As Lara and Paula came back into the room and found chairs, Graver told Ginette to start from the beginning, to take her time, and not to be disconcerted if he had to interrupt her a number of times to ask questions.
“God, I don’t know how to start,” she said. “I saw the news bulletin… South Shore Harbor. We keep a sailboat out there and I think… I think that’s where Dean was going when he left the house tonight.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because he had a meeting… with someone. When he had meetings he used the boat sometimes.”
“How do you know?”
“He let it slip one time, a reference. Something hadn’t been cleaned up when we went out there to go sailing, and he said oh he’d forgotten to take care of it after the last meeting. I saw him cringe, you know, kind of. I guessed it had something to do with work, so I didn’t say anything further. I tried not to quiz him. That’s always hard, trying to ignore all the… inexplicable things.”
“But there are a lot of boats out there, Ginny,” Graver said. “Why do you think Dean was on the boat that blew up?”
“Was he?” She looked at him, visibly bracing herself. It was a brave question, and one that revealed that she believed Graver already knew the truth.
“I don’t know anything about what’s happened out there,” Graver lied. “The Department’s gotten a ton of calls about it, but I doubt if I’ll know much of anything until tomorrow. I understand it’s chaos out there.”
“The boat was in slip forty-nine,” she said, stiffening.
“Ginny, we don’t know that kind of detail yet I’m pretty eager to know myself, and when I do find out something I’ll let you know immediately.”
He paused, and she continued to stare at him. He thought she might be seeing right through him, but he plunged on.
“Dean was officially on vacation, Ginny,” he said. “He wouldn’t be going to meet someone now, would he?”
She sat staring at the tissue she was kneading. “I, uh, I said to, Paula, that… Jesus”-she looked up and away toward the windows, her eyes batting back the tears-”Dean’s… Dean’s had something else going on… besides work… I mean CID work… something else…”
She stopped, finding it difficult to broach the subject.
“Did he tell you this?”
She shook her head.
“No, of course not,” she said. “He wouldn’t have done that” She took a deep breath. “Uh, about a year ago… or a little less… he began going out at night again. I got used to that when he was an investigator, but that was years ago. As an analyst it was pretty rare that he would do that But it got to be he’d go out at least one night almost every week. I finally asked him about it, I said what’s the deal with this going out? You don’t have to do that” She dropped her eyes. “I thought… I thought he was seeing another woman. I blew up. He sat me down and said there was a special investigation under way and that everyone was having to put in extra time. It was a big project, a long one, and that this would have to go on for a while. After that he was very… sensitive about it, never tried to hide it or make it mysterious. But he reminded me that if I ever spoke to any of you, you know, when I came to see him at the office, that I must never mention that he’d been working late, that it wouldn’t look good if it seemed that he’d been talking about his work at home.”
Ginette reached a hand up and wiped it across her brow, brushing aside a wisp of her short, jet hair. She sighed heavily, exhausted from the tension that was eating every bit of her strength.
“About four or five months ago Dean began to change. He seemed… stressed. He grew kind of broody, irritable. I’d seen this before when he was an investigator, if something he was working on wasn’t going right. And in those days he’d talk about it after a while, if I insisted. But this time”-she shook her head-”this time he just got angry when I tried to draw him out. He made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that it wasn’t something we could talk about.
“Then he began going out more often at night. Sometimes I think he was going to meet Art. Sometimes Art would come by here, or he’d call and come over, and they’d stand outside in the drive and talk. So I knew it was business, not another woman. But it was eating him up. He couldn’t sleep. I’d wake up in the night, and he wouldn’t be in bed. I’d find him sitting out in the courtyard, or in the living room. Or I’d wake up suddenly, and he’d just be lying there, staring at the ceiling… or… or just be staring at me.”
She stopped and swallowed and, though she didn’t sob, tears rolled out of her eyes so that she had to stop and use more tissue. Graver glanced at Lara, whose large, dark eyes were fixed on him with sober concern. Again Ginette got herself under control and went on.
“Sunday night when you came over and told him about Art-God, it seems like a month ago-it was terrible. After you left Dean came in and told me. He told me we had to get over to Peggy’s and break the bad news to her. Then he went into the bathroom and closed the door. In a few minutes I heard him vomiting. He stayed in there a long time. I went ahead and changed clothes, and he was still in there. He, uh, he was sick until there was nothing left… uh, I, uh, could hear him in there just, you know, coughing and coughing.”
She started crying again, covering her face in the wad of tissues. Lara quickly got up and came over to the sofa and sat down on the other side of her, putting her arm around her. She took the wet tissues out of Ginette’s hands and gave her dry ones and hugged her and said something to her.
Graver sat there helplessly, the image of Burtell vomiting playing over and over in his mind. Paula was sitting near Graver’s desk with a pen and notepad, staring at Ginette with a drawn face. Graver saw that she hadn’t written down a word.
It was a few minutes before Ginette was able to continue, and when she did her voice was thin and without strength. This time Lara stayed at her side.
“We went over and stayed Sunday night with Peggy,” she went on. “We got a sedative for her and finally, about three in the morning, she went to sleep. Neither Dean nor I slept a minute. When Peggy’s folks came in from Corpus Christi about five-thirty the next morning, we went home. We both bathed, cleaned up and went to work. But Monday night was miserable. Dean wasn’t able to sleep at all. Tuesday morning the loss of sleep was killing me, and I called in sick. Dean got up and went to work as usual. I slept through the day and got up late in the afternoon. Dean had left a note on the kitchen table saying that he had left the office early, that, you know, you had let him start his vacation, and that he would be home again later.
“When he came in around nine o’clock that evening he looked terrible. He was carrying a computer backup tape which he said he’d tell me about later. We ate dinner and then about ten-fifteen he said he had to go to a meeting and would be back in a few hours. As soon as he left, you called. I was so glad to hear from you… I… almost told you I was seriously worried about him, but I rationalized. I thought, no he’s had this big investigation, then Art’s suicide. It’s just that it’s a terrible time for him. I didn’t want to be an alarmist Dean wouldn’t have wanted me to run whining to you about how much stress he was under. So I didn’t say anything to you about it He came in late that night… God, that was last night… and went straight to bed with a sick headache.
“This morning I went to work and let him sleep. He told me later that he had slept all day. When I got home this afternoon we had a few drinks, and he started talking.”
Ginette stopped and swallowed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I could use a glass of water after all.” Paula got up, went into the kitchen, and brought one back to her. Ginette took several drinks and then held it in her lap as she went on.
“He started talking,” she said. “He said that he had been involved in an investigation that… you… didn’t know anything about. He said that six or eight months ago he began to suspect someone was selling CID intelligence. He said after a month or so of looking into it he was sure it was happening, and he brought Art in because he trusted him and needed some help. But he said he hadn’t involved you because… he said, you know, he didn’t know how high up it went…”
“He wasn’t sure if I was involved or not,” Graver said.
She nodded uncertainly and shrugged. “I guess.”
“He was right to do that, Ginny,” Graver said. “He did the right thing. Then he believed people above him were involved?”
“He said he had proof that Ray Besom was selling intelligence.”
“Proof?”
“Yes. He said he and Art had set up a separate computer system in a rent house that Art owns, and they had
