Murder at the FBI (24 page)

Saksis grinned. “I like being one. Take care. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”

***

Bill Tse-ay concluded his meeting with Joey Zoe in a Chinese restaurant that Joey claimed was “safe.” Bill gave him all the information he had, and Joey instructed him on what was needed at Bill’s end. According to Joey, it was simple. Once the tap was in, whenever Kneeley dialed his publisher’s number in Manhattan to transmit material between computers, the phone would ring in Chris’s apartment. All she had to do was pick it up and place it in the cradle on the modem. Whatever Kneeley transmitted would come up on her screen, and would print out on her printer. “I don’t think it’ll format, though,” Joey said, “but you’ll get the words.”

“That’s all we need,” Bill said.

“It’ll cost,” Joey said. “I need special equipment for the tap.”

“Whatever.”

“What about a fee?”

“Whatever you say, Joey, only remember you owe me a few.”

Joey smiled and finished his coffee. Everything about him was square—body, face, hands. His cheeks were deeply pockmarked, and years of neglect of his teeth had left them yellow and uneven.
He wore a faded, wrinkled brown corduroy sports jacket, a red-and-black plaid shirt, blue knit tie, and tan work pants. “I thought I paid that off a long time ago,” he said.

“Yeah, you did, only I think we should keep it going as friends. We’ll probably need each other again—more than once.”

Joey chewed on his cheek. “Sure, you’re right, only I have to get something.”

“Two hundred?”

“Make it four. It’s risky. And that’s way below my usual price.”

“You’ve got it. Just make sure the tap is pulled by six the next morning.”

“Sure. You know, Billy, if this guy on Fire Island is as savvy as you say about computers and security, he might have hooked up a phone-tap meter. Once the tap is on, the impedance goes down. You know that. He could read it.”

“I’m hoping he doesn’t.”

“You’re sure we can’t do it at the other end?”

“At the publisher? No way.”

“It’s easy in the junction box.”

“Forget it. It’s got to be on his phone on Fire Island.”

“All right, but if it don’t work, I still get paid.”

“Of course.”

“Could I have some now?”

“I’m a little short of cash. Here.” He pulled a little over a hundred dollars from his wallet. “I’ll get you the rest by Thursday.”

They parted in front of the restaurant. “Good to see you again,” Bill said.

“Yeah, me, too. You sure you don’t want to tell me what this is all about?”

“I can’t, Joey, you know that.”

Joey started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Remember when you were going with that broad from Maine, the one who ended up with the FBI?”

Bill nodded.

“You still see her?”

“Nah.”

“That’s good. All I need is you telling a spook about this.”

They left New York at three and arrived at Chris’s apartment in Washington a little before ten, having stopped for a leisurely dinner along the way. As they approached Washington she found herself becoming increasingly uneasy. She couldn’t get Ross Lizenby out of her mind, and was fearful that he’d be waiting there, angry, and would make a scene with Bill.

It seemed that her fears were unjustified. There was no sign of Lizenby as they parked in her garage, carried their bags to the elevator and up to her floor. A tiny red light on her answering machine indicated there had been five calls that had been recorded. She would have preferred to listen to them in private, but turned the switches anyway and heard the voices of a couple of female friends suggesting dinner or tennis dates, a salesman for a
magazine distributorship offering her the “chance of a lifetime,” the landlord informing her that all water would be shut off for twelve hours because of boiler repairs starting at noon on Wednesday, and Ross Lizenby, who simply said, “Call me.”

“That’s him?” Bill asked when he heard Lizenby’s voice.

“Yes.”

“He sounded mad.”

“I suppose he has a right to be. I told you he wanted to meet me here this afternoon.”

“Did you promise you’d be here?”

“No.”

“Then he has no reason to be mad.”

“He’s—”

“Unreasonable. He sounds it from what you’ve told me. I think you ought to break it off clean and complete, Chris.”

“I know. I intend to.”

“That’s all you need is to have word of
that
affair float around headquarters.”

Chris had just gone into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. She returned to the living room and said, “Did I hear what I thought I heard you say?”

