Murder at the FBI Read Online Free Page A

in the opera house, an ungodly red structure whose massive Austrian chandelier was considered its most redeeming feature, architecturally and, too often, even musically. The seat backs reached the floor, making it impossible for spectators to stretch their legs. It was Shelton himself who suggested a fund-raiser after having spent a painful evening watching a touring company perform a spirited but agonizingly long version of
Wozzeck
.
    “The press has been interviewing tourists who saw it, at least the aftermath of it. The word
murder
is being used in all reports.”
    Shelton, who’d made the best-dressed list every year since arriving in Washington, fingered the knot in his burgundy silk tie and gently ran his fingers down its length, as though checking for lumps. He was sitting behind his desk and had carefully crossed his legs. The crease in the trousers of his granite-gray British suit, custom-tailored for him by P. A. Crowe of London, was featheredged—looked like it could cut beef. He smiled at Nostrand. “It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?”
    Nostrand, who hadn’t smiled all day, joined the director. It felt good. “Yes, it has, sir,” he said.
    “They’re calling it murder?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “We’re calling it an unfortunate accident, aren’t we?”
    “That’s what we’ve been saying, pending, of course, a fuller investigation.”
    “It will continue to be an accident until further notice.”
    “Yes, sir.” Nostrand had heard scuttlebutt about the autopsy result. Should he ask? He decided not to.
    Shelton stood and offered his hand to Nostrand. “You’ve done a good job. Keep it up.”
    Nostrand stood and eagerly accepted the director’s handshake. “Thank you, sir.”
    “Nothing changes. Simply tell them that it
was
an accident.”
    “All right. But I should mention that the press doesn’t seem to be buying it, sir.”
    Another smile as Shelton came around the desk and slapped Nostrand on the back. “The hell with the press, Mr. Nostrand. The press wants to embarrass the bureau, and we won’t let that happen. Will we?”
    “Absolutely not, sir.”
    Shelton walked him to the door. He said as he poised to open it, “Interesting, isn’t it, that we stand here in a building named for J. Edgar Hoover, a man who certainly was controversial but who built something more lasting and solid than anything any member of the press ever dared dream about. What we have to preserve, Mr. Nostrand, is infinitely more valuable to America than the sale of newspapers.”
    “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Shelton.”
    “Mrs. Shelton and I will be out. Mr. Gormley will be here throughout the night. Please confer with him in the event you have any questions.”
    “Yes, sir. I planned to be here, too.”
    “Fine, fine. Let’s bury this thing and get on with more important business.”
    ***
    Ross Lizenby checked with the forensics lab before meeting with Wayne Gormley at six. Pritchard’s body had been stored in a body-bin freezer. The autopsy, which had been performed in isolation by the lab director, had been sealed. Lizenby asked a question about it and was told it was for Director Shelton and Assistant Director Gormley’s eyes only.
    “I’ve been put in charge of this investigation,” Lizenby said, not trying to disguise the pique in his voice.
    “That may be true, Ross, but I know what I’ve been told. Straighten it out with Gormley.”
    Lizenby brought it up the minute he entered Gormley’s office.
    “Relax,” Gormley said. “It’s better to keep it tight. I’ll fill you in on everything you need to know.”
    “Look,
sir
, I want to make my point again about not wanting this assignment. I didn’t like Pritchard. I enjoyed SPOVAC, but even that got old. I want out of headquarters, and I was promised that.”
    Gormley waved pudgy hands in the air. “I’m tired, Ross, and I didn’t need this, having an agent murdered in this building. I was going on vacation next week. That’s out.