An Absence of Light

by David Lindsey

  Graver was used to taking suspicions seriously, but everything that came to mind to explain what was, and had been, going on right under his nose seemed so radical that he doubted his own abilities to read the meager facts with any clarity.

  Within a few minutes Neuman and Paula came by the office again and gave Graver one of the three handsets. Paula’s first pass through the computers had yielded exactly what Neuman had predicted. Nothing. Valerie Heath seemed to live a life as tenuously attached to society as did Bruce Sheck.

  They coordinated the radio frequencies, and Graver followed them to the outside door, reset the security system behind them, and then returned to his office. He sat down at his desk and turned to his own computer. With a few clicks on the keys he brought up his internal report regarding Tisler’s death. Actually he was already through with it, but he wanted to read it over very carefully a few times before he turned it in for Westrate’s approval in the morning. When he was satisfied, he printed out the final document, put it in a departmental envelope, stamped it Confidential, and put it in the locked distribution drawer so that it would be hand-delivered to Westrate’s office first thing in the morning.

  Returning to his desk, he picked up the telephone and dialed Burtell’s number. Graver waited as the telephone rang two, three, four times, nervously hoping he would be able to discern something informative from Burtell’s reaction to the news. On the fifth ring Ginette Burtell answered.

  “Ginny, this is Graver,” he said.

  “Oh, hello,” she said, and for some reason he was surprised at the animation in her voice. Before he could speak again she said, “Oh, if you’re wanting to speak to Dean, I’m afraid you’ve just missed him.”

  “Yeah, I did need to talk to him.”

  “I’m sorry, but he left not four or five minutes ago.”

  “You don’t happen to know how I could get in touch with him, do you?”

  “No, actually, I don’t even know where he was going.”

  Graver was surprised by this. How often did this happen? She must have sensed his surprise.

  “Uh, he got a telephone call… and… he said he had to go out for a while.”

  Graver waited.

  “I don’t always, uh, ask him where he’s going,” she said hesitantly.

  “You have any idea when he’ll be back?”

  “No, I really… Well, he said… a couple of hours,’ I think.”

  He wanted to ask if she knew who had called, but if Burtell quizzed her, he didn’t want her to say that he had asked.

  On the other end she was hesitating. “Uhhhhh… can I take a message, have him call you or something?”

  “Sure, if you don’t mind asking him to call me when he gets in. Tell him it doesn’t matter how late.”

  “Oh… okay, Marcus. Sure, I’ll see that he gets the message.”

  “Listen, Ginny,” Graver said, “I appreciate you and Dean going over to Peggy Tisler’s. I know that wasn’t easy. I owe you.”

  “It was something we would have wanted to do anyway,” she said. “I felt so sorry for her.”

  They visited a few moments longer, and then Graver told her good night and hung up. For the fourth or fifth time that night, he hoped Arnette’s people were in place and prepared. He resisted the temptation to call her. He knew the curious little control room he had been in earlier that evening would be buzzing now. Their target was on the move.

  Wearily he started cleaning off his desk and discovered among the paperwork a packet of faxed reports stapled together with a note from Lara. “These came in one right after the other (note times circled) between 5:00 and 6:15.” He must have shuffled the packet aside several times while he was putting together the Tisler report Lara even had attached a red translucent plastic “Alert” tag to the staple.

  He picked up the packet and sat back in his chair. The reports were responses to his inquiries that morning about Victor Last.

  Chapter 30

  They picked him up the moment he left the house. Four cars, two with only drivers, two with drivers and a single passenger each. Three of the cars were Japanese models, and the fourth was American. Each car was light in color, none of them new, none older than five years. The cars were driven by Arnette Kepner’s own heterogeneous mix of specialists who, for purposes of their radio communications, were identified only by their first names.

  Connie was a woman forty-two years old, a former detective in sex crimes with the Chicago Police Department. Three years ago she had moved to Houston when her husband’s employer, an engineering company, transferred him down to corporate headquarters. The mother of two high-schoolers, she had deep red hair, an Irish sense of humor, and a no-bullshit attitude about the jobs she worked for Arnette.