Bill had sprawled out on the couch. He lifted his head and said, “What do you mean?”

“Something about—come on, Bill, you make it sound as though I have seven affairs going at once in the bureau.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“It sure sounded it. ‘Rumors of
that
affair…’ I resent it.”

He went to her, put his hands on her shoulders.
“Hey, don’t go reading things into it. All I was trying to say was—”

“Just try to say it with a little more sensitivity.” She started to cry and went into the kitchen. He came up behind, wrapped his arms around her, and gently rocked her back and forth, his lips to her neck. “I love you,” he said.

“And I love you, too, damn it.”

He turned her so that their eyes met. “Don’t damn it, Chris. It’s right.”

“I don’t know what’s right anymore. I’m tired.”

“You should be. It was a busy weekend.”

“I’m going to bed,” she said.

“Good idea. I’ll stay with you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“I need to be alone, sort things out, get ready for what’s coming.”

“You make it sound like the apocalypse.”

“Maybe it is.”

He kissed her wet eyes. “Okay, I’ll go. Call me at the hotel if you need anything. I’ll be out tomorrow buying what we need to crash Kneeley’s system. What time do you want to meet up?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. Let me call you in the afternoon.”

His face became serious. “You know, Chris, I haven’t pushed this Kneeley thing for any reasons of my own. I just want to help, and maybe it’ll uncover something useful.”

“I know that,” she said as she walked him to the door. “Bill, I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“You’re tense, Chris, that’s all. It’ll all be over soon. Like I said—”

“Trust me.” She broke into laughter.

“Yeah, trust me. Good night. Get a good night’s sleep.”

“I’ll try. You, too.”

The moment she closed the door behind him she went to the phone, picked it up, and dialed Lizenby’s number. It was either do it then or not at all, and she wanted to get it over with. She was relieved when there was no answer.

Bill Tse-ay looked up and down the street in front of her building in search of a cab. He started walking to the corner, which was at the intersection of another small, quiet street, didn’t find a cab there, and headed toward what looked like a busy avenue. Chris’s street was dark and lonely. A heavy fog had drifted into Washington, which turned the few street lamps into shrouded balls of soft light. He paused because he thought he heard—sensed, actually—that there was someone sharing the street with him, behind him, footsteps barely audible, no real sound, just a presence. He glanced over his right shoulder, saw nothing, and took a few more steps.

Now, the footsteps were loud and deliberate, feet closing ground. Bill swung around just in time to catch the full force of a fist wrapped around a roll of dimes. His world became brilliant pinpoints of searing white light, a deafening roar, and a rush of pain. He slumped to the ground, one hand instinctively pressing his shattered left cheekbone. Blood oozed from his left eye and through his fingers as his head hit the red brick sidewalk.

His assailant quickly grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him into a clump of bushes surrounding a sedate Georgetown town house. He held Bill’s battered face off the ground with his left hand, brought back his right—the one holding the rolled dimes—and hit him again, this time smashing his nose flat against his face. He let go; Bill’s head thumped to the soft dirt.

***

Chris tried Ross Lizenby two more times without success. She called Bill at the Gralyn. He hadn’t returned yet. “Message?” the operator asked. “No,” said Chris. “I’ll try him again tomorrow.”

She climbed into bed wishing she hadn’t asked him to leave.

***

Bill managed to crawl just far enough to be visible from the street. A late-night dog walker discovered him at three
A.M.
and called the police.

An ambulance rushed him to Doctor’s Hospital, where, after a quick evaluation in the emergency room, he was wheeled into surgery to relieve a blood clot on the right side of his brain.

“He’ll make it,” one of the surgeons said to a police officer after Bill had been taken to Intensive Care. “Could be impairment, though. Did you notify family?”

“We’re trying. He publishes
Native American Times
, the Indian newspaper. According to what was in his wallet, he lives on a reservation in Arizona.”

“It’ll be a while before he publishes anything,”
the surgeon said. “Whoever did it sure as hell didn’t like him. Couldn’t have hit him more perfectly to have done that kind of damage.”

