“I thought it wasn’t allowed.” Traditionally San Diego was free of hookers despite the large sailor population. Tijuana was just 20 minutes away; those services were usually provided across the border.
“Nothing they can do about it,” Lewis said. “Just in the last few hours they’ve all been coming in. Every damned hooker for a thousand miles is here. All the girls from Vegas and Reno and Tahoe. It’s the Convention.”
“But the City Fathers don’t like it.”
“The City Fathers hate it,” Lewis said, and grinned. It was a youthful grin, the grin of a person who still found sin amusing, risqué fun.
Graves could no longer find the fun in prostitution. Why not? he wondered. Was it age—or was it striking some uncomfortable chord in himself?
But he didn’t pursue the thought. Lewis turned left, going up into the hilly section of town toward Wright’s apartment.
San Diego: 8 a.m. PDT
Hour 9
LEWIS SLOWED AS THEY APPROACHED a dry cleaning van advertising 24 HOUR SERVICE AT NO ADDITIONAL CHARGE and PLANT ON PREMISES.
“You want to talk to 702?” Lewis said.
“Yeah, for a minute,” Graves said.
Lewis pulled over. Graves got out. The driver in the van wound down his window.
“I hear you’re rolling it up,” the driver said.
“That’s right,” Graves said.
“When?”
“Later today.”
“What’s proto until then?” Proto was slang for protocol.
“Business as usual,” Graves said. “Where’s 703?”
“Off duty today.” The driver shrugged.
“Call them in. I want them to pick up the girl this morning.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. You got some coffee in there?”
“Sure. Two cups?”
Graves looked into the sedan at Lewis. “You want coffee?”
Lewis shook his head.
“Just one,” Graves said. “Black with four sugars.”
The driver sighed and looked into the interior of the dry cleaning van. “Give the boss his usual,” he shouted. A moment later a styrofoam cup was passed out to Graves.
“You’re going to catch diabetes,” the driver said.
“This is breakfast,” Graves said, and walked back to his car. In the background he heard the van driver saying, “702 to 703. Over. 702 to 703. Over.”
Graves got in the car, slammed the door. To Lewis: “Let’s go.”
“The apartment?”
“The apartment.”
Wright had taken a fashionable apartment in the hilly north-central section of San Diego, not far from the Cortez Hotel. His building looked out over the city and the harbor. At this hour people were leaving the apartment house, standing in front and waiting until the doorman brought their cars around from the underground garage. Graves had had some trouble getting used to that when he first came here. He was accustomed to the East, where people in cities walked to work or took public transportation. In California, everybody drove. Everybody.
Wright himself was an exception. He had a driver and a limousine. But then, Wright was always an exception, he thought.
Wright usually came out about 8:20. His girl for the night—one of five or six he saw with some frequency—preceded him by ten or fifteen minutes.
“There she is,” Lewis said.
Graves nodded. It was odd how you could tell Wright’s girls. Even from across the street they could be spotted instantly. Yet there was no particular physical type, no particular details of dress. They weren’t professionals. But there was a certain quality about them, something blatantly erotic. They were the girls a man would choose if he wanted to be reassured. Graves watched this one, who wore a simple white dress and had very long legs, as she climbed into a Datsun sportscar and drove off.
“701 to 703,” he said, speaking into the intercom mounted on the dash.
There was a crackle of static. “703 here. I thought we could sleep in today.”
Graves ignored the complaint. “Red Datsun sportscar, convertible, California license ZVW 348. Got it?”
“Got it. Out.”
A moment later, a Ford station wagon drove past them, and the driver gave them the high sign briefly. That was 703.
Graves slumped down in his seat, thinking. They had not bothered to interrogate Wright’s girls in recent weeks. When they began, they had had dozens of interviews with the girls. Sometimes they had been straight interrogations; more often they were casually arranged meetings. In both cases the information was monotonously the same. John Wright was a nice and kind and generous and charming man. He was also nervous and definitely conservative. He sweated a lot, preferred the missionary style, kept the room dark, and always remained a little aloof.
Hardly valuable intelligence insight.
“Why do you want this one?” Lewis asked. And then he said, “Here comes the limo.”
A black Lincoln limousine pulled up in front of the apartment building. The chauffeur, George Marks, got out, buttoned his uniform jacket, and stood by the door of the passenger side.
Graves had never picked George up for questioning. It had seemed too risky. Now he wondered if that had been a mistake. But he could think of a hundred possible mistakes he had made, especially today. Especially when Wright was being arrested.
“Why are they going to arrest Wright?” Lewis asked. He hadn’t gotten an answer on his previous question, so he was trying another.
Graves lit a cigarette. “Phelps is nervous.”
“But this computer-tapping business isn’t enough—”
“Phelps is running scared just now. There’s talk of closing down his division of Intelligence. In fact, the new Secretary is thinking of closing down all State intelligence work.”
Lewis raised his eyebrows. “Where’d you hear that?”
Graves smiled. “I’m in Intelligence myself.”
