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 aside. Even if the men and women who worked in intelligence told their husbands and wives more than they were supposed to about their work, the spouses were well trained to act dumb about it. In reality, they consistently behaved unnaturally incurious.
“Well, come on in,” she said, stepping back into the entry. “We were sitting out in the patio. It was cool after the rain, but it’s already warming up.” She closed the door behind him. “We’re having drinks… would you like something?”
Throughout the ordeal of Dore’s well-publicized affair, Ginette Burtell had been exceptionally compassionate. He had learned that her late father had been through something similar years earlier, and she gave Graver all the understanding that she had gained in her own experience. In doing so, she had won Graver’s lasting appreciation, and an unspoken bond grew between them that, despite a long friendship, had not been there before. She was a good bit shorter than Graver, with very white skin and short, jet hair. She was the kind of woman who woke up in the morning looking fresh and unruffled, showing none of the rigors of sleep.
“No, nothing,” Graver said. “I’ll only be a moment…”
They started walking through the living room toward an open, very modern bone-white kitchen.
“Dean was going to work in the yard,” she said, “but the rain gave him an excuse to put it off.”
“I doubt if he needed much of an excuse,” Graver said.
She laughed and tucked a bit of hair behind one ear. “No, he wasn’t looking forward to it.”
Just then the back door in the kitchen opened and Burtell came in, barefoot in jeans and an old rugby shirt with the sleeves pushed up almost to his elbows. He had their drinks in his hands and was concentrating on maneuvering the door closed with his foot when he looked up and saw Graver.
“Marcus.” His face ran through several emotions in the space of a moment-surprise, puzzlement, foreboding, recovery-before he collected himself and feigned a relaxed smile. He came toward them, handing one of the glasses to Ginette. “What’s up?”
It was probably Graver’s ill-disguised uneasiness that he reacted to so quickly, but whatever he sensed, he tried to remain nonchalant, though he surely expected the visit was not a social one.
“I’m sorry for not calling first,” Graver said.
“It’s all right, no problem,” Burtell said. “Come on, let’s sit in here.” He gestured toward the living room with his drink. “It was cool outside, but it didn’t last long. Oh, uh”-he held up the glass-”want something?”
“No, but thanks.”
“Ginny”-Burtell turned to his wife-”would you mind making sure I got everything outside? I know I left some pretzels out there.”
Ginette Burtell would make herself scarce.
They sat down, Graver in an armchair, Burtell on a large silk sofa. Graver sat back in the overstuffed chair, the tufted back feeling good against his spine, which had begun to ache. Burtell sat forward on the sofa, sipped from his glass, then rested his forearms on his knees, holding his drink casually in both hands, his eyes fixed on Graver.
“No easy way to get to this,” Graver said. “Arthur Tisler’s dead. It looks as if he killed himself.”
Burtell dropped his glass.
There were only a few sips left, and it sloshed out on the creamy carpet with a couple of pieces of ice.
“Shit,” he said, his eyes locked on Graver, his voice falling dead, the expletive in reference to Graver’s announcement, not the spilled drink. He looked down at the spill-it was clear, gin or vodka-and then reached down and picked up the glass, fumbled with the few ice cubes, and finally captured them and put them in the glass. Taking a handkerchief out of his hip pocket, he laid it on the damp spot and pressed it, and then put the glass on a side table. He moved slowly, almost as if he were anticipating having to catch his balance. He looked at the handkerchief between his bare feet.
“Holy shit,” he said. His face was drawn.
Neither of them said anything for a moment as Burtell stared down at the handkerchief.
“I went out there tonight-”
“Out there?” Burtell interrupted, his eyes still on the handkerchief. “He did this at home?”
“No. He’d parked in an empty field near the runways at Andrau Airpark. A patrolman just happened to see it and checked it out.”
Burtell hadn’t moved. “How?”
“He shot himself.”
Silence.
“In the head?”
Graver nodded. He was watching Burtell closely. The two men were good friends. They didn’t socialize all that often outside their professional relationship, but they were closer than most within that context. Graver almost felt like an older brother to Burtell who was a decade younger, and the feeling was reciprocated. They each knew how the other’s mind worked, and both of them probably invested more of themselves in the intelligence game than was healthy for their marriages. They were kindred spirits and knew it.
“In the mouth?”
An odd thing to want to have clarified, but sometimes a person’s curiosity about suicide, the precise activity of it was as unexpected as the act itself.
“His right temple, Dean. He used his own gun.”
Burtell’s eyes were still fixed on the handkerchief. “Suicide,” he said.
Graver heard the flatness in Burtell’s voice and found his preoccupation with the handkerchief between his feet a curious behavior. Graver noted that Burtell was actually wan, seemingly nauseous.
