Authors: Margaret Truman
That word again. “I know you do, Bill, and I treasure it.” She wrapped her arms around him and they slid down the headboard to the bed, their bodies pressed together, mouths finding each other, the passion swelling to another crescendo of satisfaction and release.
He did not stay the night. She kissed him gently on the lips as he left her apartment at three in the morning, then returned to her rumpled bed and lay awake until the first light of dawn filtered through the blinds.
The phone rang at six. She quickly picked it up and said, “Bill?”
There was a long silence before the voice said, “No, it’s not Bill. It’s Ross.”
“Oh, I—I was expecting a call from him and—”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I was—I was just about to get up.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. Are you in Arizona?”
“Yes. I’m calling because…”
She waited.
“Because I miss you. I’m sorry I left with anger between us. I don’t like that. We should never be
apart from each other when we’re angry. It’s like the old adage, never go to bed mad.” He laughed.
She didn’t know what to say. Her mind was still filled with nasty visions of him based on what Bill had told her. She suddenly felt very cold, as though the air conditioning had been turned down to its lowest setting. She pulled the covers up and said, “I really should get in the shower, Ross. We can talk about this when you come back.”
“I’ll be back Sunday, probably early evening.”
Sunday seemed so close. She said, “That’s good.”
“Can’t you muster up a little more enthusiasm about it? This was the weekend we were supposed to go away together.”
“I know, but when I heard you’d gone to Arizona I assumed that—”
“Of course. Look, I’ll try to catch as early a flight as I can on Sunday. Things are pretty much wrapped up here. This series of serial killings in Arizona is over. Whoever did it sure hasn’t stayed around. We’ll be sending his M.O. over the system, but there’s nothing left to do here. I’ll try to get back in the afternoon on Sunday. We’ll play some tennis, have an early dinner, and try to make up for the lost weekend.”
She desperately groped for something to say. “Ross, I’m not sure I’ll be here over the weekend. I may go to New York.”
“For what?”
“The Pritchard case. There are some leads there that—”
“Screw the Pritchard case. I want you there when I get back.”
“I don’t think I—”
“I’m counting on it. Damn it, Chris, I’ve done a lot of thinking out here, and I know—just
know
deep down inside that you and I are right for each other. Let’s give it a decent shot. Hey, by the way, I bought you a very fancy present.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I think you’ll love it. In fact, I know you will. I can’t wait to give it to you.”
“That’s—Ross, please, try and understand. I’m very confused at this point in my life and—”
“Of course you are, but you can’t keep in touch with some former lover and expect to see things clearly. That’s over, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but…” She couldn’t believe she’d said what she had, nor could she reason why she was so reluctant to face up to him, to tell him about Bill and their night together, to tell him that she didn’t want to see him anymore.
“I know it is, Chris, because you probably can see what we could have together as clearly as I do. This is all dumb, talking like this on the phone. I’ll be back Sunday and come directly to your apartment. Just do one favor for me and don’t plan on wearing any of your usual jewelry.”
“Jewelry?”
“I never could keep a secret.” Another laugh. “See you Sunday, and don’t forget between now and then that I love you.” He hung up.
It was business as usual Saturday morning at the bureau, and in Ranger’s offices. Another attempt by Saksis to reach Richard Kneeley on Fire Island paid off at ten o’clock. He sounded as though he’d been awakened by the call, saying in a thick, slurred voice, “Hello.”
“Mr. Kneeley?”
“Who’s this?”
“My name is Christine Saksis. I’m a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
She heard him try to clear the hoarseness from his throat before he asked, “What’s this about?”
“I’d like very much to be able to talk to you in person concerning an ongoing investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“We can discuss that when we get together. I’m
willing to come out to your house if that would make things easier.”
“I don’t know. Do you have a subpoena, a warrant?”
“No. Do I need one?”
“Depends on what you’re fishing for.”
“I’m not fishing, Mr. Kneeley, I’m simply asking some questions to help me in this investigation. I’d hoped you’d cooperate without the need for papers.”
“I don’t know. Am I being accused of something?”