Lewis glanced at him a moment, then looked back out the window. A man emerged from the apartment building—stocky, neatly dressed, moving purposefully.
“There’s Wright,” Lewis said and started the engine of his car.
Graves had watched John Wright get into his limousine every morning for sixty-six days. He knew the routine well: George opened the door and tipped his cap; Wright nodded to him, bent over at the waist, and slipped quickly into the back seat. George closed the door, paused to tug at his leather gloves, and walked around to the driver’s side. In the back seat Wright stared straight ahead or opened his newspaper to read.
But this time John Wright stared across the street directly at Graves. And he continued to stare until the limousine moved off in the hot San Diego morning.
Lewis was now very good at following in San Diego traffic; he kept pace three cars back. Graves sat with his arms folded across his chest, frowning. After a time Lewis said, “He was looking at you.”
“He certainly was.”
“Do you think he’s on to us?”
“Impossible,” Graves said. He thought of the closet in his apartment. He had five distinctly different suits in that closet, and he rotated them on different days. He thought of the three sedans and the four delivery trucks that the Department used for surveillance work. Different manufacturers, different colors, and a new license plate every week. He had never parked in the same place, never waited for Wright in the same way. He had never presented Wright with a recognizable pattern.
“Impossible,” he said again.
And then Graves thought of himself. If he were Wright, would he discover that he was being followed? Even with all the precautions, the safeguards, the changes? He liked to think that he would.
And if he would, why not Wright?
“He’s deviating,” Lewis said, nodding at the limousine. Graves saw that it was true. Normally on Wednesday mornings Wright went to Balboa Park, where he walked in the gardens, fed the pig
eons, and relaxed. But he wasn’t doing that today.
He was going downtown.
“Where’s our other car?” Graves said.
Lewis picked up the car radio receiver. “701 to 702. Where are you?”
There was a hiss of static. “701, we’re at Third and B, going downtown.”
Lewis glanced at Graves, who nodded.
“Very good, 702,” Lewis said, and clicked off.
The second car, the dry cleaning van, was running in advance of the limousine. That was standard procedure—one car tailing from the front, one from behind. In cities on really big jobs, they sometimes used four cars, working all around the suspect car. That made it impossible to lose the suspect. But Graves didn’t want a four-car tail, and in any case Phelps would never have approved the expense.
The limousine went down Third to Avenue A, then turned left going west.
“702, you have him?”
“We still have him.”
Lewis followed the limousine as it went crosstown on A and stopped, pulling up in front of a warehouse. Lewis pulled to the curb half a block behind. They watched as Wright got out and went inside.
Graves lit a cigarette, and they waited. But after only a minute or so, Wright reappeared and got back into his car. The limousine started off.
“Wonder what that was about?” Lewis said.
As they passed the warehouse, Graves read the lettering. He was surprised to find it wasn’t a warehouse at all.
BURNS BROS. PLASTICS
VACUUM MOLDING
Containers of all sorts
“Damned if I know,” Graves said. He made a note of the name and address in his notebook and then looked up at the street. The limousine was going north now. It went two blocks and turned left, then left again. It pulled up in front of another warehouse.
“It seems he’s doing some shopping,” Lewis said.
“He’s in the wrong part of town.”
“I’ll drive past,” Lewis said, and continued smoothly past the warehouse and the parked limousine. Graves looked out of the corner of his eye. He saw George, the chauffeur, lighting a cigarette. He saw the large glass windows of the warehouse, which was also a salesroom of some kind. Inside he saw Wright standing at the counter receiving a package. In the window were displayed various shining pieces of laboratory equipment.
SANDERSON SCIENTIFIC EQUIPMENT AND SUPPLY
Serving Hospitals and Laboratories Since 1953
Graves had to smile. Only in California would a date like 1953 seem proof of ageless service to the consumer. “We’ll wait for him here,” he said, and Lewis pulled over at the end of the block and cut the engine.
Graves checked his watch. It was 8:39. A moment later the limousine sped past them while he was making a note of the scientific supply company and its address. Lewis followed a short distance behind.
The limo again went uptown and pulled over in front of a machine shop. Wright got out and was met at the door by a man carrying a small paper bag. Wright shook hands with the man, who was dressed in dungarees and a blue work shirt. Then Wright opened the paper bag to look inside. He removed one small, shiny metal object, nodded, exchanged a few more words with the man, and got back into his car.
The limousine drove off.
As they passed the machine shop, Graves noted the address and the name. He stared at his list. “A plastics manufacturer, a scientific supply house, and now a machine shop.”
“He isn’t buying presents for his girls,” Lewis said, and laughed.
“Did you check out that purchase last week?” The week before, Wright had also visited several small industrial manufacturers.
“Yeah,” Lewis said. “It was two twelve-foot lengths of flexible hosing. Very unusual.”
“What’s unusual about that?”
“It was stainless steel.”
“Meaning?”
Lewis shrugged. “The guy I talked to said that nobody bought flexible stainless steel hosing any more. People use either plastic or something like aluminum. Stainless is only used for piping very corrosive materials.”
“Such as?”
