Murder at the FBI by Margaret Truman Page B

let’s hope not. Had lunch?”
    “No.”
    “Why don’t you take a half hour and skim what’s in the folders. I’ll pick you up and we’ll grab something.”
    In the brief time she had, Saksis focused on records of Pritchard’s days as a student. At that time, the academy at Quantico didn’t exist. Training took place in Washington’s Old Post Office Building, in the Justice Department, and at scattered sites around the area. She was surprised to see how the training had changed over the years. In Pritchard’s student days the course material was limited. Every time there was a new technological advance, it was incorporated into the curriculum. Still, some things stayed the same, especially in the areas of firearms and physical conditioning. Pritchard had been good with weapons, not great but respectable. He’d barely managed to pass the fitness requirements, was top of his class in courses dealing with psychology and covert activity, and did well in the investigative techniques program.
    There were negative notes in his file. One had to do with his dress, which the critic felt was not up to bureau standards. Too, he’d been criticized fordisplaying a tendency to follow an individualistic path at times, and to be too outspoken.
    It all fits, Saksis thought.
    Croft returned and they went to the dining room.
    “Interesting?” Croft asked after they’d been served chef salads.
    “Yes, of course, but I feel guilty peeking into another agent’s file.”
    “Never happens except under these circumstances. He was an interesting guy, Pritchard, a real loner, which got him in occasional trouble. Never seemed to be comfortable on the team.”
    Being in the dining room and eating a chef salad brought back many pleasant memories. It had been her favorite thing on the menu when she was a student. Usually, she ate in the cafeteria, but once a week she’d splurge at a local restaurant. She smiled. “I enjoyed the training,” she said.
    “You must have,” Croft said. “You excelled. I have an idea.”
    “Yes?”
    “We have an instructor here named Joe Carter.”
    “I remember him,” Saksis said. “He taught investigative techniques.”
    “Right. Joe’s one of our best at the academy. He’s almost got his Ph.D. in psychology, really knows his stuff. The reason I bring him up is that he was a classmate of Pritchard’s during training. I think Joe is the only one who ever got really close to Pritchard. You might gain some insight from him.”
    “I’d love to talk to him.”
    “I told him you were coming today. He had tobe in Washington for a briefing but said he’d be free tonight if you wanted to catch up with him.”
    “I’ll make a point of it.”
    “Good. I’ll get a hold of him. Want to meet at headquarters?”
    Saksis started to say yes, then shook her head. “No, I think it’s better to keep these interviews out of headquarters. Like you said, stay away from the phones.”
    “Got a suggestion?”
    “Depends on what he likes to eat. I’ve been dying for Chinese all week.”
    “I’m sure that will be fine with Joe.”
    “Okay, tell him to meet me at Ted Liu’s, on Twentieth, Northwest.”
    “Good. He said he’d be free by six.”
    “Six it is.”
    Chris stayed at the academy until four going through Pritchard’s files. Then she drove to her apartment, changed into a plain taupe jersey dress, and reached Ted Liu’s at 5:45. Joe Carter arrived at six straight up. They had a drink at the bar, then were ushered to a teal blue banquette where the table was set in pink.
    “I’ve never been here before,” said Carter. “Doesn’t look like a Chinese restaurant.”
    Saksis laughed. “No red dragons here. I like it.”
    They ordered Hunan beef cooked with fresh ginger and pepper, and jumbo shrimp grilled in their shells and served with scallions, cashews, and a spicy tomato sauce.
    “I couldn’t believe it when I heard about George’s death,” Carter said. He was a short, stocky man with