“Not that I know of. Look, if you want to make it difficult, I’ll come up with any papers I need to force the issue. This is a murder investigation, Mr. Kneeley, and you might have information that can help me, and the bureau.”
He grunted. “Write a couple of books about the bureaucracy and you get called for everything.”
“I’ve never called you before.”
“Yeah. All right, Miss—”
“Saksis. Christine Saksis.”
“Interesting name.”
“American Indian.”
“Really. How long have you been with the bureau?”
“A few years. Can I see you tomorrow?”
“I had plans.”
“I won’t take a lot of your time. Perhaps you’d prefer to come down here to Washington instead.”
“I make it a point to spend as little time as possible in Washington.”
She laughed. “Wish I could say the same. I
could meet you in the city, say, at the Hotel Inter-Continental.”
“What are you trying to do, Miss Saksis, make the point that you’ve done your homework?”
“I’m not in the business of making points, Mr. Kneeley. I just know that you spend considerable time there. You are, you know, a somewhat public figure.”
“I try not to be. It’s not good for business.”
She was tiring of the chitchat. “I’ll be at your home on Fire Island at noon tomorrow, Mr. Kneeley. I trust you’ll be there.”
“I’ll be here, but I’ll be making a few calls to friends of mine in the bureau to make sure a Miss Christine Saksis has reason to pay a visit.”
“I’d be pleased if you would, Mr. Kneeley, if it’ll put you at ease.”
Jake Stein stopped in a few minutes later. “What’s new?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure how much to share with him. She said, “Not a lot, Jake.” She decided not to mention her planned interview with Richard Kneeley. It was happening on the weekend, which meant she didn’t have to account for her time. Besides, Lizenby had left her in charge. But there was more to her reluctance to share with Stein—the fact was she simply didn’t know who to trust anymore.
He sat across the desk from her, propped his feet upon a low table, and asked, “What’s this I hear about George Pritchard’s widow having been here the night he got it?”
Saksis was surprised that he knew. She asked where he’d heard it.
“It’s making the rounds. The guard, Sam Quince, is evidently quaking with fear. Talked to him yet?”
“No. How about you handling that?”
“Sure. Hey, Chris, can I ask a couple of questions and make a couple of unsolicited comments?”
“To me? Of course.”
“I’m a little uneasy about the way this Pritchard investigation is heading.”
“Why?”
“Well, since Ross is pretty much out of the picture, you’re sitting in the driver’s seat. Not that that’s bad, but I get a feeling that this has now become a one-woman show, everything kept close to the vest and that the rest of us might as well pack up and get back to the real world.”
“I’m sorry that’s the impression I’ve been giving out, Jake. I don’t mean to, it’s just that with Ross gone and by being handed it, things have gotten a little loose. That’s my fault, and I’ll do what I can to correct it.”
“I’m not blaming anybody, but you know how things work around here. All of a sudden somebody upstairs yells for input and the only person with any is away somewhere.”
“Meaning me.”
“Right.” He shook his head and smiled. “Chris, I never thought I’d see the day when Jake Stein would be suggesting a meeting, but I think it’s in order, a regular meeting every day, maybe twice a day, to keep the troops filled in.”
“I agree. We’ll start this afternoon.”
“Good. Three?”
“Four.”
“You’ve got it. I’ll tell Joe. Maybe we ought to
keep it between the three of us, you know, on a need-to-know basis.”
“That makes sense. The three of us at four, right here.”
“Okay. What are you doing for lunch?”
“Maybe something brought in.”
“I’m offering a
real
lunch, my treat.”
“I don’t think so, but check me about noon. I may be desperate for something real by then.”
Stein did come back at twelve, but she begged off. At 12:15 she left the building, went to a phone booth a few blocks away, and called Bill Tse-ay at his hotel.
“Good timing,” he said. “I was on my way out the door.”
“Bill, I’m going to New York for the weekend. I’m catching an early shuttle in the morning.”
“Feel like company?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“I wanted to get to New York this trip east. Hey, why fly? Let’s drive up together tonight.”
“That sounds nice but—can you leave by seven?”
“Sure.”
“Any ideas on where to stay?”
“I can stay with friends, I suppose, but after last night I—”
“I liked it, too, Bill. We can stay together. I’ll book something.”
