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.
“Well, that’s what it looks like. That’s not official yet There was no note, not there with him, anyway.” Graver spent a few minutes telling Burtell how the evening had unfolded, all of it just as it had happened. When he stopped, Burtell looked up.
“What about Peggy?”
“She doesn’t know yet,” Graver said. He hesitated. “1 hate to ask you this, Dean, but I’d appreciate it if you’d break it to her.”
“Jesus Christ,” Burtell said. He reached down and picked up his handkerchief and tossed it on the table beside the glass. “Sure,” he said, sinking back on the sofa. “Sure, it’s fine. I don’t mind. It ought to be me. I know that” He looked at Graver. “Is that all there is to it? That’s all you know?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Burtell frowned incredulously, but when Graver didn’t elaborate Burtell’s eyes drifted away. “What in the hell did he think he was doing?”
“I was really hoping you could give me some insight into that,” Graver said.
Burtell’s eyes jerked back to Graver. He seemed taken aback.
“You probably knew him better than anyone,” Graver reminded him.
“Look, I don’t… I just…” He paused, then, doing what he did best, he collected his thoughts, organized his thinking. “Okay,” he said, raising his opened hands, palms out, a gesture of calming himself, starting over. “We weren’t that close, for Christ’s sake, Marcus…” He thought about it, staring past Graver, out to the blackness through the windows, shaking his head slowly.
“God, I don’t know… uh, at home,” he began. “I can’t imagine anything going on at home, between him and Peggy anyway, that was eating at him… enough… you know, for this. Honest to God, I don’t. Their marriage was… I don’t know,” he cleared his throat “It would seem boring I guess to some people. Art wasn’t… he didn’t play around. He didn’t hang out with a bunch of guys even. Peggy wasn’t a sports widow, anything like that. He went to work; he went home. They pretty well did everything together.
“They didn’t have any obvious troubles, serious ones anyway. Art was content with going to Peggy’s cat shows, helping her with that kind of shit That was actually their big ‘outside activity,’ her cat shows.”
He paused, his thoughts straying for a moment before he caught himself and shook his head. “I just don’t see anything there to kill yourself about. No lovers or crazy sex or frustrations.” He caught himself. “I mean… I never saw any evidence of that kind of stuff. All I’m saying is, Art and Peggy… you just never saw anything like that. Nothing extreme about either of them, nothing that was in danger of getting out of control.”
He laid his head back, twisted his neck in an effort to relieve the tension. He straightened up.
“What about their families,” Graver asked. “Any complications there? What about money? Debts?”
“Family worries,” Burtell said. “Art’s dad is dead, five or six years ago. His mom lives in Dallas, in a retirement community near his only sister. He’s never expressed any concern about any of them. I think Peggy’s parents live in Corpus Christi. I don’t really know anything about them.
“As for money problems, hell”-Burtell smiled thinly-”Art is ‘fiscally conservative.’ I doubt if he knew the definition of squander. He would have to be taught how to live beyond his means. One of the few people in the United States who operated on a cash basis. Really. I’d bet the only dime they owe is on their house…” He stopped. “In fact, Christ, I would have thought Tisler would be the last person in the world to kill himself, if for no other reason than it would cheat Peggy out of her insurance. He’s paid premiums for years… money down the tubes… that’s the way he’d see it He would have thought it was a damned stupid thing to do. I mean, it would have been the first item crossed off his list of options. He just wouldn’t have considered it… practical.”
“You think he didn’t kill himself?”
Burtell looked up. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. I’m not implying anything…” He stopped and stared at Graver, who remained silent “We’ve got to go into his investigations, is that it?”