Murder at the FBI Page 19

  “Okay, she did. Why?”

  “She hated him.”

  “Well, frankly, I gathered that your mother and father didn’t have much of a marriage, but lots of wives hate husbands, and vice versa. That doesn’t mean they act it out by killing.”

  “I know that.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So why are we here, Beth? Why did you slip me your phone number and encourage me to call you? I didn’t suggest it, you did.”

  “Because I want the truth about my father told.”

  “And so do I. You say your mom killed him because she hated him. She wouldn’t have had to come into the FBI building late at night to do that. That’s taking a big risk. Why didn’t she just kill him at home, or in a hotel, or—”

  “She didn’t kill him just because they didn’t get along.”

  “She didn’t?”

  Beth leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, and slowly shook her head.

  “Then why?”

  “Because—because of Mr. Kneeley.”

  Saksis started to say something, swallowed it, and looked around the broad plaza. The lovers were still embracing, the little Hispanic kids were being hauled off by their mother, and a pair of New York City cops strolled idly along First Avenue, their attention riveted on the swaying shapely derriere of an attractive young woman wearing a sheer cotton dress.

  “Miss Saksis,” Beth said.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I was daydreaming.”

  Beth looked quizzically at her, and for good reason. To daydream in the midst of such a serious discussion was—

  Saksis smiled. “I was thinking about what you just said.”

  “About Mr. Kneeley?”

  “Yes. He’s the author, isn’t he?”

  Beth nodded. “He’s writing a book about the FBI.”

  “Is he? Is it a serious book?”

  “I guess so. That’s what he writes, isn’t it?”

  “So I understand. Was your father working with him on the book?”

  “No. My mother was.”

  “Your mother?” It was becoming a morning of one surprise after another. She asked Beth to elaborate.

  Beth hesitated, then said, “Can I trust you?”

  “I hope so. We’re here because you wanted to be, and you’ve already told me a lot. Yes, Beth, you can trust me, but you also know I have to do my job.”

  “Arrest who killed my father.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Even if it’s my mother.”

  Saksis felt intensely awkward as she said, “Yes, even then.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes until Beth again brought up the subject of her father’s murder. “My father kept secret notes on everything he worked on, every case, every person he knew. He told me once that maybe he’d write a book when he was retired, but I don’t know if he ever would have. I guess I’ll never know.”

  “Where did he keep the notes?” Chris asked.

  “I don’t know, but sometimes, when he was home, he’d have them with him to work on. I read some of them once.”

  “You did? What were they like?”

  “My dad was a good writer. I wish he did write a book. It would have been good.”

  “I’m sure it would have.”

  “He had notebooks filled up. He printed very small. It almost looked like it was typed. Do you know what I mean? It was so neat, just like him.”

  Saksis could sense emotion building inside the girl and felt bad for her. Still, she wasn’t about to interrupt, break the spell, lose whatever revelations might come next.

  “He had other stuff, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Papers, copies of hundreds of papers, letters to different people in the FBI, memos, notes from meetings.”

  “They sound important,” Saksis said.

  “I guess they were. A lot of them had Secret stamped on them.”

  “I’m surprised he left them around for you to see.”

  “Oh, he didn’t. It was an accident. When he was home—that wasn’t often—he and Mom didn’t sleep together. He had his own room, and he had a big safe in there. Sometimes he’d lock the door and just sit in there for a whole weekend working on things. Then, he’d pack it up and leave on Sunday night.”

  “How did you get to read his notes?”

  “I didn’t read many of them, just a couple of folders that he left in his room one Saturday. Mom was out, and he got a phone call from somebody. He told me he had to meet somebody in a big hurry and left. I went into his room. I guess he thought he’d put everything into the safe, but there were these two folders that he must have forgot, Anyway, I read them. I didn’t understand a lot of it, but I knew they were important. I was afraid he’d know I read them so I made sure they were just where I found them when he came home. He asked me about them, but I said I wasn’t in his room.”

  “Beth, I have to ask you this. You said that your mother killed your father, and it was because of Richard Kneeley. Why do you say that?”

  “My mother knew all about my father’s diaries and papers, and she got a hold of them one day.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I just heard them fighting about it one night. That was when he was home more and had everything there. I don’t think she stole them or anything, only maybe she did. She would.”

  Beth’s voice was cold and bitter. “My dad used to talk to her more, at least back then, and I know he told her some of the stories. He was so secret about everything he did, but he would talk to her, I guess because she was his wife.”

  “That’s very common.”

  “Sure it is, only she wasn’t the one he should have trusted.” She looked up at Saksis and said, “I hate my mother, Miss Saksis. I really hate her.”

