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envisioning new possibilities not only for the way the targets might operate but also for the way law enforcement might act to preempt them to the greatest effect.
    But in addition, he played a significant role in shaping the collection process itself. If he needed more information to confirm or disprove his suspicions about expanding linkages and connections, he consulted with the investigator. Working together, often for long periods of time, they designed a collection plan that each considered feasible and realistic.
    In this way, step by step, they created a “folder” on their target, a process that might require years to develop. It was a long-term working relationship and was rarely successful if the investigator and analyst were unable to establish, at some level, a compatible association. Simultaneously, moreover, each investigator and analyst also worked in tandem with other investigators and analysts, sometimes carrying as many as six or seven targets. It just so happened that over time, Tisler and Burtell had worked a lot of targets together, and Burtell had come to know the reserved investigator very well.
    Burtell was Tisler’s physical opposite: strikingly good-looking, just over six feet tall, an enthusiastic handball player, a smart dresser, slightly wavy black hair which he wore full but well cut, a heavy beard that, even when closely shaved in the mornings, contributed a faint shading to his complexion. His personality, too, was in opposition to Tisler’s. Dean Burtell had the at-ease manner of a man who never doubted himself. He was a fluid conversationalist, articulate and adept in social situations. Though he was gregarious by nature and enjoyed being around people, he was never so extroverted as to draw attention to himself. He was unusually polite, in an old-fashioned sort of way. In former times he would have been called a gentleman.
    He had only two things in common with Tisler: he, also, was in his mid thirties; and he and his wife had no children.
    Dean and Ginette Burtell lived in an upscale condominium complex just off Woodway in the vicinity of the Houston Country Club. This was more than a little out of the reach of an analyst’s salary, but Ginette had a very good position with an international marketing firm headquartered in Houston, and her salary far surpassed her husband’s. Ginette Burtell was a good match for her husband both in physical attractiveness and intelligence, though she was decidedly quieter.
    Turning off of Woodway, Graver drove through the limestone pillars that marked the entrance to a complex of two-storied clusters of condos that the developers had given a distinctly Gallic flair, and which sat well back from the street behind a thick stand of loblolly pines that rose on stalky legs into the darkness.
    He found the right cul-de-sac and parked at the curb in front of Burtell’s home which, he was relieved to see, was lighted. Locking the car, he made his way along a meandering sidewalk through dampish odors of freshly mown grass, to a walled courtyard with an iron gate. As he opened the gate and went in, he immediately noticed the scent of roses which he barely could see on either side of the sidewalk in the soft light coming through the front windows. He pressed the doorbell and heard the muted response of distant chimes somewhere in the house.
    The front light came on over his head, and while he was considering asking Burtell to join him outside rather than going in, the door opened and Ginette stood in the light wearing a pair of brief peach shorts which were very nearly hidden by the loose tail of a tank top.
    “Marcus,” she said with a smile of surprise. “Dean didn’t tell me you were coming by.” She stepped out and hugged him.
    “Sorry, Ginette,” Graver said. Her neck smelled vaguely of perfume. “He didn’t know I was coming… I just need to see him a few minutes.”
    She looked at him with just a flicker of worry in her eyes and then pushed it