“Concentrated dyes, corrosive gases, that kind of thing. The guy said it was pretty uncommon. Most highly corrosive stuff is pumped through glass piping. But of course, glass isn’t flexible.”
“And Wright bought two lengths of flexible steel?”
“Right. Twelve-foot lengths. At eighty-three dollars a foot.”
Graves nodded and watched the car. “He’s buying a lot of specialized equipment. Why?”
“You mean, why is he doing it?”
“No,” Graves said. “I mean, why is he doing it himself, in person?”
“I don’t follow you. Why shouldn’t he do it himself?”
“Because he’s too smart for that,” Graves said.
The limousine went uptown twenty blocks and pulled over in front of another building. The sign said HARRELSON GARMENTS AND CUSTOM GOODS. They watched Wright get out of the limo and go inside.
“I’ll be goddamned,” Graves said.
“What is it?” Lewis said.
“Harrelson was in the papers a year ago. They made rubber suits and whips and things like that; there was a minor scandal.”
Lewis shook his head: “It really is true, then.”
“What?”
“About your memory.”
Graves shook his head. He’d been through all this before. “I don’t have a photographic memory,” he said. “I have a better than average memory, that’s all.”
“Are you trying to convince me?”
“No, just telling you.”
“You sound sore.”
“You better understand,” Graves said, “that I don’t have any special powers. None at all. I just plod along, doing a job.”
“Here he comes,” Lewis said. He pointed to Wright emerging from the store with an armful of packages wrapped in brown paper. George, the chauffeur, jumped out and came around to help carry the packages. Wright indicated that they were to go into the trunk of the car. George locked them there, then came around, shut Wright’s door, and drove off.
“I’d like to know what was in those packages,” Graves said, making notes in his book.
“Bet you anything it’s kinky rubber clothing,” Lewis said.
“What will you bet?”
At that, Lewis laughed. He knew you didn’t bet with Graves. Nobody bet with Graves. He might deny special skills until he was blue in the face, but the fact was that Graves was the best gambler, bettor, poker player that any of them had ever seen.
They followed the car for another five minutes. Then it pulled up in front of a sporting goods store. Wright again got out. He said something to George, who nodded and went across the street to a coffee shop. The car was left alone. It could not be seen easily from either the sports store or the coffee shop.
“Looks like we have our chance,” Graves said. “Pull over.”
As Lewis pulled the sedan over, Graves opened the glove compartment and took out a large, circular key ring. On it were keys to Wright’s apartment in New York, his apartment in San Diego, his limousine, his Alfa sportscar, his summer house in Southampton, his winter house in Jamaica. And several others as well. They were all neatly tagged.
Lewis said, “Isn’t this a little risky—”
“We’re going to arrest him today,” Graves said. “It doesn’t matter now.” He got out of the car, feeling the heat of the morning air. He walked forward to the limousine. It took just a moment to insert his key in the trunk and open it. He raised the trunk lid partway and looked at the brown paper packages. There were three, closed with strips of tape. He opened a corner of one and peered inside.
The package contained black rubber belts, about 6 inches wide, formed into loops of varying diameters. He closed the package and squeezed the others. They all seemed to contain belts.
Frowning, he shut the trunk. And then, because he was in a gambling mood, he walked into
the sporting goods store. As he went through the door he glanced back at Lewis. Lewis looked horrified.
The store was large and spacious; he did not see Wright immediately. Walking among the aisles of equipment, he finally spotted him in the water sports department. Wright was gesturing with his hands, forming a shape in the air.
Graves walked over and stood beside him at the counter. To do so gave Graves an immediate burst of excitement. He had never been so close to his subject before. Wright was smaller than he had thought—several inches shorter than Graves himself. And much finer-boned. A delicate man in an English-cut suit, dapper as Phelps, but without the vanity that made Phelps unbearable.
The salesman said, “I’ll be right with you, sir,” and Graves nodded.
Wright glanced over at him and smiled vaguely. There was no recognition in the glance. None at all: Graves was sure of it They were just two customers at the same counter.
Graves bent over, peering down at the glass case, which contained depth gauges and underwater watches. He could see Wright’s face reflected in the glass surface.
“Is this the one you mean, sir?” the salesman asked.
Graves glanced up and saw the salesman holding a small air tank, painted yellow.
“That’s the one,” Wright said.
“Now, do you understand about this tank?” the salesman said. “It’s not the standard seventy-two cubic foot model. This one only has twenty-five minutes of air at—”
“That’s the one I want.” Wright said it quietly, but his voice cut the salesman off. Graves was impressed by the understated authority in the voice—and presumably in the man.
“Yes, sir. How many was that?”
“Three.”
“I think we have three in the storeroom,” the salesman said. He turned to Graves: “Was there anything in particular?”
It seemed to Graves that the salesman was much less deferential to him than he was to Wright. But perhaps he was being paranoid.
“I need a depth gauge,” Graves said.
“They’re all down there,” the salesman said, pointing to the case. “Be with you in a minute. Three, was it, sir? I’ll get them.”
Binary: A Novel Page 4
