Authors: Margaret Truman
“Sure, but I thought I’d run it by you first. I’d really like a chance to work here while Ranger is still operational. Would you consider letting me replace Melissa?”
“No.”
“All right. I suppose I was hoping my coming up
with the information about Mrs. Pritchard would—well, I was hoping—”
“To be rewarded. Maybe you should be. Thanks for coming up. Would you find Sam Quince and ask him to see me.”
“I’d rather not. I wouldn’t want him to know I was the one.”
“Okay. I’ll contact him, and don’t worry, I won’t mention you.”
Saksis learned that Sam Quince was on nights and wouldn’t be in until midnight. She tried Richard Kneeley’s number with no success, then called Helen Pritchard. “Could I come see you?” Saksis asked.
“Whatever for?”
“A few more questions, that’s all.”
“It’s really inconvenient today. I’m packing Beth up.”
“Oh? Where’s she going?”
“Is that an official question?”
“No, just simple curiosity.”
“She’s going to New York to visit her cousins.”
“Sounds nice, a little trip before school starts.”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Pritchard, I really need to talk with you. Today.”
The sigh on the other end was deep and long. “We’re leaving here at two.”
“I can be there by noon.”
“Fine.” She hung up abruptly.
Beth’s suitcases were in the foyer when Saksis arrived at the penthouse. Helen Pritchard answered the door, flashed a tight, cursory smile, and led the
way to the living room, where Beth sat on the couch reading a magazine. Her mother sat next to her, crossed her legs, and gave Saksis a “Let’s get it over with” look.
Saksis asked Beth, “Would you mind if your mother and I had some time alone?”
“No, I guess not,” she said, tossing the magazine on the floor, slowly getting up, and walking with deliberate nonchalance toward her bedroom.
Saksis said to Helen Pritchard, “When I was here last time you said you were at home the night your husband was killed.”
“That’s right.”
“And Beth corroborated it.”
“Why shouldn’t she? It’s true.”
“I don’t think it is, Mrs. Pritchard.”
The woman’s face hardened. “I don’t have to put up with this.”
“I’m not asking you to put up with anything, Mrs. Pritchard. Just tell the truth. On the night your husband died, you visited him at the Hoover Building. You didn’t sign in because your husband convinced the guard to let you in without a signature.”
“Nonsense. Whoever told you that is a liar.”
Saksis suddenly had a sense of being on shaky ground. She’d acted impetuously, should have waited until she’d had a confirmation from the security guard before barging in to Pritchard’s home with an accusation. All she had to base it on was the story of an ambitious young tour guide with special agent aspirations. But it was too late now to back off. Besides, she couldn’t imagine
Linda Gaffney coming in with such a tale and naming the guard if she wasn’t sure that it had happened. At least she hoped that was so, for her own sake.
“Look, Mrs. Pritchard, I don’t like being in this position. I accepted what you and Beth told me without question, but now I’ve been told something else by very credible sources. They’ll testify to the fact you were there at the time someone murdered your husband.”
Helen Pritchard stood and ran her carefully manicured hands down the sides of the yellow silk caftan she was wearing. She looked down at Saksis and said, “Then you’d better arrange for that testimony, and you’d better charge me with killing George. Otherwise, leave this house and never come back. You may be an FBI agent, Miss Saksis, but you’re a lousy investigator.”
She walked across the living room and disappeared into the bedroom wing. Saksis heard the bathroom door slam. Moments later, Beth appeared. She crossed the room to Saksis, glanced back over her shoulder, and quickly handed Saksis a slip of paper. “This is where I’ll be on Long Island,” she said. “You can call me there, but don’t say you’re from the FBI. You’re just a friend, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No, a couple of days,” Beth said. She’d been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy, and one cheek was stained with a tear. She turned and quickly went into the kitchen.
Saksis left the condominium and drove back to the Hoover Building.
Chris Saksis met Bill Tse-ay for dinner. He was agitated about a report that had been released by the SPOVAC unit in Phoenix. In it, the women of that area who’d been murdered by a so-called “recreational killer” were alleged to have had certain things in common, one of them being prostitution.
