Authors: Margaret Truman
“I’m a journalist, my dear. I know everything.”
Her laugh was easy and genuine. “Come on, Bill, how do you know about Ross Lizenby?”
He sipped his Perrier water and leaned back, which removed his face from the circle of light shining from a red globe above them. “Chris,” he said, “you know about SPOVAC’s think tank in Phoenix, don’t you?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
He came into the light again. “Yeah, they set it up about a year ago. It’s inside that technological institute that opened up in ’77. They’ve got a brain trust operating there that rents itself out for top-secret government projects.”
“Fascinating, but that still doesn’t explain why—”
“Your friend has been out there a lot. In fact, I tried to interview him about the murder of a teenager from the reservation. Remember? Six months ago?”
“Sure. You called when it happened. You were very upset.”
“I knew her, a nice kid, typical Indian situation—an alcoholic father who beat her up for recreation, mother dead from drinking and one beating too many from whoever she was living with. Run-of-the-mill, the American Indian sit-com.”
There was an edge to his voice. The plight of his people—
their
people—invariably caused it. He would either become angry as he discussed it, or would cry. Chris reached out for his hand across the table and squeezed it. “You tried to interview Ross?” she said, wondering why Ross hadn’t seemed to recognize Bill’s name when she’d mentioned it earlier.
Bill said, “I know that SPOVAC is running its
major operation out of Phoenix and I wanted to talk to somebody about what light they might shed on her murder. It sure fit the pattern of a serial murder, all the trappings. There’d been at least six others in the area, but this was the first from the reservation. There was some deviation in the M.O.—she hadn’t been as brutally beaten as the others. Christ, whoever’s doing it ends up carving weird symbols on their bodies. That didn’t happen with Sue.”
“That was her name?”
“Yeah, Sue White Cloud. Pretty thing. Anyway, I kept calling and they eventually decided I wasn’t going to disappear, so they put on this FBI agent named Lizenby, Ross Lizenby.”
He stopped talking and sipped his drink. She said, “And?”
“Oh, he was pleasant enough I guess, but he basically told me to get lost. Everything’s ‘top secret’ was the message. That’s about it. I just think it’s ironic that I happen to know who he is.”
“I get the feeling that you’d like to say more but—”
“Nothing more to be said. You say it’s not going well.”
“I—I have very mixed feelings these days, Bill. I like him and… well, maybe that’s an understatement but—”
“
But
, he’s an FBI man. Hey, Chris, you know what comes with that territory.”
“Careful. I’m one, too.”
He laughed. “What are we eating?”
They ordered red snapper soup for both of them, a combination seafood platter for her, broiled bluefish
for him from the four-page menu. They talked during the meal about many things—the worsening plight of the American Indian under the Reagan administration, baseball, the stories Bill was pursuing for his newspaper, Washington gossip, the weather, and a dozen other topics. He eventually asked about the murder of Special Agent George L. Pritchard.
“I really can’t say much about it,” she said. “You know, it’s—”
“Top secret. I think that’s what bothered me most about you joining an organization like the FBI. It’s closed. I like openness.”
She could see the beginning of an old and familiar argument, the one that eventually wedged them apart. She sighed and pushed a few scallops around on her plate. “Bill,” she said, “you do know how I feel about you, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Seriously. I love you very much.”
“Like a brother.”
“Yes. And in other ways, too.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Not so long.”
“Too long. Tell me more about Ross Lizenby. He worked for Pritchard in SPOVAC, right?”
She nodded and frowned.
“Hey, Chris, I don’t write about the FBI. I write about American Indians. Remember?”
“Bill, I just can’t discuss it.”
He shrugged. “I’m curious, like millions of other people. Think about it, a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation is murdered in the
J. Edgar Hoover Building in front of two hundred witnesses. Can you imagine what—”
“There weren’t two hundred witnesses. There weren’t
any
witnesses.”
“Whatever. At any rate, the story was played up big all over the world. Are you working on it, directly, I mean?”
“Please.”
“With Lizenby?”
She leaned over the table and said, “My only assignment is to play the token American Indian special agent.”
