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ever worked with George Pritchard can be said to have had a motive to kill him. Right?”
    “Well, he didn’t top the good-guy list, but you don’t go around murdering an FBI agent because he rubs you the wrong way,” Perone said.
    “You do if you’re crazy,” Stein said, replacing his glasses on his nose. “Who on that list doesn’t play with a full deck?”
    “Perry Prince is evaluating the names on it,” Lizenby said, “on the off chance there’s an obvious wacko. But that’s unlikely. Let’s split up the names and see if anybody jumps off the page based on what we know, or have heard.”
    Stein said, “What could we know about them, Ross? They’re not FBI. Who are they?”
    “We know some of them,” Chris Saksis said. “They’ve been around a while—the ones in training here, regular contacts who were in the building.”
    “What about the other list?” Perone asked.
    “FBI personnel?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Forget it,” Lizenby said. “Right now Gormley wants suspects who aren’t bureau people. Let’s not complicate this more than we have to.”
    Stein leaned back and did an isometric exercise with his hands. “I assume we’re cross-checking names with .22 pistol permits.”
    Lizenby looked at Saksis. “We’ll get to that as soon as we have the names and backgrounds coded,” she said. “There’s also a list of people on the sign-in sheets who came here that day to see George. That’s probably the best place to start building a list for Gormley.”
    “What about his family?” Stein asked. “He was married, wasn’t he?”
    “Yeah,” said Lizenby. “Her name’s Helen. She lives out in Arlington with their daughter.”
    “Who’s talked to her?” Perone asked.
    “I don’t know. Gormley said a team had been sent out as soon as we knew it was George, but I haven’t had any feedback. I thought you might go see her, Chris.”
    “All right.”
    Lizenby stood and stretched. “Dr. Okawa’s working with Forensics on further studies of the body. Again, let me stress that no one is to discuss this with anyone outside this special unit. No excuses, no reasons for breaking the blackout. Let’s meet here at eight Monday morning.”
    Saksis followed Lizenby into the reception area, where the TV was now alive with a sit-com. Lizenby snapped it off.
    “You going home?” she asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “I’ll go see Helen Pritchard first thing Monday.”
    “Good. I’d tell you what I know about his personal life, but I’d rather you start clean. Fill me in when you get back.”
    “Sure. Ross, I talked to Gormley about getting off this.”
    “What’d he say?”
    “He said what you said he’d say, that he’s not interested in my personal needs.”
    Lizenby smiled. He stepped close and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t sweat it. It’ll all work—be over before we know it.” He felt a sudden rush of desire. “Want to come over?” he asked.
    “No, not tonight. I’m beat, have all sorts of things to do, starting with paying my bills.”
    “I’ll see you Monday then.”
    ***
    Ross Lizenby checked in with the Office of Congressional and Public Affairs on his way out of the building. “Any new guidelines from Assistant Director Gormley?” he asked the special agent on duty.
    “Nope. All press inquiries are on hold until further notice.”
    “They don’t buy the accident story, do they?”
    “Would you?”
    “Sure. It’s the Federal Bureau of Investigation talking. Take it easy.”
    He drove his car, a new silver-blue Toyota Supra, to a telephone booth on a corner in Georgetown. A woman answered. “This is Mr. Adler,” he said. “I’d like to make an appointment.”
    “When?”
    “I’m not far away. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
    “All right.”
    He parked in a fashionable area of Georgetown and climbed a set of steps to an ornate door. A buzzer and a speaker talk-box was set to one side. After buzzing, a woman’s voice crackled through the