“It’s crap,” Bill said as they sat at the bar in Georgetown’s Place Vendome. “I knew Sue White Cloud and she wasn’t a whore.”
“Did the report say they were all professionals? I mean, full-time prostitutes?”
“No, just that each of the victims had had some experience with area prostitution. What they’re claiming is that the psychological profile of the murderer includes some pathological hatred of hookers, but damn it, Sue wasn’t like that.”
“Maybe she was the exception. The basic report can still be valid.”
“Yeah, maybe, but here we go again with painting a good kid a bad one because she’s Indian.”
Chris took his hand. “Bill, I don’t think anyone is trying to do that, especially in a report like this.”
“I don’t care what they’re
trying
to do, it’s the end result that counts. I was going over the latest statistics at BIA this afternoon. You know what they’re putting out, that Native Americans have three times the national arrest rate of blacks, and ten times that of whites.”
“That’s true, isn’t it, but we know that it’s because nobody cares. Even the blacks, as far away from equality as they may be, at least have voices in the establishment standing up for them.”
He snorted. “Yeah, you and I know that, but BIA doesn’t bother explaining it. The fat cat over there told me that by releasing these kinds of statistics, white America will become better educated about what has to be done to help us. I don’t see it that way. The way I read it, the average American reads the stats, shakes his head, and says, ‘They’re still savages.’ And he reads about Sue White Cloud and he shrugs and says to his wife, ‘These young women who get into prostitution are asking for it.’ Damn it, Chris, it’s wrong.”
“It always has been,” she said, “but it’ll get better, if you keep bringing it up.”
“I sometimes wonder.”
“No, you don’t. You’ll write a brilliant, scathing editorial about this and somebody will agree and take some action. Hey, my good friend, think about
the computers we managed to get for the kids. And the clothes, and the commitment from Housing to repair all those houses on my reservation up in Maine. It’s slow but one day—”
“I’ll be up in the happy hunting ground long before that.”
She giggled. “And so will I. Let’s eat.”
They talked about computers for much of the meal. Both of them had developed an intense interest in them, although Chris’s was on a much more personal level. Bill had installed them at
Native American Times
, and on his recommendation Chris had purchased one for personal use and had begun writing her own programs as a hobby.
“Let me tell you what I’m trying to develop,” he said over their salads. “I want a national bulletin board for all the reservations, a system link-up where kids—hell, or adults, for that matter—can connect with other Indians anywhere in the country. Wouldn’t that be great? If we come up with some idea that works in Arizona, we can tell our brothers and sisters immediately about it, how to do it, who to see. It’d be almost like a Native American radio network, exchanging information, ideas, making us all one instead of 287 different tribes.”
“Is that the latest count?”
“Yeah, a million and a half of us. If we could be hooked up together and working in concert, maybe the clout would be there.” He was becoming increasingly animated as he outlined his plan for a computer network between reservations. “It wouldn’t take much. All we’d need is 287 computers, one for each tribe, and a modem for each of
them so we could use the phone lines to connect. Once we had that in place, we could…”
Chris had to smile as she listened to his plans. It was what had attracted her to him in the first place, his fire and dedication to a cause. She could never match him in his fervor, which was one of the contributing factors in the erosion of their relationship. It wasn’t that she didn’t have her causes, her passions. It had been track and field, and her studies, the combination of which often left her with an aching brain and leg muscles that screamed out in pain. Underneath it all was a commitment to her Indian heritage, although it was difficult to explain to Bill. For him, the only way to prove your dedication was to work at something active and visible where Native Americans were concerned. She didn’t see it that way. For her, excelling within the American society did more for the image of her people than all the charity work she might get involved in. She’d told Bill once that he might be of greater service by using his education and talents as a writer for a major publication, to win awards, to make the point to the general public that the American Indian was
not
the stereotypical drunkard and lout. But he never saw it that way. And they drifted apart.
Now, in the restaurant, she found herself caught up in his zeal. “What can I do to help this along?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Got any high-placed friends in the computer business?”
“No, but I can look around. What about the people who got you the units for the kids?”