  “I’m sorry. That must be a horrible feeling.”

  “It used to be until—well, until she did to him what she did.”

  “Killed him?”

  “Even more than that, things she did before, like stealing all his notes and papers and selling them to Mr. Kneeley.”

  “Are you sure she did that?”

  “Yes. I heard all the fights about it. Mom wanted more money, always wanted more than Dad had, and she forced him to do things to get it.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I don’t know, tell people what he knew for money. It made him so sad all the time, and mad.”

  “And you say your mother sold his secret notes and papers to Richard Kneeley so he could write a book about them?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know how much Kneeley paid?”

  Beth shook her head.

  “And your father was against it?”

  “Yes, only he was afraid. My mother told him that if he did anything to get in the way she’d tell the FBI all about his notes and papers, and the FBI would think he sold them to Mr. Kneeley.”

  Saksis thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t doubt this is all true, Beth, but it doesn’t mean that your mother killed him.”

  The girl became animated. “Yes, it does,” she said. “Why would she go there that night and then lie to you?”

  “I don’t know, maybe—”

  “She had a gun.”

  “She told me it was stolen a long time ago.”

  “Another lie. She lies all the time.”

  Saksis leaned closer to her and said, “Tell me why she killed him, Beth.”

  “Because—I think because he was going to go to the FBI and tell them what she’d done.”

  “You think.”

  “I don’t know for certain, but I know she was there that night, and had the gun, and—”

  “And—”

  “And threatened him with it.”

  “At home?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “About a week before she did it.”

  “You heard the threat?”

  “Yes. They thought
I was asleep.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that if he did anything to stop her deal—or arrangement, or whatever she called it—with Richard Kneeley, she’d kill him first before ever allowing that to happen.”

  “Let’s go,” Saksis said. They slowly walked back in the direction of the hotel. “Beth, tell me exactly what happened the night your father died.”

  “She went to his office to kill him.”

  “She said that?”

  “No, of course not, but—you don’t believe me, do you?”

  “Of course I do, but you have to understand that I can’t accuse your mother unless I have something tangible to go on, some proof, some definite testimony. Did you ever hear your mother say she killed your father?”

  “Why would she do that?” The girl was becoming increasingly angry, and confused. She started to walk faster, as though she were suddenly anxious to get away.

  “Beth,” Saksis said.

  The girl took a few more steps, realized Saksis was no longer with her, and stopped. She turned and glared, her cheeks stained from tears, her mouth set against an outpouring of them.

  “I believe you,” Saksis said, closing the gap between them. “I really do, Beth, but please try to understand the position I’m in.”

  “You don’t care, do you?”

  “Care?”

  “About my father.”

  “Of course I do. I didn’t know him very well, but I was shocked at what happened and—”

  “I loved my father very much.” She started to shake, and her voice became higher and louder. “I loved him and she took him away. I hate her, hate her, hate her.” She slapped her hand against a wall, then leaned against it and wept openly.

  Saksis wrapped her arms around Beth. “Take it easy,” she said, “everything’s going to be all right.”

  “I want you to believe me. She killed him.”

  “I know, and we’ll make it right. Believe me, I’ll do what’s best.”

  Beth eventually gained control. Saksis handed her a Kleenex from her pocket and the girl wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Thanks,” she said.

  They reached the hotel. “Want a cold drink?” Saksis asked as they stood in the lobby peering into the bird cage.

  “No, thanks. I’m really sorry I acted like such a jerk.”

  “You didn’t do anything of the kind. I’m glad you had enough faith to confide in me.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I’m not quite sure, but there are some other aspects of the investigation that can be combined with what you’ve told me. I suggest you not mention getting together with me to anyone. No one, Beth.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “I don’t know, probably with some guy.”

  Chris Saksis thought her heart would break. She put an arm around the teenager and said, “Sometimes, we have to go through hard times before we enjoy the easy ones.”

  A slight smile came to Beth’s face. “That’s what my father used to say.”

  They walked to the lobby door. “What will you do for the rest of the day?” Saksis asked.

  Beth shrugged. “Hang around, go to the Village.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will. How about you?”

  “Well, I have to meet someone in about an hour. He’s working on the case, too, and maybe between us we’ll find some evidence to support what you’ve told me.”

  “I hope so.”

  Saksis wanted very much to show Beth the photograph of Rosemary Cale, but she decided there really wasn’t much to be gained from it. She kissed her on the cheek and said, “Keep that pretty chin up, Beth. You’re a good person.”

  “So are you, Miss Saksis. Thanks for breakfast.” Her eyes filled up again. “God, I feel like I have a big sister.”

  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.”

  23

  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.”