  Murray was fifty-seven, retired four years from the army where he spent his entire career in numerous branches of the army’s Intelligence Services. Stocky but still muscular and athletic, Murray favored tennis shoes and jeans and white T-shirts with the sleeves rolled into tight cuffs that revealed his weight-lifter’s arms. He was balding, had striking blue-green eyes, and a clipped, graying mustache. He was the group leader once they were on the job.

  Remberto was a thirty-two-year-old Bolivian who first came to the United States eight years earlier when he was part of a small, select contingent of Bolivian police officers who were brought to Virginia by the DEA for a special intelligence training course designed for drug agents. Remberto learned English quickly, spent three years undercover in La Paz and in the jungles of the Beni River valley radioing out information about the ever-shifting coca plantations that supplied the cartels in Colombia. He married a DEA agent’s daughter, and was now in the University of Houston law school.

  Li was a twenty-eight-year-old Amer-Asian whose mother Arnette knew during one of her Vietnam tours. Li’s mother was killed in 1971, a fact Arnette did not know until 1978 when she tried to find them in the chaotic months after the U.S. pullout. When she finally found Li in a Catholic orphanage, she went through a year and a half of red tape to adopt her and then brought her to the United States. Li was educated mostly in Virginia public schools and was now working on a master’s degree in Art History at Rice University.

  The two women were accompanied by passengers, Boyd, a photographer with Li, and Cheryl, a sound specialist, with Connie. Murray had been briefed about the target, but the others knew nothing about him except that he was thoroughly familiar with surveillance techniques, a fact that let them know that they couldn’t take anything for granted and a lack of watchfulness was likely to be detected.

  Burtell left the condominium complex, passed through the entrance gates and turned east on Woodway, a curving, wooded street that eventually would go under the West Loop and merge with Memorial Drive just inside Memorial Park. Murray pulled out of a parking slot in front of another condominium, let a couple of cars get between him and Burtell, and then nosed into the traffic. The other three quickly entered the traffic stream from different streets a block away, Connie, Remberto, and Li. Murray was immediately on the radio.

  MURRAY: “Okay, Connie, go ahead and get in front of him. If he goes for the Loop we’ll stay with him. You double back when you can. If he goes all the way into downtown peel away the first chance you get after the merge with Memorial.”

  CONNIE: “Okay, here we go.”

  She pulled out and passed Murray and then Burtell, getting in front of him before the next light and adjusting her speed so that she didn’t go through without him. When the light turned they went to the next one which they caught green and passed under the Loop, staying on Woodway as they entered the one-hundred-and-fifty-five-acre Memorial Park, its dense stand of loblolly pines turning the city-lighted night to a deeper darkness. Suddenly Burtell hit his brakes and turned off Woodway before it merged with Memorial Drive and entered the drive to the Houston Arboretum and Nature Center.

  MURRAY: “Remberto. Li. Stay outta there. Don’t go in. This is a bullshit stop. It’s a dead end. He�
�s not going to meet anybody in there, not this early in the game. He’s trying to pull us off. Everybody watch for countersurveillance—they’re gonna see who panics. Remberto, turn off on Picnic Lane ahead and look to pick him up if he goes on to merge with Memorial when he comes out of there. Connie, Li, the three of us are going to spread out and start circling Memorial, North Post Oak, and the access road. We’ll pick him up if he comes out and heads west.”

  For a minute there was silence on the radio as they each did as they were told, Connie, being the farthest away already coming back and beginning the first leg of her circle as the others turned around. It was still early enough in the night for the traffic to provide a moderate flow of headlights.

  Burtell did not come out for fifteen minutes. When he did, it was Li who picked him up.

  LI: “I’ve got him, Murray. He’s coming at me on Woodway.”

  MURRAY: “Keep going. I’ll pick him up if he gets on the Loop. Remberto, come on in. Connie, turn off and wait for him. If he goes back west on Woodway one of you let me know who picks him up first.”

  Silence again as the disrupted surveillance team rearranged itself to accommodate Burtell’s maneuver. Within seconds he had made another choice.

