“Can you elaborate?”
“Not much,” Last said, sucking on his cigarette. “I just heard he was selling information from your intelligence records.”
Graver was almost beside himself. Victor Last was sitting across from him telling him that Arthur Tisler was selling information. For the past twenty-four hours he had agonized about this and, even with all the progress they had made, the breach in security was still a matter of conjecture. The only thing they knew for sure was that Tisler, Burtell, and Besom were creating bogus contributor interviews. The rest they had to guess. Now Last had laid it in his lap. And if Last could be believed, it was coming from a completely independent source.
But Last had delivered this astonishing information in a very relaxed manner, and Graver had the suspicion that Last did not understand the full impact of what he had just said. The information might have been parceled out to him. Graver did not believe that Last would have been so comfortable about giving this kind of volatile news to Graver if he had known what lay behind it.
“Arthur Tisler,” Graver said.
Last nodded, appreciating what he must have thought was a shocking revelation to Graver.
“How did you get that name, Victor?”
There must have been something in Graver’s voice. Last shot a look at him, his eyes regarding Graver with new interest, in a manner that sought an explanation for whatever it was he had heard that alerted him.
“What’s the matter?” Last asked.
“Arthur Tisler’s dead,” Graver said.
“Wh-at?”
“You didn’t know that?” Graver didn’t even know why he asked that question. Sometimes when you were talking to a man like Last there was a point at which you might find yourself wondering exactly where you were in the game. The whole point of the exercise was to learn something you didn’t already know, or to corroborate something you already had learned from someone else. Likewise, you later would take what you learned from this informant and try to corroborate it with another. You asked questions the answers to which you already knew, though you pretended you didn’t. You asked questions pretending to believe the responses, though you probably didn’t You tried to discern the informant’s hidden agenda, though he already had given you his reasons for what he was doing. You didn’t give the informant new information. You didn’t trade information. You fished and bobbed in deceptive currents, and you tried to discern the particles of truth suspended in the lies and half lies, and you tried not to overlook an actual truth when you stumbled upon it You imagined a world of mistakes and tried to anticipate how you would explain why you did, or why you didn’t, do something some other way. You imagined yourself coming. You imagined yourself going.
“Hell no, I didn’t know.” Last was frowning. He didn’t know. “Dead when? A year ago or yesterday or what?”
Graver hesitated. It had been in the paper. It wouldn’t matter.
“He killed himself Sunday night.”
Last straightened his shoulders in surprise. He studied Graver, slowly bringing his glass to his mouth, sipping the wine to cover his uneasiness, keeping his eyes on Graver over the rim.
“Killed himself,” he said, suspicious of that explanation.
“That’s right.”
“Was he dirty?”
“I didn’t think so. But now you’re telling me he was.”
Graver could see Last thinking. He was going to hold on to it.
“Well, yeah, that’s what I heard.” He paused. “Maybe that’s why he killed himself.”
“Could be. What kind of information?”
“What?”
“What kind of information was he selling?”
Last was thinking again. He straightened up in his chair and leaned forward over the small table.
“You didn’t know any of this?” he asked.
“You seem surprised.” Graver was finding this a very slippery conversation. “Did you think you were telling me something I already knew? Did you think that was going to be helpful?”
“I thought I might be corroborating.” Last was indeed an old hand at this. He knew all the roles. And apparently he hadn’t believed Graver the previous evening when Graver had said there was no breach in CID security. “I don’t think I’m understanding what’s going on here,” he said.
He was decidedly uncomfortable. Which was fine with Graver. He was pretty damned uneasy himself.
“Is this it, then?” Graver asked. “Tisler was selling CID information, and that’s it?”
Last didn’t say anything. He sipped his wine and smoked his cigarette, once again slumped back in his chair. It was apparent he had been given good information, but maybe for the wrong reasons, which seemed to be Last’s concern. Graver wanted desperately to know what Last had stumbled onto, and he was trying to decide how to get information without giving away any more than he had to. As Graver sat looking at his only direct link to an independent source who obviously knew invaluable information, he began to wonder if he was up to the opportunity. He began to wonder if there weren’t extenuating circumstances.
Last straightened up in his chair, leaned his elbows on the table, and smiled uneasily.
“This is awkward, isn’t it,” he said. His voice was soft, soothing.
“Not for me,” Graver lied.
“Well, I’m not at all sure… I mean, I thought you already knew this.”
“You’ve said that, Victor.”
“Yeah.” Last looked away, his right hand on the stem of the wineglass as he turned the flat base of it on the surface of the table, the uncomfortable smile giving an enigmatic expression to his profile. “Okay, there’s somebody else, too, in CID.”
Graver waited. This was going to be telling.
Last looked back to Graver. “Guy named Besom.”
Graver thought so. Three men involved, as far as Graver knew, and Last had named the only two who were dead. Last was giving him leads to nowhere. The question was, did he realize that? Last was looking at him closely, hoping to learn something himself from Graver’s reaction.
Graver sipped his coffee, put down his cup, and leveled his eyes at Last.
“Before I react to that,” Graver said, “I want you to tell me, right now, if you have any other names. Don’t dribble them out to me, Victor. This is internal. I’m not inclined to joust with you over internal matters that affect the security of my Division.”
A pause as Last stared into Graver’s eyes and made quick mental calculations that Graver could only imagine.
“No. No other names,” he said. He was almost squinting at Graver, puzzled, maybe a little apprehensive. Graver had the feeling Last didn’t know what it was he had gotten into and was wondering if he had made a big mistake.
“Okay,” Graver said. “The man you are referring to is Ray Besom. He’s the supervisor of the Organized Crime Squad. He’s been on vacation, fishing down on the border, near Port Isabel. About noon today he was found dead.”
“Bloody hell…” Last swallowed; his face was rigid. It conveyed no self-assurance, no easy smile that connoted a smug knowledge that he was one step ahead of developing events. Graver guessed that not only was Last not ahead of developing events, but it was now beginning to dawn on him that maybe he was being used for reasons that had been hidden from him and which might have put him at great risk.
“Christ, and you people weren’t suspicious?”
“I didn’t say that. I only said we didn’t know we had a breach in security.” Graver paused and gave Last a moment to run over his options once again. He watched Last take another drink of wine and savor it, tasting it with the back of his tongue. “I don’t have much room to maneuver, here, Victor.”
Last looked at Graver as though he wanted to see if he could read in Graver’s eyes what he thought he was reading in the inflection of his voice.
“I see,” Last said, nodding a little. “Well, that’s pretty clear, isn’t it.”
Graver said nothing.