“It was robbery,” the officer said. “Credit cards and cash gone. At least they left the identifying papers.”

“What was he doing in Washington?”

“Beats me, doc.”

Saksis went with trepidation to her office in the Hoover Building the next morning. She couldn’t decide what she feared most—the certain confrontation with Ross Lizenby, facing the ramifications of the rumor about her affair with George Pritchard, or putting into reality the plans to crash Richard Kneeley’s transmission of material to Sutherland House. Probably all three, she thought as she hung up her coat, poured coffee from the Ranger pot, and settled behind her desk.

There was a neat pile of memos that hadn’t been there when she’d left on Saturday. One of the secretaries was obsessively organized. Pencils were always sharpened and lined up in strict formation, note pads had a clean sheet on top, and telephone message slips were arranged in order of the time they were received, the most recent on the bottom.

There was something else on the desk that hadn’t been there Friday, a greeting card—size envelope with the name
Christine
written on it. She picked it up and recognized Lizenby’s handwriting. Her hands trembled as she carefully opened the sealed envelope and removed a piece of yellow paper that was folded in half. She read the terse, typewritten message:

It wasn’t signed.

She went through myriad emotions within seconds—burning tears, panic, wonderment, then anger. She went to the secretary’s desk and asked in a voice barely controlled, “Where is Mr. Lizenby?”

“He’s gone, Miss Saksis. Didn’t you hear?”

“No. Gone where?”

“Special assignment. That’s all I know.”

She looked in on Jake Stein, who was having coffee with Joe Perone. “I just heard Ross is gone on special assignment.”

Perone looked up from his newspaper. “Yeah, I heard that, too. Where’d they send him?”

“You don’t know?” Saksis said.

Stein and Perone shook their heads. “Why do you think we would?” Stein asked.

“I don’t know, I just thought that—”

Perone laughed and tossed the paper on his desk.
“Come on, Chris, you know how it works around here. Nobody ever talks about where the Unkempts go.”

“Did you see him before he left?” she asked.

“No,” they said in unison.

“What about Ranger?”

The two men looked at each other before Perone said, “Jake’s been put in charge.”

“You have, Jake? I didn’t hear about it.”

Stein sighed and crossed his legs. “I just heard about it over the weekend. But don’t view it as a big deal. I’m in charge of folding it up.”

Saksis wanted to turn and run. It was obvious that they’d heard about the accusation that she’d slept with Pritchard, and equally obvious that she’d been relieved of her temporary job overseeing Ranger because of it. Stein and Perone were openly uncomfortable talking to her. She resented that most. She slammed the door and said, “What’s going on here? Ross leaves on ‘special assignment,’ I’m pulled off Ranger without being told, and you say it’s being folded. Why?”

“Why what?” Stein asked.

“Why everything?”

“Look Chris,” Stein said, getting up and leaning against a ledge that housed the air conditioning, “nobody wants to hurt you. Get that straight.”

Saksis directed a stream of air at a strand of hair that had fallen over her face. She looked up at the ceiling and said, “Somebody’s doing a damn fine job of it.”

“What did you expect?” Stein asked.

She glared at him. “What do you mean?”

“Chris, I’m a great believer in people living their
own lives, getting it off any way they want behind closed doors, but when you start playing around here in the bureau, you—well, goddamn it, you ask for trouble.”

She took a few steps toward him, stopped, and pointed a finger in his direction. “You mean the lie about me and George Pritchard.”

Stein shook his head and looked away.

She looked at Perone. “It’s a lie, Joe, a vicious lie intended to hurt me.”

“Yeah, I know, Chris.”

“It
is
.”

Stein said, “It doesn’t matter, Chris. It’s all over the building.”

“But—”

“And hooking up with Ross didn’t help matters.”

“I never—”

“That’s a lie, too?”

She looked at the floor. “No.” She asked, “Did Ross talk to you about it?”

“Not really,” said Perone.

“What the hell does ‘not really’ mean?”

“He—forget it, Chris. Ranger’s going out of business, Ross is assigned somewhere else, and we can all get back to the routine.”