investigators. He got a fresh cup of coffee from across the hall and waited for them sitting at his desk. When they filed in, all of them expecting a bombshell since they never had been called in as a group before, they all stood around the walls, none of them wanting to take any of the three chairs in front of Graver’s desk. So Graver stood too, and repeated the story of Arthur Tisler’s death for the fourth time.
Chapter 11
“We’ve got a lot to do and very little time,” Graver said, putting his hand on the stack of manila folders. He was leaning against the front of his desk, and the three people he had just called into his office wore grim expressions.
Dean Burtell was sitting in the chair nearest the windows, and despite a fresh shave and his predictably neat appearance, his normally bright personality was nowhere in sight. He was glum and the loss of sleep had changed the appearance of his face. Earlier Graver had spoken to him briefly about his visit with Peggy Tisler. She had been understandably distraught, and Dean and Ginny had stayed with her all night They had called her family in Corpus Christi, and they had arrived in Houston near dawn just in time for Dean and Ginny to go home, shower, and go to work. Still, something more than the loss of sleep seemed to be at work in Burtell’s demeanor.
Graver looked at him, and then looked out through the windows where the morning’s smutty Gulf clouds were drifting rapidly inland, forming a muted backdrop for the downtown skyline. The southeastern exposure of Graver’s corner office gave him a sweeping view of the city’s western face. It was the only felicitous attribute this grim little building offered. The traffic on the expressway rumbled by in deep undertones that at times Graver actually could feel.
“I’ve already pulled all of Tisler’s folders. You’re going to work with the hard copies at this point because I want you to be able to see the original documents in case there’s a handwritten marginal notation, a check mark in the text, anything that might catch your eye.”
Next to Burtell, sitting a little farther back from Graver, was Paula Sale, the second person Graver had pulled from Rostov’s R amp;A Squad. Thirty-six years old, she had a doctorate in sociology from Rice University and was one of four civilians Graver had managed to bring into the Division despite Westrate’s objections. She had turned out to be a brilliant analyst Right now she sat with one long leg crossed over the other, one hand holding a cup of coffee she rested on her knee. She was staring at him with critical, gray eyes as she tried to read between the lines. Paula wore her light chestnut hair with a blunt cut just above her shoulders. Straight, no permanent. She favored shirtwaist dresses which she wore with an unexpected panache. She liked bracelets. Divorced for three years, she could be abrasive to men who showed an interest in her. She most decidedly was not interested in men. Graver sometimes wondered if there wasn’t more than a small degree of perversity in her rather forward sexuality and the way she bristled at men who reacted so predictably to it.
“Unfortunately we’re not looking for anything specific,” he continued. “Nothing that could narrow this down for us. There’s just a single fact: Arthur’s dead: and a single question: Is there anything in the files that speaks to that? I want you to come up with more questions, a lot of questions. Anything. Everything. I don’t care how tenuous they are, if they make any connection at all in your mind, bring them forward for discussion.”
Casey Neuman sat near the door. He was the youngest investigator in Besom’s OC Squad. Innovative and a quick study, Neuman never had to be told anything twice and most of the time never had to be told anything at all. He was an anticipator, he could see things coming-an invaluable asset. With a shock of thick, light brown hair that he wore boyishly long, Casey favored plaid or tatter-sall shirts with button-down collars that he never buttoned and khaki suits or the odd sport coat with casual trousers. Though he was quiet, he was a born mimic and liked nothing more than having to change his appearance or take on a role to collect information. He was one of the few men the waspish Paula got along with without some kind of sparing tension. Maybe it was because he was young and boyish, or maybe it was because he never reacted to her acidic tongue with anything other than an openly amused smile. She never got a rise out of Casey.
“I’m going to give Paula the four investigations Tisler was working with you, Dean,” Graver said, picking up the largest stack of manila folders and stepping over to Paula. She uncrossed her legs and lifted her coffee mug to let Graver set the stack on top of her legs.
This was standard, good management, and everyone there knew it, but everyone also knew that on a personal basis it was awkward. Burtell had already told Graver that he couldn’t think of anything in Tisler’s investigations that might relate to his death, and now Paula was going to be second-guessing him. She was going to have to ask questions that could easily seem like caviling to Burtell. They each understood, and each of them wanted to be responsibly dispassionate.
Graver took the other stack from his desk and handed them to Burtell. “You take the other four, Dean. They’re equally divided between Rankin and Derr. They’re the only other analysts Tisler’s worked with besides yourself. But I don’t want you to talk to them about this.”
Burtell accepted the folders and nodded. Graver’s attention lingered hesitantly on him, and then he turned to Neuman. “Okay, Casey, I want you to work up Arthur just as you would any other new target Start at the beginning. Run everything. Don’t let anything slide, don’t make any assumptions.”
He paused. Casey and Paula were looking at him with fixed, sober expressions, still trying to absorb the news they had received less than an hour ago.
“This might seem a little distasteful,” Graver acknowledged, “but we’re going to do it. We’ve got to pick him apart.”
“You don’t know… anything, do you?” Paula interjected.
Though it might have sounded accusatory, it was asked with the kind of affrontive inquiry that was sterling Paula. She knew her place; she knew about hierarchy, but she also possessed an artless honesty and self-assurance that had a leveling effect on all of her relationships. She knew damn well that if he wasn’t telling them something it was for a reason he would not share with them, and that he would have to lie to her and continue withholding it But that was Paula. She wanted to see his face when he said it.
“No,” he said. “I don’t know anything.” He picked up his Charlie Chan mug and sipped his coffee. It was his third cup of the morning, and many more would follow. “Last night they were leaning toward suicide, but that was just an on-the-spot hunch. Maybe later on this morning they’ll have something to back that up. But right now there are no suspicions about anything, nothing to guide us in one direction or the other.”
He stopped a moment and let his eyes drift to the clouds that were breaking a little now, the bright morning sun piercing through to the skyscrapers in brilliant shafts.
“Everyone clear about what we’ve got to do here?” he asked. They all nodded. “If there are any surprises waiting in those folders, or in Tisler’s background, I want to see them coming. Okay?”
Everyone nodded again.
“You want our assessments on each target worked up in reports?” Paula asked.
“No, and that’s a good point. If you think you’ve got something, come to me, let’s talk it through “first.”
He started to dismiss them, then decided he had better underscore the seriousness of their situation. He crossed his arms and sat back on the desk again.
“Obviously if Tisler’s been mishandling the file in some way, this is big trouble,” he said. “Anything we discuss here dies here. I didn’t choose you for this by tossing a coin, but because I thought you could do best what needs to be done.” He hesitated only a second. “You report only to me. Only to me. If you want to talk and I’m not around then keep it to yourself until you find me. There aren’t any other alternatives, no Plan B. Don’t put anything in writing except your notes unless I ask you to. While this is going on I’m available around the clock; it’s never too late, never too early. You’ve got my pager number. Use it That clear?”
It was, and there were no questions.
Chapter 12
Graver had saved two aspects of Tisler’s life for himself: his personnel file and his contributor documents. He
