Graver didn’t say anything for a second.
“Do you think they picked you up?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“What about the audio?”
“They worked on it late last night, but when they quit just after two o’clock, they hadn’t recovered anything.”
“Do you mean ‘not much’ or ‘anything’?”
“I mean zip. Nothing.”
“And Tisler’s tapes?”
“Nothing. I told you those could be hard to crack. Again it’s the technology. It’s a two-way street The computer chip has made it easier for us to maneuver through the mazes of cryptography, but at the same time it’s made it easier for the other side to design ever more complex ciphers too. It’s a constant struggle of one-upmanship. Sometimes they’re ahead of us; sometimes we’re ahead of them. It’s a toss-up.”
Graver sipped the last of his coffee. It was too cold to drink. He looked at the pictures scattered in front of him. He looked at Burtell, standing in profile facing the unknown man under one of the Roman arches with the waterfall shimmering behind him.
“He looks pretty calm, doesn’t he,” he said.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact I thought so too. They said last night he seemed completely relaxed. Do you think he knew about Besom when these were taken?”
“I hope not,” Graver said. “I really hope not.”
Arnette sipped her coffee too, waiting for him.
“Westrate was beside himself last night,” Graver said, idly matching up the corners of several photographs. “He’s thinking conspiracy; he’s thinking corruption, but he doesn’t want to be the first one to say it I’m guessing that’s the way they’re all going to react, the administration. The emperor’s new clothes will be greatly admired.”
“What do you expect? Hell, take advantage of it While they flap around in confusion, push ahead. It’s got to be done, and by the time they get around to realizing that you’ll be way out front It’s going to put you ahead in more ways than one.”
Graver pushed away the photographs. “I don’t see much here,” he said. “Am I missing something?”
“No, I don’t see much either. But the countersurveillance makes me think Dean’s dealing with people who are bigger than local racket operators.”
“Why?”
Arnette shook her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Marcus, it’s just a guess at this point The appearance of the older man. Where he chose to meet The way the countersurveillance went about its business. This is very slick stuff.” She set aside her coffee and started gathering up the photographs. “Look, we’ve been on this less than eighteen hours. There’s a lot to work with. Give us some breathing room.”
Graver nodded, and got up. “Thanks, Arnette.”
“What are you coming up with on your end?”
“We got some leads last night, some names. Today we’ll start running them down.”
“Look, when it begins to open up let us help,” she said, putting the photographs back into the envelope. “We’ll plug in the names on this end too.” She stood. “It’s too soon to get down about it, baby. You could be in for a long haul on this one. Get used to it.”
Chapter 38
When Graver got back to the office it was twenty minutes after nine. The receptionist was on the telephone as he passed her, and as he turned into the hallway to his office he caught Lara’s eye just as she was concluding a telephone conversation as well. She raised her eyebrows and lifted her chin to stop him, and he stepped into her office as she was putting down the telephone.
“Nancy from Chief Hertig’s office just called a couple of minutes ago,” she said, writing something down as she spoke. “He wants to see you in his office as soon as you come in. She said to call before you started over.”
“Jesus.”
“And Paula wants to talk to you.”
“Is that urgent?”
“She was standing here when Nancy called. She said she’d get back to you after that.”
“Okay, fine. Call Nancy back and tell her I’m on my way.” He turned around to walk out, paused, and turned back. “Listen, I appreciate last night,” he said.
“My pleasure.” She smiled. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Some. How about you?”
“Slept like a rock,” she said “There just wasn’t enough of the night left.”
He grinned, nodded, and walked out, leaving the CID without even having gone into his office.
When Graver finally got over to the Administration Building and up to Hertig’s office, he was not surprised to find that Hertig was not alone. Westrate was there looking as though he might have slept two hours the night before, and so was Ward Lukens. When Graver walked in Westrate and Lukens turned and looked at him from their chairs in front of Hertig’s desk, but neither of them spoke or moved. It was clear they were both smoldering, and Graver guessed a considerable amount of heated conversation had preceded his arrival.
“Good morning, Marcus,” Hertig said, smiling good-naturedly. He stood and came around from behind his desk extending his hand. The desk was a massive thing with an impressive telephone system taking up one side of it along with stacks of folders spilling papers, pictures of family, and a framed shield which Graver assumed was from his days as a detective. Behind him was a matching credenza so laden with awards and plaques and city seals and photographs of the chief with various people that it hardly was any use at all as a work space, though there was a stack of spiral-bound reports with colored covers, the sort of things that proliferated unstintingly in all kinds of government offices as proof and justification of employment.
They shook hands.
“Sit down,” Hertig said, gesturing to a chair to the side of his desk, near Westrate. Hertig was one of those rare birds, a man of sixty-two who actually had a law degree when he joined the police force in the late 1950s. He even had left the force for a while, practiced law, and then came back and eventually became chief. He was tall and lanky, a good-looking man with graying ginger hair and pale blue eyes whose appearance seemed more to suggest perhaps an academician rather than a law enforcement officer. He had been around a long time and knew very well the kind of rivalries that drove men like the two sitting in front of him.
“We’ve been talking about Besom,” he said, getting right to the point as he returned to his chair and sa down. “Actually about Tisler and Besom.”
“Look, I haven’t even had a chance yet to sit down a my desk this morning,” Graver interrupted. “Does any body in my office know about this yet?”
Hertig looked at Westrate.
Westrate shook his head.
“Late last night,” Hertig resumed, “Besom’s bod was flown back to Houston, and at four-thirty this morning he was re-autopsied here as had been suggested.”
“Who did the autopsy?” Graver interrupted again.
Hertig paused. “Stern.”
Clay Stern was the Chief Medical Examiner. It would have been done right.
“He confirmed the results of the Brownsville coroner’s findings,” Hertig continued. “Essentially a heart al tack. Apparently, according to Mrs. Besom and Besom’ own medical records, he had no history of heart trouble As it turns out, he had a condition physicians refer to as; ‘widow maker.’ Doesn’t give any warning signs. No symp toms and therefore no suspicions.” He snapped his fingers. “Then it gets you.”
Hertig nodded at his own explanation, and for a moment his blue eyes lost their focus. He put his hands or the arms of his chair. He pursed his lips, his head tilte forward in thought Then he reached out and picked u] some papers.
“We’ve all read your report on Arthur Tisler, and what we’ve got here is a differing of opinions,” Hertig said.
Graver looked at Westrate and Lukens. Both mer had fixed their eyes on Hertig like spaniels. Graver suspected they were watching him for any indication of tilte one way or the other, however subtle, however slight Ward Lukens was a couple of years older than Westrate and about half as heavy. He had thick, wiry brown hair wore unimaginative steel-rimmed glasses, and was so lacking in personality that Graver found him difficult to talk to. He was an honest man, however, and a stickler for rules, though these attributes were somewhat diminished by his maddening self-righteousness, and all of which made him the natural enemy of the conniving Westrate. Graver guessed that Hertig would have liked to strangle them both.