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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