seemed less desirable than knowing where Burtell had been for those five hours.
A young Asian woman with a masculine haircut and wearing a man’s undershirt and lace, spandex leggings came out of the next room and walked up behind the blonde, who handed the two tapes back over her head without looking around. The Asian took the tapes, looked at Graver, and walked away. She was wearing a single, red plastic earring about the size of Graver’s thumb and in the shape of an erect penis, complete with dangling scrotum.
“Have any idea about these tapes?” Arnette asked.
“No. Could be his personal bookkeeping for all I know.”
“But you think no one else knows about the computer.”
“I don’t know.”
Arnette’s eyes rested on him a moment, and then she turned her head slightly toward the blonde, but without taking her eyes off Graver, and said, “Tell Corkie to verify the integrity of those tapes.”
The girl muttered again into the microphone.
“And if I were you, Marcus, I’d tap him. You’d better let us tap him. You don’t have that much time.”
It was understood, of course, that they didn’t have authorization for a wiretap, but such formalities were never a consideration when you were operating in Kepner’s world. She also had access to technology that was several cuts above what the CID could afford on its stressed municipal budget and which significantly reduced the risk of detection. Getting the Information was the name of the game. Not Getting Caught was the other name of the game. There was a lot of ingenuity in between.
Graver stood there and looked at her waiting for him to answer and could feel the sweat oozing to the surface of his skin. He knew that unless he explicitly instructed otherwise there would be no tapes of the Burtell wiretap, that it would be only a listening effort, a means by which he could hope to steal a march against the target, of gaining an edge in the contest And he knew, too, that in this level of competition people didn’t break into a sweat over what he had to decide. Still, he could feel the sweat.
The blonde at Arnette’s elbow leaned to her and said a few words.
“Okay, you got a good copy on the tapes, Marcus,” Arnette said. She stared at him. “What about it? You want the tap?”
He nodded. “Go ahead,” he said.
Chapter 28
Graver thought about it all the way back to Tisler’s rent house. Did he really know enough to justify what he was doing now, going completely outside channels with his own investigation? Considering Westrate’s outsized ambitions, considering who was involved and who might be involved, yes, he thought it did. What he had to keep in mind, however, was that in the end it was not Westrate to whom he ultimately would have to answer. The implications here were larger even than Westrate’s ambitions. And if the conspiracy went no further than the three men he had identified so far, the fewer people involved in the investigation the greater the chance-though still a slim chance-that the police could keep it entirely under wraps.
So, until Graver had a more informed perspective, he was going to keep what he knew confined to the few people he trusted. One of his greatest fears was that his inquiry, if discovered by people at the command level, would be derailed for political reasons. He had seen it happen too often.
He found that going back into Tisler’s rent house was far more eerie than entering it for the first time. The first time he had not been so much anxious as curious. Then he had expected to find something, though he had no idea what Now, however, he was fearful of encountering some one.
But it was a groundless anxiety, and he easily entered through the back door again, went to the bedroom at the far end of the house where he quickly turned on the computer and erased the hard drive. He hoped to God that Arnette’s people didn’t screw up the only thing that was left of Tisler’s curious cache.
Just as he was making his way through the kitchen to the back door, he felt his pager vibrate at his waist He pushed the button to turn it off but didn’t look at the calling number until he was back in his car and headed away from Tisler’s house. As he was driving, he held the pager near the dash lights and saw Westrate’s office number. He pulled off the street at a car wash and called in.
Westrate answered on the first ring.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, hearing Graver’s voice. “Where the hell are you?” Graver told him. “Better get down here to my office. Something’s happened.”
That was all Graver knew for twenty minutes, the length of time it took him to come in on the Southwest Freeway, park in front of the Administration Building, and get upstairs to the fourth floor where he found the stout assistant chief alone in his office. Others had been there, however. Two Styrofoam cups with the dregs of coffee sat on the front edge of Westrate’s desk, and there were cigarette butts in the ashtray along with one of Westrate’s half-smoked cigars.
Westrate was sitting behind his desk in an incredibly wrinkled white shirt, tie undone, cuffs turned back, a thick hand nervously taking occasional swipes at the thinning bristles on his ball-like head. He didn’t get up as Graver walked in, and he didn’t ask Graver to sit down. The place reeked of smoke, and Westrate’s desk was in disarray.
“Ray Besom is dead,” Westrate said, scowling from under his heavy eyebrows. He said it as if Graver had something to answer for, and Westrate was by God expecting the answer right then.
Graver had the sudden, irrational thought that he had somehow been at fault, that he had miscalculated something and, as a result, Besom was dead. Burtell popped into his mind, Burtell and the five missing hours.
“What happened?” He felt short of breath.
“Heart attack while he was fishing. They found him still in his waders, washed up on the beach.”
“Heart attack?”
“Yeah, goddamned heart attack!”
“He’s in Brownsville?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s they’?”
“Brownsville police,” Westrate said heavily. He bent his round head and held it in his two thick hands, elbows on the desk, the thinning spot in his short hair tilted at Graver. “Sit down.”
Graver sat in one of the chairs in front of Westrate’s desk. Westrate dropped his hands and looked up at Graver and noticed the two Styrofoam cups. “Shit, give me those.” He stood and snatched the two cups with one hand, slopping some of the coffee as he dumped them into the trash can at the side of his desk. “Shit,” he said again, opened a desk drawer, yanked out a wad of tissues and mashed them down on the splash of coffee. He rubbed it around as he leaned over, stretching his short arms across the desk. Graver could see a tuft of wiry black hair on his chest sticking up through his open collar. There was wiry black hair on his forearms and on the backs of his hands and on the tops of his fingers. Westrate flopped back down in his chair as he leaned over and with one hand dunked the wad of wet tissues into his trash can.
“Yesterday he was fishing at this spot, a place called Boca Chica near Port Isabel,” Westrate began. “Goes there every year. Some old fart took him by boat You can’t get there in a car. This is about five yesterday afternoon. According to Besom’s wife it was his last night down there. He was supposed to get up early this morning and drive home. Anyway, this old guy’s supposed to come back later last night, nine o’clock, and pick him up. Nine o’clock comes, old fart is there, but no Besom. He waits an hour. Waits an hour and a half. Says he putters his boat in the direction Besom said he’d be walking, shining his spotlight on the beach. No Besom. He goes back to Port Isabel. Docks his boat and goes to a bar and drinks and worries about it. Tells some friends what’s happened. They say, well, shit, if the guy wanted a ride he should’ve showed up.”
Westrate let his head flop back against the high hack of his chair.
“This is all coming from the Brownsville police,” he said. “Old fart goes home and goes to bed for Christ’s sake. But he’s had a lot to drink and doesn’t wake up until ten o’clock the next morning. That’s this morning, today. But he can’t get Besom off his feeble old mind. Gets in his boat and goes back out there, putters along the beach again, goes a mile or so and finally spots this bunch of fishing gear piled up beside an old beached shrimper. But no Besom. He goes back in, calls the Brownsville police because this place, Boca Chica, is in Brownsville’s jurisdiction.
