An Absence of Light

“I’ve got a lot of data that tells me Tisler committed suicide,” Graver elaborated. “The simplest explanation is that he did. I’ve got a lot of data that tells me Ray Besom had a heart attack. The simplest explanation, consistent with the facts, is that he did. So, unless we obtain other facts, facts that are inconsistent with the explanation, then the weight of my suppositions will have to fall with the simplest explanation.”

“Give me a break, Graver,” Westrate snapped, his small nostrils flaring with agitation at Graver’s professorial anecdote. “I’ve got four divisions to manage here.”

That sounded like a non sequitur to Graver. He wasn’t sure what Westrate meant, but it was clear he was sweating pearls over this. If he had suspicions that something was terribly wrong in CID, he sure as hell wasn’t going to say so now. He was too sly for that If he did express such a belief and it turned out that Besom did indeed have a heart attack, Westrate would end up sounding like a conspiracy theorist and an alarmist-one of my men kills himself, another one has a heart attack, ergo the CID is riddled by spys and cabalists. No, Westrate wasn’t going to risk that with anyone, especially not with Graver. But he believed it.

Once again the pager on Graver’s belt vibrated. Without looking down he turned it off.

“Is there something you want me to do?”

“No,” Westrate said, getting up quickly.

“Does Hertig know this?”

“Goddamn right he knows it. I called him.”

“What was his reaction?”

“What do you mean-he goddamned couldn’t believe it Wants some answers… just like the rest of us,” he said pointedly. He waited a beat “It’s only a matter of hours before the media’s going to catch on to this. CID’s going to get some publicity. They’re going to call you spies, secret police, all those kinds of liberal shit buzz words.” He thrust his head forward. “Any suggestions?”

“Yeah,” Graver fired back. “You handle it. Put whatever spin you want on it.”

Westrate came to his feet and glared at Graver. Managing to get the best of his tongue, he stalked around behind his desk again. He fumbled in the debris there and found a cigar box, opened it, and took out a cigar. He jammed it in his mouth without lighting it and stood there, looking at Graver, mouthing the cigar, hands once again thrust deep into the pockets of his wrinkled trousers.

“Let’s put it this way, Graver,” he said, talking around the cigar. “You’d better get all over this situation like a sailor on a whore. If there’s something to these ‘coincidences,’ if there is, and you don’t snap to it until it’s too goddamned late…” He took the cigar out of his mouth and said calmly, “…I’m gonna be so far up your ass you’ll have to shit through your nose for the rest of your life.”

Ray Besom’s death was indeed a potential disaster for them, but Graver didn’t think you should try to damage-control a disaster by letting your brain explode. Westrate was going to have to get a grip on himself if he was going to handle the media intelligently. But Graver couldn’t do anything about that. He imagined Westrate and Chief Hertig’s public relations crew would convene early in the morning. They would start putting together something that would be palatable and would effectively cover up the panic. Then they were going to turn to Graver.

“Anything else?” Graver asked, standing.

Westrate jabbed the cigar into his mouth again and sat down in his chair. “No,” he said, and started pawing around in the mayhem of his desk.

Graver walked out into the semidarkness of the reception area and paused long enough beside a table lamp to look at his pager. The number was Paula’s. She was still at the office.

He took the elevator downstairs to the lobby and went straight to the pay phones. He called Kepner, told her what had happened. She didn’t have to be told anything else. After hanging up, he walked back through the lobby and out the back door and through a covered driveway that led in one direction to the motor pool, and in the other to the squat, smog-begrimed building where the CID occupied the southeast corner of the third floor.

Chapter 29

Graver stared at the darkness just in front of him as he followed the crumbling asphalt drive around to the back side of the compound. He had been shaken by the news of Ray Besom’s death, though Westrate had not realized it, so preoccupied was he with his own over-the-top performance. It was hard to believe Besom had had a heart attack, especially in light of what Graver knew about Tisler and Besom’s involvements. No, he didn’t think it was a heart attack. But that was instinct His judgment reminded him that if the Besom/Tisler/Burtell conspiracy-whatever it was-was indeed coming apart, it would be logical that the fear of the consequences would be exacting a severe toll on the participants. Weren’t heart failure and stress undeniably linked? So what the hell was he supposed to think? The grim fact was, he still didn’t know much of anything.