“Fine. Pick me up at seven?”
“Right, and thanks for being a friend. I need one more than ever.”
“Where are you calling from?” he asked. “It’s a lousy connection.”
“A booth. I’m trying to keep a low profile around
the office.” She could have admitted that she wanted to avoid having her telephone conversations recorded but didn’t want to acknowledge that such a thing was possible with one of the bureau’s own. The fact was she knew the possibility was more than distinct, and that the cases of it were as well known in the bureau gossip mill as who was sleeping with whom.
The four o’clock meeting started on time. Chris Saksis, Jake Stein, and Joe Perone sat behind her closed door and went over what they had. It was a sham, Saksis realized, because she was determined to not mention certain developments to which only she was privy. She wondered whether Stein or Perone were playing the same game, keeping something back in their own self-interest. Probably, she decided. It was the way things seemed to work in the bureau. She only hoped that when all the dust settled and there was a resolution of the case, none of them would be hurt, especially not her. She wasn’t especially proud at that bit of self-preservation, but there was no sense denying it existed, and that it was growing stronger every day.
She had decided before they arrived to introduce the question of Rosemary Cale’s affair with Pritchard. When she did, not mentioning the fact that her information had come from the waiter in New York, Joe Perone grinned and said, “My understanding was that they kept seeing each other right up until the time he died.”
“That’s my understanding, too,” Saksis said. “Does anyone know where Pritchard was staying the last few weeks of his life?”
“I read your report on the interview with Helen
Pritchard,” Stein said, “and I wondered the same thing. Rosemary’s place?”
“That crossed my mind,” said Saksis.
“Did you ask her?” Perone said.
Saksis shook her head. “It didn’t occur to me then, but maybe we’d better pursue it.”
“My pleasure,” said Perone. “I always wanted to get close to the redhead.”
“She’s leaving the bureau,” Saksis said.
“So I heard,” Stein said. “Succumbed to the lure of private industry.”
“Bigger bucks,” said Perone.
“I prefer upward mobility,” Stein said.
“You would,” said Perone.
“What about the foreigners-in-training?” Saksis asked. “And Bert Doering?”
“It’s hands-off all the way around,” Stein said.
Saksis sat straight up. “That’s official?”
“Yup.”
“Why hadn’t I heard about it?” she asked.
“Why haven’t any of us heard everything everybody else has heard?” Stein asked. “That’s what I meant this morning, Chris. Instead of Ranger being a unified investigation into a murder, it’s a group of individuals going their own separate ways, the group be damned.”
“That’s not true,” she said.
“Yes, it is,” said Stein. “For instance, Chris, you chase after Rosemary Cale, interview her, and pretty much come to the conclusion that her affair with Pritchard was still going hot and heavy even though she denies it. You didn’t share that with us. If you had, I could have added that Miss Cale met Pritchard at a local hotel and went to bed with him
the week before he died. Instead of conjecture, that pooling of information could make a difference.”
Saksis sat back. What he’d said hadn’t surprised her. It was the meaning behind it, the tacit accusation that she’d been holding back evidence, which, of course, she had. How much did Stein know?
“What else, Jake?” she asked.
“I don’t know, not much, I suppose, but the point is that—”
“You don’t have to explain, Jake. You’ve already said it very nicely.”
He said, “It’s the same situation with Helen Pritchard. You find out that she was in the building, but that’s as far as it goes. It stays with you. No good, Chris, not if we’re going to get to the bottom of things. By the way, the guard, Sam Quince, got axed.”
Saksis registered her dismay. “He didn’t deserve
that
,” she said. “He had fifteen years in.”
“He deserved worse,” Stein said.
Saksis was intensely uncomfortable. She glanced at Perone, looked down at her hands, then said, “Nothing will be held back again, I promise. I can make the excuse that Ross’s in-and-out stature has contributed to it, but I won’t.” She also wondered how Stein knew about Helen Pritchard. She’d ask at another time.
Stein laughed. “The jury will disregard the statement. Hey, Chris, don’t look so glum. I’m not coming down on you. I just don’t want to see any of us, including you, wind up on the short end, that’s all.”