“Hooray for a little basic honesty. They do use you, you know.”
“And I used them, Bill. Besides, there are almost forty of us within the bureau now.”
“That many? That’s a good story.”
“Maybe it is. Want to talk about that? I’m ready.”
“Another time. Right now I’m torn by internal debate.”
“Over what?”
“Over whether to fight for the woman I love, to attempt to rekindle the old flames, or to bow out graciously and congratulate the better man.”
She giggled. “It wouldn’t work. Remember? Two different worlds.”
“The same world—savages, redskins, selling scalps for bounty.”
“Are you sure that’s Perrier water you’re drinking?”
“It ain’t firewater, dearie,” he said. “Us injuns don’t tolerate whiskey too good.”
“You haven’t changed.”
“And you have. I wish
we
hadn’t.”
“But we did. I have to call it a night, my dear brother and friend. I have a long, tough weekend of paperwork, and I’ll be leaving first thing Monday for New York.”
“What’s going on up there?”
“Routine. Do I get to treat, or would that represent compromising a journalist?”
“If you were with the Bureau of Indian Affairs, I’d decline, but since you’re with an agency I don’t cover, I accept.”
“What’s new at BIA?” she asked when they’d reached the parking lot.
“Nothing much. They’re solving the American Indian problem by cutting every program that keeps us alive. Another couple of years and they’ll be out of business because there won’t be any American Indians.”
She drove him to the Gralyn Hotel.
“Any chance of enticing you upstairs?” he asked.
“No.”
She slid close and embraced him, accepted his kiss, but stiffened when his hand found a breast beneath her cotton dress.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. Will I see you again before you go back?”
“You’d better. When will you be back from New York?”
“Late Monday night.”
“Breakfast the next day?”
“Sure, why not?” She thought of Lizenby and their breakfasts together, almost begged off, then decided to stick with what she’d said.
He was halfway out of the car when he turned
and said, “I forgot to tell you, Chris. We got six more computers.”
“That’s marvelous.” She’d worked with him to find funding to equip the school on his reservation with a couple of computers for the kids. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d finally raised enough money to purchase two.
“Yeah, I got the computer manufacturer to spring this time. You know, good PR for them, all that stuff. They’ll be coming in next week.”
“Congratulations,” she said.
“Now all we need is food, doctors, housing—”
“I know. Good night, Bill.”
Saksis’s eastern shuttle flight to LaGuardia Airport arrived in New York a little after eight. She picked up a rental car, checked a map, and headed for Garden City, on Long Island, where one of the bureau’s 416 resident agency offices was located.
The special agent in charge of the Garden City office, Terry Finch, was waiting for her with fresh coffee and Danish pastries. He was a big, pleasant man with sparkling blue eyes and pronounced jowls, someone who’d feel at home in an authentic Irish bar. “What can I do for you?” he asked once they were seated in his office.
“I’m not really sure,” Saksis said. “I’m trying to get a handle on George Pritchard, what he was like, who his contacts were before he was killed, his activities leading up to the day of his death, anything that might help.”
“Let me give you what little input I can on George Pritchard. Of course, he left this office a long time ago.”
“A year.”
Finch laughed. “That’s a long time for some people, especially guys like George. He never was comfortable staying with one assignment too long.”
“So I’ve heard. He must have hated being assigned to SPOVAC.”
“That’s right. Once he wrapped up his work here, he wanted to head on to another undercover operation. He balked at going to headquarters, but Director Shelton wouldn’t budge.”
“Tell me about the undercover project he worked on out of this office.”
“Tricky assignment, but he seemed to thrive on it. The terrorist group originated somewhere up in Vermont, but it moved down here to Long Island when things got too hot up in New England. We knew they’d set up some base of operations here but didn’t know much more than that. George came in from San Francisco and established a cover. He played the disgruntled former military adviser who was looking to sell weapons to Third World countries.”
“Or to a terrorist group.”
“Whoever had the money. It took him about six months to make the contact. Once he did, he moved fast. Unfortunately, some details got screwed up and we lost convictions on most of the group’s leaders; but it did disrupt them.”
