for the rest of the afternoon.
“Where are you going?” Kneeley asked.
“Out,” Jubel said.
Kneeley sighed. “The child in all of us. Going out, doing nothing, I presume. Go. Be back for dinner. We have guests.”
Jubel left without saying anything.
“Imposing specimen, isn’t he?” Kneeley said to Saksis. “Eat. It won’t get cold, but… There must be an FBI regulation against accepting special agents as ravishing as you.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Please, Mr. Kneeley, I appreciate the lunch and the compliments, but I would like to get on with my questions. You were good enough to invite me here and—”
“And that’s the whole point, Miss Saksis. I invited you here. That should say something.”
“Did you know George L. Pritchard?”
“Who?” His small smile was annoying.
“George L. Pritchard, the special agent who was murdered in the Hoover Building.”
“Oh, that George L. Pritchard. No.”
“You weren’t friends?”
“That’s right.”
“Acquaintances?”
“No.”
“Had you ever met him?”
“No.”
“Ever heard of him?”
“Newspaper accounts of his unfortunate and untimely demise. Who done it?”
“Who—we don’t know.”
“You suspect me?”
“No.”
“Then why ask me about him?”
“Because I know you knew him.”
“Do you now? I think I’d better have another drink to brace myself against the flood of evidence the beautiful special agent is about to drown me with. Sure you won’t join me? It’s very smooth.”
“Positive.”
As nonchalant and unconcerned as he wanted to appear, Saksis noticed a change in his face. His mouth seemed to sag ever so slightly, and his eyes had lost their devil-may-care twinkle. He filled his glass and took a healthy swig.
She asked, “Did you sign in to the Hoover Building the night Pritchard was killed, using the name Raymond Kane?”
“Kane? Raymond Kane. That’s fascinating. Years ago, when I was eking out a living to support my wife and child, I wrote a series of western paperback originals under the name Kane. Not Raymond—Richard. But, of course, you knew that, which is why you are here trying to link me up with some person who signed in to the Hoover Building under the same name—Kane, Raymond, you said? I was Richard. I don’t know Raymond.”
His attempts at cleverness were wearing thin on her. She decided to drop the questions for a few minutes and to eat. The sandwich was tuna salad on whole wheat. It was good. She ate half and finished the coffee that was in her cup. A silver pot held more, but she didn’t bother refilling. He watched her as she ate, ignoring the plate of caviar and salmon in front of him.
“Very tasty,” she said.
“Good.” He turned his head and looked toward the ocean. “Ah, they’re back.” He got up and went to the telescope, aimed it toward the sea, and adjusted the eyepiece. He looked over his shoulder and waved for her to join him.
She came to his side. He backed away from the telescope and said, “Here, look, the jet set at play.”
She peered through the eyepiece at a large luxury yacht barely moving through the water. On deck were three young women, two blond, the other with black hair. They were naked. Two men sat in deck chairs. Each held a glass and were laughing as they watched their female companions cavort about the yacht au naturel.
“They�
�ve been providing me with vicarious pleasure all summer,” Kneeley said. Saksis allowed him to take his place at the telescope. He watched the scene for a few moments, then straightened up, stepped close to her, and reached his arms around her back. He pressed his body against her and tried to force his mouth on her lips.
“Get lost,” she said as she pushed him away.
“You’ll love it,” he said.
She brought her knee up into his groin. He gasped, doubled over, and staggered back, knocking over the telescope. She watched as he fought to regain his composure. Finally he straightened and tried to keep the tears of pain from erupting from his eyes. “You bitch,” he said.
She stood with her hands on her hips. “Tell me about Pritchard,” she said.
“What the hell do you—?”
“He’s been here. I have pictures. You knew each other pretty well, and I want to know under what circumstances.”
He walked to his desk and sat heavily in his chair. “You have a hell of a nerve.”
“So do you, and if you ever try that again you’ll feel a lot worse than you do now.”