  MURRAY: “Okay, he’s mine. He’s on the access road heading north. We’re going up on the Loop.”

  Everyone followed, each at his own pace, from three different directions.

  MURRAY: “We’re heading into the interchange. Going east into… Son of a bitch! Heading west! Heading west! I lost him. I lost him… He’s… Son of a bitch!”

  REMBERTO: “It’s okay, Murray. I’ve got him. No problem.” The Bolivian’s voice was calm, undisturbed. “We’re on 1–10 heading west Somebody let me know when you’re in line behind me in case he goes to the access roads again.”

  LI: “I’m five cars behind you, Rem.”

  CONNIE: “I’m three behind Li.”

  REMBERTO: “He’s braking… No—no… He’s going on. He’s moving way over left. Oh, man, picking up speed.”

  CONNIE: “I’m in the left lane, Rem, but I’m too far back to identify him.”

  REMBERTO: “He’s behind an RV, alternating red and orange lights… braking… braking.”

  CONNIE: “Okay… I see him.”

  REMBERTO: “Li stay right. I have a feeling he’s going to whip across traffic and exit as soon… There he goes!… There he goes! Gessner! Gessner!”

  LI: “I’ve got him. Gessner exit.”

  Remberto continued down the expressway past the exit.

  MURRAY: Remberto, stay on the expressway. He could shoot back up. Connie, steady with traffic, I’m coming up on you. Li, what’s he doing? Come on! Come on, kid, what’s he doing?”

  LI: “We’re going through the Gessner light… not turning off… The light caught me… I’m stopped, I’m stop—There he goes… he’s going back up… he’s going back up on 1–10… Shit! He’s flying, he’s cooking.”

  CONNIE: “I’ve got him.” Like Remberto her voice was laid back, conversational. “He’s coming up on your tail, Remberto.”

  REMBERTO: “He’s not leaving the right lane… Holy God… he’s going to run right up my tailpipe!”

  MURRAY: “Watch him! He’s going to take the interchange… He’s going…”

  At the last possible moment, just before Burtell rammed into the back of Remberto’s car, they came to the interchange exit and Burtell rocketed off to the right, careening into the climbing turn and, as he banked off the expressway onto the Sam Houston Tollway, headed south. It was too late for Connie to turn off, but Murray and Li both easily followed him in the flow of traffic. It was a good move, perfect timing to do what he did, an expert maneuver. Remberto and Connie would have to pass up the next exit to avoid having to brake quickly and possibly give themselves away to any countersurveillance. They would have to continue on to the next one, signaling, keeping cars between them, let a traffic light separate them, and then circle back on the access road to the interchange and join the tollway traffic behind the rest of them.

  From here on Burtell played another kind of game. The tollway was wide, long, and straight, and Burtell tried to isolate himself. This was the tactic that Murray found the most difficult to deal with. The traffic here was more sparse, strung out on the newly completed tollway. Burtell slowed down and waited until a traffic cluster bypassed him, and he was fairly isolated on the long stretch of roadway. He drifted along and then suddenly pulled to the shoulder right before one of the exits that came at regular intervals. Anyone following him very closely would have to continue on the tollway and from his vantage point he could easily see the next two exits to identify any car that pulled off. He wouldn’t forget the make of anything that did.

  MURRAY: “He’s pulled to the shoulder just past Richmond. He’s getting out, raising the hood of his car. Li, we’ll keep going. Remberto? Connie?”

  CONNIE: “Exiting at Rodgerdale.” That was the exit a mile before Burtell. He would never even see them pulling off.

  REMBERTO: “I’m behind her, getting off at Briar Forest.”

  CONNIE: “On Rodgerdale, coming up on Richmond. I can see him up there, hood’s up… He’s looking down the tollway toward Li and Murray. Remberto. Get off in one of the neighborhood streets here. He’s right at an exit. I’m pulling over to a gas station.”

  There was dead air for a while as Burtell continued to look down the tollway, watching the next two exits. Finally he closed the hood.

