arms and kissed her with an urgency to which she readily responded. “I love you,” he said.
He’d said it before, very early in their relationship, but hadn’t for a while. The first time he’d said it she found it strange, unsettling. They’d only been out together twice, a concert and dinner, and a party for a friend who’d retired from the Interior Department. It was so premature, and it caused her to wonder at his stability. But those doubts quickly dissipated and she enjoyed hearing him speak those words to her. Now, after a period of time during which they’d not been said, she reveled in hearing them again, and returned the kiss with equal fervor.
“See you in the office,” he said. “Have anything on for tomorrow night?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What?”
She would question herself all the way home why she lied to him. She had her reasons—not wanting to break the pleasant mood of the evening, not wanting to upset him—but none of it served to justify her actions. She told him that she was getting together with a college friend.
“Who?” he asked.
“Oh, you don’t know her. Her name is Laurie.”
“Well, have fun. See you in the morning.”
She didn’t see the hardness return to his face as she drove off. All she knew was that she’d been stupid to lie to—to a man with whom she’d fallen in love.
She called him when she got home to tell him the truth, but there was no answer. She tried a few more times, the last call at one in the morning. He wasn’t home.
By the time she arrived at the office the next day, the compulsion to correct the lie was gone. Maybe it was better to let it go, chalk it up as a prudent white lie that could be corrected later on, in the proper setting and when the mood was conducive. There was also a parallel resentment that had developed by the time she awoke that morning. The reason she’d lied was that he’d established an atmosphere in which the truth—that kind of truth—was unacceptable.
They’d have to talk about that one day soon.
12
Saksis spent the morning analyzing the results of calls around the country to exchanges with the first three numbers listed next to R.K. in Pritchard’s phone book. It didn’t turn up much—most calls reached housewives or small businesses. There was one, however, that interested her, the Hotel Inter-Continental in New York City.
She called, was put through to an assistant manager, and asked whether a Raymond Kane had recently been a guest. He had not. Saksis asked whether their computers could run a program in which all guests with the initials R.K. would be highlighted. “Of course,” she was told. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon.”
The return call came in at four. The assistant manager expressed some concern at releasing guest information. Saksis said she understood but explainedthat this was a murder investigation and that a subpoena could be issued. The assistant manager said that they saw no need for that and were happy to cooperate with the FBI.
The list contained about fifty names, with addresses, phone numbers, and the occupation or business affiliation that had been listed on the sign-in card. It covered all registrations over the past six months, but Saksis was assured that if it became necessary to go back farther, that could be accomplished, too.
She had Barbara Twain run the names through the bureau’s central computer. As she waited for the results, she dwelled on one name that was familiar to her, Richard Kneeley, a best-selling author of nonfiction books, most of which dealt with esposés of government agencies. He’d written one a few years ago based on secret documents from the Defense Department that were extremely damaging to its secret program of arming rebel armies in Africa. Kneeley had made the talk-show rounds, and Saksis remembered seeing him on the Cable News Network’s “Sandy Freeman Reports.” She’d been impressed. Kneeley was a smooth, confident journalist, about
He’d said it before, very early in their relationship, but hadn’t for a while. The first time he’d said it she found it strange, unsettling. They’d only been out together twice, a concert and dinner, and a party for a friend who’d retired from the Interior Department. It was so premature, and it caused her to wonder at his stability. But those doubts quickly dissipated and she enjoyed hearing him speak those words to her. Now, after a period of time during which they’d not been said, she reveled in hearing them again, and returned the kiss with equal fervor.
“See you in the office,” he said. “Have anything on for tomorrow night?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What?”
She would question herself all the way home why she lied to him. She had her reasons—not wanting to break the pleasant mood of the evening, not wanting to upset him—but none of it served to justify her actions. She told him that she was getting together with a college friend.
“Who?” he asked.
“Oh, you don’t know her. Her name is Laurie.”
“Well, have fun. See you in the morning.”
She didn’t see the hardness return to his face as she drove off. All she knew was that she’d been stupid to lie to—to a man with whom she’d fallen in love.
She called him when she got home to tell him the truth, but there was no answer. She tried a few more times, the last call at one in the morning. He wasn’t home.
By the time she arrived at the office the next day, the compulsion to correct the lie was gone. Maybe it was better to let it go, chalk it up as a prudent white lie that could be corrected later on, in the proper setting and when the mood was conducive. There was also a parallel resentment that had developed by the time she awoke that morning. The reason she’d lied was that he’d established an atmosphere in which the truth—that kind of truth—was unacceptable.
They’d have to talk about that one day soon.
12
Saksis spent the morning analyzing the results of calls around the country to exchanges with the first three numbers listed next to R.K. in Pritchard’s phone book. It didn’t turn up much—most calls reached housewives or small businesses. There was one, however, that interested her, the Hotel Inter-Continental in New York City.
She called, was put through to an assistant manager, and asked whether a Raymond Kane had recently been a guest. He had not. Saksis asked whether their computers could run a program in which all guests with the initials R.K. would be highlighted. “Of course,” she was told. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon.”
The return call came in at four. The assistant manager expressed some concern at releasing guest information. Saksis said she understood but explainedthat this was a murder investigation and that a subpoena could be issued. The assistant manager said that they saw no need for that and were happy to cooperate with the FBI.
The list contained about fifty names, with addresses, phone numbers, and the occupation or business affiliation that had been listed on the sign-in card. It covered all registrations over the past six months, but Saksis was assured that if it became necessary to go back farther, that could be accomplished, too.
She had Barbara Twain run the names through the bureau’s central computer. As she waited for the results, she dwelled on one name that was familiar to her, Richard Kneeley, a best-selling author of nonfiction books, most of which dealt with esposés of government agencies. He’d written one a few years ago based on secret documents from the Defense Department that were extremely damaging to its secret program of arming rebel armies in Africa. Kneeley had made the talk-show rounds, and Saksis remembered seeing him on the Cable News Network’s “Sandy Freeman Reports.” She’d been impressed. Kneeley was a smooth, confident journalist, about
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