An Absence of Light

“Look, this man collects ‘native American’ art I’m trying to interest him in pre-Columbian stuff. It could be very good for me. Pre-Columbian is going to be very big. The free trade business is going to open up Mexican-interest marketing possibilities. I’m the newest thing in his life right now, Graver. Some of your clubfooted boys start mewling about asking questions, and this guy’s going to ask why people are snooping around him all of a sudden. He’s going to say to himself: Victor Last shows up and now people are asking questions.” Last took one more hit off his cigarette and dropped it to the tile and stepped on it “I don’t have to explain this kind of thing to you, Graver.”

“No, you don’t And I don’t have to explain to you that what you’ve just told me is interesting. I think it’s mildly amusing that men stand outside bathrooms and watch women urinate, but this definitely is not good take, Victor.”

Graver could see enough to see Last grinning across the table.

“Well, I suppose it depends on what it is you’re looking for, doesn’t it,” Last said. He shifted in his chair, crossed his legs the other way. “You want names.”

“Of course I do. And let’s see if we can’t find out if ‘the second man’s’ intelligence operation is in the police department or in the American Southwest Meat Packers Association.”

Last clucked his tongue at Graver’s sarcasm and stared across the table. “Come on, Graver,” Last said softly, “tell me. Didn’t I hit on something?”

Graver’s response was immediate and a surprise even to himself.

“Okay, Victor. The truth is, no, you didn’t hit on anything. If you’ve discovered a breach in CID security, it’s news to me. But if you have discovered something, I sure as hell want to know more about it. I’m just not convinced you have, that’s all.”

Last nodded, slowly and for several moments. “Okay, Graver,” he said finally, pushing his chair back and standing up. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Graver stood too.

“You still swim laps?” Last asked, his hands in his pocket as he looked down at the water.

“Yeah.”

Last nodded his head. “Very disciplined. Admirable. Really.”

He started toward his car and Graver followed him a few steps across the patio. When Last got to the Mercedes, he walked around to the driver’s side, put his hand on the door handle and looked across the top of the car. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

“That’s fine,” Graver said, and Last opened the Mercedes door. “But, Victor,” Graver added, “don’t ever come back here again.”

Last grinned at Graver across the top of the car, got inside, and closed the door. Graver watched as Last backed down the cinder drive to the street and drove away.

TUESDAY Chapter 20

The Third Day

Too much was happening; sleep had become a rare commodity, and Graver no longer had the peace of mind to acquire it After Last’s departure there remained only a few hours for him to toss among the sheets, trying to turn off his mind. When the alarm finally sounded, he was both exhausted and grateful and rolled out of bed with a headache. He showered and dressed and left the house without even considering making his own breakfast Instead, he stopped at a coffee shop on the way downtown and sat at a window table while he downed several cups of stout, black coffee with his bacon and eggs and watched the city slowly awaken to a clear hot day.

Because he had got out of bed immediately and had not taken the time to make his own breakfast, he beat Lara to the office by nearly an hour. That was fine, he needed the time to get himself together. After putting his briefcase on his desk, he went across the hall and started a pot of coffee. While he waited for it to brew he stepped into Lara’s office and left a note on her desk to tell Paula, Neuman, and Burtell to be ready for a nine o’clock meeting in his office. He also asked her not to disturb him. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and went into his office and closed his door.

There was a lot to think about, and while he had eaten breakfast he had made some decisions. The first was that he resolved to have Westrate’s report ready by the end of the day.

He turned on his computer and tapped in the license plate number he had seen on Last’s Mercedes. The car belonged to a Camilla Reeder who lived in a condominium in far west Houston. Ms. Reeder was thirty-one years old and listed her employment as a cosmetics representative for Laurel Cosmetics. She had no criminal history. Last seemed to have become acquainted with an unmarked woman-on the face of it at least-which was an improvement for him.