  CONNIE: “Okay, he’s satisfied, putting down the hood he’s moving. Remberto, he’s pulling off right in front of me. He’s ducking under the tollway, going back… Okay, he’s turning under again… No, wait, no he was signaling but he’s not turning… He’s staying on Parkway… Parkway all the way.”

  Burtell was good at what he was doing, keeping all four of his tails off balance, though none of them had been able to determine if he had even picked them up. From all indications he did not know they were there. Even so, the game continued, across the south side of the city through neighborhoods and expressways, through one, two, three, four, five massive interchanges that took them west and then north, suddenly cutting right to the heart of downtown and careening back out again on another angle to take them once again on 1–10 and, incredibly, once again onto the Sam Houston Tollway. Then to everyone’s amazement he suddenly pulled aside on the same overpass as before and lifted the hood of his car again.

  This time it was Connie and Li who shot past him and Murray and Remberto who caught the stall on the access road. When Burtell got back into the car the second time, he pulled off on the access road, doubled back under the tollway, and headed into town on Richmond.

  MURRAY: “Well, kids, this is looking different. Something’s up. Connie, Li, where are you guys?”

  CONNIE: “We’re off the tollway at Bellaire headed for Southwest Freeway. Keep us posted, and we’ll intersect you as soon as we can.”

  The drive down Richmond was without any evasive maneuvering by Burtell. He was a model driver, going exactly the speed limit, never going through an amber traffic light But this was deceivingly dangerous. Now they were down to only two vehicles, and they couldn’t stay on him long. Remberto passed him.

  MURRAY: “We’re leading and following, Connie. Where are you?”

  LI: “We’re hauling ass on Southwest. What’s your cross street?”

  MURRAY: “Coming up on Ann Arbor. But he’s just puttering along.”

  LI: “With luck we’ll see you at Chimney Rock.”

  Which was exactly what happened. As soon as they came on Murray pulled off but Remberto remained in the lead. Nothing changed for another five minutes, Burtell the model driver staying with the flow of traffic which had gotten increasingly sparse. Then:

  CONNIE: “He’s turning left on Sage.”

  Connie, behind him, and Remberto, ahead of him, kept going. Li fell in behind him, but dropped way back because the street was almost deserted. In front of them only bl
ocks away was the Galleria complex and slightly to their right the Transco Tower and its attendant fountain and park. Burtell turned right on Hidalgo and pulled to the side of the street across from the Transco Fountain. Li and Murray both continued by out of sight, and then Murray doubled back and entered Sage himself. He also turned on Hidalgo, but drove by and turned onto Post Oak and then into Bercher, where he parked.

  MURRAY: “Be damned. He’s going to the fountain.” He looked at his watch. Burtell’s evasive maneuvers had lasted a marathon hour and five minutes.

  The Transco Tower was the tallest office building outside downtown, a perfectly symmetrical tower of sixty-four stories topped by a rotating beacon that was lighted every night from dusk to midnight and was powerful enough to be seen twenty miles away. On the south side of the tower was a long, mall-like park having a sunken lawn with grassy slopes. At the end of the lawn was the Transco Fountain, a granite wall several stories high and ten or twelve feet thick built in a half circle and facing the tower. Water gushed out of the top of the wall and fell down the sheer, grooved sides of the granite semicircle in thin roiling sheets to a stepped stone base and pool. Standing on the inside of the semicircle, as the water thundered and sprayed around you, produced the strange sensation of levitation.

  A few feet away from the fountain another wall stood between the fountain and the lawn, a neoclassical facade with three Roman arches through which the lower portion of the lighted fountain could be viewed from the lawn. In the evenings the lighted fountain and sloping sides of the sunken lawn were a favorite site for strollers, Frisbee-throwers, and families who let their children play along the long, grassy slopes that were lighted obliquely from the rippling reflections off the fountain.

  By the time Burtell got out of his car and started walking casually toward the fountain and the scores of milling people along the mall and around the fountain, Murray’s drivers had parked at strategic places on opposite sides of the fountain complex, watching Burtell work his way slowly into the crowds.