“And if you ever do that to me again, with Jubel here, you’ll—”
“Don’t threaten a special agent of the FBI. It brings a long term.”
“Get out.”
“Pritchard.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You’d better reconsider.”
“Threatening an American citizen doesn’t sit too well with the courts, either.”
“Last chance,” she said as she went to the couch and gathered her belongings.
“This Pritchard character is your problem, not mine. You left half your sandwich. Want a doggie bag?”
“Feed it to Jubel.”
“I will, along with red meat.”
“See you again, Mr. Kneeley.”
“You sure as hell will, Miss Saksis, and you won’t be happy when you do.”
She started across the room, stopped, returned to where he sat. She shoved the picture of Rosemary Cale beneath his nose. “Ring a bell?” she asked.
“Looks like just another—”
“You’re right, she is. I’m not. Take it easy.”
21
Bill Tse-ay was out when Saksis returned to the hotel. She showered and took a nap, awoke at five, fished Beth Pritchard’s phone number from her purse and dialed. A man answered.
“Is Beth there?” Saksis asked.
“Yes, she is. Who’s calling.”
“This is Chris, a friend.”
“I’ll get her.”
Beth came on the line.
“Beth, this is Christine Saksis from the FBI. You gave me this number.”
“Oh, sure. How are you?”
“Just fine. Enjoying your visit?”
“Very much. Would you like to talk to me?”
“Privately? Yes. I’m in New York City. I was planning to leave late tonight but I can stay over. Tomorrow morning?”
“I can hop on the train and meet you for breakfast.”
“Sure?”
“Yup. I take the train a lot.”
“Okay, I’m at the Hotel Inter-Continental on Forty-eighth Street, just off Lexington Avenue.”
“I’ll be there at ten.”
“Perfect. Beth, are you sure this is all right, that you won’t get in some kind of trouble?”
“You know something, Miss Saksis?”
“What?”
“I don’t care.”
Bill returned shortly after five. After giving Chris a big hug and kiss, he took off his clothes and hopped in the shower. He returned a few minutes later wearing one of the terry cloth robes the hotel provided, sat on the bed, and said, “So, tell me about Fire Island and the great American author.”
Chris joined him on the couch and replayed her visit with Richard Kneeley.
“A real creep,” Bill said. “You’re sure you thwarted his advances?”
“Stop it. I made a ten o’clock breakfast date tomorrow with Beth Pritchard. Mind staying over an extra night?”
“No, of course not. Who’s Beth Pritchard?”
“The deceased’s daughter.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”
“I think she’s bursting to talk to me about her father, and I’m curious about what she has to say.”
“Want company?”
“No. I don’t want to scare her off. What about your friend Billie Wharton? Did you see her?”
“No, but we will tonight. She was busy all day. We’re having dinner at seven. What time is it now?” he asked.
She shrugged. “About five-thirty.”
“Plenty of time.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips.
“No more celibacy?” she asked.
“Maybe tomorrow. Right now it’s the last thing on my mind.”
***
The strolled hand-in-hand along Forty-ninth Street until they reached a red canopy that said Antolotti’s. Billie Wharton was already there at a table next to a front window. She gave Bill a warm embrace and shook Chris’s hand. Billie was short and heavy. She was dressed in a plain beige shirtwaist and her black hair was held off her face by a red bandana. A large turquoise Zuni pendant hung from a heavy gold chain around her neck.
“It’s good to see you again,” Bill said as he picked up a piece of celery.
“It’s been a while.” Billie looked at Chris. “This delightful, crazy man got me my job.”
“So I heard. Sutherland House is a good one, I understand.”
“Better than most, I guess. We do some pretty good books, at least we try to.”
“I’d love to hear about them. Publishing is a foreign country to me.”
Billie laughed. “What do you do, Chris?”
Chris gave a fast glance at Bill, then said, “I’m an investigator with a federal agency.”
“Which one?”
