“You bet,” Cosgrove said. “Far as I know, it’s trophy hunting. I don’t think he actually likes women at all.”
“You know of any connection between him and Olivia Nelson, the woman who got killed couple of months back in Louisburg Square?”
“Loudon Tripp’s wife,” Cosgrove said.
“Un huh.”
“I don’t know any connection with her, but she’s female-and Bobby is Bobby. Her husband probably knows Stratton.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s got money and contributes it to politicians.”
“Democratic politicians?” I said.
“Politics makes strange bedfellows,” Cosgrove said.
“I’d heard that,” I said.
“Trust me, I’m a columnist,” he said. “Why are you interested in Stratton?”
“Some people working for him tried to chase me off the Olivia Nelson case.”
“Probably fucking her, and afraid it’ll get out.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Olivia Nelson I’ve been sold, but say it was, and he was,” I said. “Is it that big a secret?”
“He’s probably going to be in the presidential primaries,” Cosgrove said. “Remember Gary Hart?”
“Ah ha,” I said.
“Ah ha?”
“You can say strange bedfellows, I can say ah ha.”
“I thought the cops washed that case off,” Cosgrove said. “Deranged slayer, random victim.”
“You been punching the file up,” I said, “while you’re talking to me.”
“Sure,” Cosgrove said. “I haven’t always been a fucking columnist. How come you’re investigating?”
“Her husband wouldn’t accept it. He hired me.”
“You got a theory?”
“No.”
“You make any progress?”
“No.”
“Off the record?”
“No.”
“So I tell you everything I know and you tell me shit,” Cosgrove said.
“Yes.”
We hung up.
Farrell and I looked at each other.
“You suppose she was sleeping with Stratton?” Farrell said.
I shrugged.
“I don’t even know who she is,” I said.
Farrell was silent. He nipped a little of the scotch. It was good scotch, Glenfiddich, single malt. We were drinking it in small measures from a couple of water glasses, which was all I had in the office. I was not fond of straight booze, but Glenfiddich was very tolerable.
“How is it at home?” I said.
“Home?”
“Quirk told me your lover is dying.”
Farrell nodded.
“How soon?” I said.
“Sooner the better,” Farrell said. “Final stages. Weighs about eighty pounds.”
“He at home?”
Farrell shook his head. “Hospice,” he said.
His words were effortful. As if there weren’t many left.
“How are you?” I said.
“I feel like shit,” Farrell said.