“Possibly, only I had to twist arms back so far
to get those few machines that I’m not sure they’d be overjoyed to see me again.
“Well, maybe we can make it work together.”
A puzzled frown crossed his face. She knew what he was wondering, whether what she’d just said had greater meaning than simply working together.
“Dessert?” he asked.
“Never touch the stuff,” she said.
“I feel like splurging,” he said. “It’s good for the soul every once in a while.”
“An old Indian proverb?”
“No, a new one. Sure you won’t join me?”
“All right.”
They had rich chocolate cups filled with genoise and mousse, and coffee. They said little. It had been a long time since they’d been intimate, and there was a mutual, unstated fear of rekindling something that was probably doomed to end again. Their breakup had been painful. They’d discussed it often in the months following it, which served to vent the frustration and hurt. They’d finally gotten over it and had gotten on with their lives and other relationships. But though the hurt had dissipated, the positive feelings about each other lingered, coming to the surface in aching bursts, then quickly ebbing in the business of daily life.
Chris waited for him to bring it up, to suggest that they extend the evening. When he didn’t she said, “Want to come back to the apartment?”
“Yes. Very much,” he said. “I’ll get the check.”
The waltz toward the bedroom began almost as soon as they’d entered her apartment. The familiarity of it came back immediately, and it was
welcome. It crossed Chris’s mind a few times how different making love with Bill was from her experience with Ross Lizenby. With Bill, there was a patience and tenderness that was missing with Ross, a gentleness that contrasted with the almost desperate hardness of the act with Lizenby. One word kept coming to her as they played out the passionate ritual of touching and kissing, fondling and whispering terms of endearment in each other’s ears.
Caring
. That was the word that summed up, for her, the difference.
When they both were spent, they sat against the headboard and held hands, thinking but not speaking. Finally, Bill turned and said, “I’m not sure this is the time to bring this up, Chris, but it has to be said.”
She’d hoped they could avoid a discussion of their past, and of this new beginning. But you couldn’t control those things. She faced him and said, “Go ahead, Bill. What’s on your mind?”
“Ross Lizenby.”
The name seemed, to her, to flip a switch that sent a bolt of blinding white light into the darkened bedroom.
“I’ve done some checking on him.”
“Checking?” This was not what Chris had expected.
“I called an old friend of mine, an attorney in Seattle. His name’s Bob Miko. He’s part Zuni, and he handles a lot of reservation cases in the state of Washington.”
“And?”
“Well, you know Lizenby’s from there, started a law practice years ago and—”
“I know all that, Bill. What are you getting at?”
“He was married for a short time, which you also know, but maybe you don’t know the circumstances of his divorce. His wife brought him up on charges at least twice for assault. Bob checked back through Seattle PD records and came across a photo of her that was taken after she’d come in to file a complaint. Your friend really worked her over.”
Chris felt a knot form in her stomach. She forced herself to say, “Go on.”
“Lizenby had made it known that he intended to fold his practice and to apply to the FBI. The practice, what there was of it, never got off the ground. A deal was struck with his wife. He’d give her an uncontested divorce and whatever alimony she was asking for, in exchange for dropping the criminal charges against him.”
“I was wondering about that. He would never have been accepted into special agent training with that kind of background.”
“That aspect of his background was buried, at least officially, but there’s more.”
She didn’t want to hear.
“About a month after the divorce, Lizenby’s wife—ex-wife—disappeared. The missing person file stayed open for a year. She was never found.”
When Bill stopped talking, Chris said, “I have a feeling there’s more you’d like to say.”
He squeezed her hand and said, “I feel like a jealous suitor digging up dirt on my competition in order to come out the winner.”
“Don’t,” Chris said. “I know that’s not why you’re doing this.”
“I’m glad you understand. It makes it easier. Look, Chris, your friend doesn’t shape up, at least to me, as the world’s nicest guy, but that doesn’t mean a hell of a lot. I’m just concerned that you’ve gotten deeply involved with the kind of man who might not be good for you. That’s presumptuous, I know, but besides being madly in love with you, I
do
respond to that brother-sister relationship we fell into after it came apart between us. I care.”