“The Interior Department, Indian affairs.” She hoped Bill wouldn’t be annoyed at such a blatant lie.
A waiter appeared and asked for their drink order. Chris and Bill had white wine, Billie a perfect Manhattan. She laughed when she ordered it. “Publishing types are supposed to drink wine or Perrier. It’s a pleasure to have a real drink. I’ve been corrupted by the industry all week long.”
“Nice corruption,” Bill said.
“I can think of some others I prefer,” Billie said with an exaggerated wink.
“Here’s to corruption,” said Bill when their drinks were served. He held his glass in a toast.
“I’ll drink to that kind of corruption,” Chris said, “but working in Washington conjures up too many visions of the other kind.”
After small slices of pizza bread were served they were handed menus. When they’d decided—spinach salads and chicken casalinga for Bill and Chris, veal Antolotti and pasta for Billie—Chris turned the conversation back to Billie’s job at Sutherland House.
“Busy, busy, busy,” Billie said. “They claim the industry is publishing fewer books these days, but you can’t prove it by me.”
“Do you work with big-name authors? Chris asked.
Billie nodded and finished the last piece of pizza bread. “I’ve been dealing with authors more and more, and I love it. They’re a pretty nice bunch, with a few exceptions—those who think their book is another War and Peace.”
“Who have you worked with lately?” Chris asked.
Billie named a few novelists, but added, “I’m pretty much doing nonfiction. Most of our list is nonfiction.”
Bill talked about the book on American Indians he’d helped launch. Billie said another book on the subject was under editorial consideration and wondered whether he’d be willing to get involved again. He said he would, provided the message was palatable.
The table took on an increasingly festive air. Billie was good company, bright and funny, and Chris found herself relating to her as though they’d been friends for years. They joked about their Indian herita
ge, as only members of a clan can make fun of themselves. Chris was dying to mention Richard Kneeley but was afraid that Billie would sense an interest beyond simple curiosity. Too, she was feeling increasingly guilty, and wondered at times during the meal whether it wouldn’t have been better for her to be up-front, to admit her professional interest in Kneeley, and to ask for Billie’s help. But, somehow, she had the feeling that it wouldn’t work to be that honest. She’d be asking Billie to betray a trust of her job with Sutherland House, and she doubted whether Billie would go that far.
There was also the question of Bill Tse-ay. Although he seemed willing to go along with Chris’s charade, she wondered how he really felt about it. If she started playing the game, would he interrupt it, change the subject, and think less of her?
She decided that none of it mattered. She was under the gun, and unless she found a way to resolve the murder of George L. Pritchard, her reputation at the bureau was in jeopardy.
A large fruit basket was delivered to the table. They ordered coffee and decided to share a piece of rum cake. It looked large enough to be shared by six. While they were digging into dessert, Chris said, “I’ve been reading a book by Richard Kneeley.”
Billie’s eyes lit up. “He’s one of our authors.”
Chris laughed. “Is he? I never connect authors with specific publishing houses. He’s terrific.”
“What are you reading, The Deceit Factory?”
“Yes,” said Chris.
“It was a big success. The paperback will be out in a few months. Of all the writers we have under contract, he has to be the strangest.”
“Really?” Chris said. “Why?” She looked at Bill, who didn’t seem in the least concerned at what she was doing.
Billie laughed and tasted a pineapple wedge. “Delicious. Why? I’ve met him a couple of times. He’s nice personally. It’s the way he works that tickles everyone in the office. Kneeley has to be the most paranoid writer we have on the list. He only transmits at night, and my boss told me he has state-of-the-art security devices on his computer.”
“Transmits at night?” Bill asked.
“Yeah. He’s one of the few authors we publish who uses a computer to directly feed into our own system. He’s hooked in through modems, and he sends us what he’s written over telephone lines. Kneeley has his own equipment, but we’ve started leasing computers to important writers who are working on big books for us. It’s terrific.”
Murder at the FBI Page 17