Saksis glanced at notes she’d made on the plane, then asked, “Who was his main contact in the group?”
“I’d have to pull the file on that.”
“We can do that later,” she said. “What I’m
really
looking for is the name of someone from that organization with whom George Pritchard might have kept in touch right up to the night he was murdered.”
“I wouldn’t have any knowledge of that,” Finch said.
“The terrorist organization. Where on Long Island?”
“Up on the north shore mostly, Roslyn, Manhasset, Port Washington. They rented a big house in Roslyn. At least that’s where they were when George made his move.”
A tiny smile crossed Saksis’s face. “You know, Mr. Finch, you’re the first person I’ve talked to who calls Pritchard ‘George.’ There’s a certain affection in the way you say it.”
Finch smiled. “Yeah, I know, he was a son-of-a-bitch, a foul ball who didn’t get along with anybody, but I liked him—even though the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. I admired George Pritchard. Maybe I envied his freedom. I’ve spent my FBI career behind a desk, which suited me, I suppose, suited the wife and six kids. I retire in three years and I’ve never fired my gun except on a range.”
“I hope I can say the same,” said Saksis.
“I’m not complaining. It’s just that people like George and the other Unkempts are what we envisioned ourselves being when we joined up. Anyway, I really don’t know much about the contacts George made in the terrorist group. Everything was close to the vest with him.”
“How about others in this office? Anybody get close to him?”
Finch nodded. “One of our agents worked directly with him on the Roslyn Project. That’s what it was called, by the way. His name’s Bill Dawkins, a Young Turk who butted heads with George, damn near got booted because of it.”
“Really? I’d like to talk to him.”
“I told him you were coming. He said he’d be back before noon. What are your plans?”
“I was going to have lunch in the city. There are some possible links to the case there. While I’m waiting for Mr. Dawkins, is there anyone else I can talk to?”
“Who knew George? I don’t think so. This is a small office. They come and go depending on specific cases. No, Dawkins is your best bet.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Fine.”
She took a walk and browsed in the elegant shops along Garden City’s Franklin Avenue. Every once in a while a pretty dress in a window or a passing face on the street captured her interest, but her thoughts never strayed far from the purpose of her visit to Long Island. It occurred to her that the more she learned about George Pritchard, the more enigmatic he became, especially in light of the prevailing philosophy of the bureau—that it was a team, with little room for individuality. Obviously, Pritchard didn’t fit that mold. It was as though he worked for an agency within an agency, and under a different set of rules.
As she returned to the Garden City office, she found herself wondering why Pritchard would have
been the one chosen to administer SPOVAC. It was fairly common knowledge that Director Shelton didn’t like him. Too, he’d never had administrative experience within the bureau. It just didn’t make sense. She made a mental note to pursue the question when she got back to Washington.
Bill Dawkins was of medium height and well built. Saksis pegged him at about thirty-five, although he could have been younger. He wore a nicely cut but inexpensive brown suit with a subtle stripe in it, white buttondown shirt, and muted green paisley tie. His sandy hair was short—almost a crew cut. He wore a wide gold wedding ring, which drew attention to nails that were chewed to the quick.
“Feel like some lunch?” Saksis asked after they’d been introduced by Terry Finch.
“I have a date,” he said, “but it’s not for an hour. If you want a drink, we can go where I’m meeting the person.”
“Fine with me,” Saksis said. She’d intended to be in the city by noon but decided to stay with Dawkins. She followed him in her rented car until they passed a sign that read
Village of Roslyn
—
Historic District
, then proceeded up a busy, narrow road that led to a restaurant called the Jolly Fisherman. Dawkins turned into the parking lot, and Saksis followed. The parking valet greeted Dawkins by name. “Hello, Richie,” Dawkins said. “Take care of her.”
They went to the bar. “Hello, Mr. Dawkins,” the bartender said. “The usual?”
“Yeah, George, thanks.” He didn’t introduce Saksis. She ordered a club soda with lime. Dawkins
downed half his martini, smacked his lips, and said to her, “Finch says you want to talk about Pritchard.”