wanted to get it under control right now.”
“So your wife wouldn’t know,” I said.
“Well, Laura and I have a kind of understanding. But… we’re planning for the presidential nomination, next time, maybe,” Stratton said. “It could have hurt us.”
“Still could,” I said.
“Hey, this is off the record.”
“What record?” I said. “You think this is an interview? I’m a detective. You could have killed her.”
“Me?”
“You and your staff,” I said.
“Don’t be absurd,” Stratton said. “I’m a United States Senator.”
“I rest my case,” I said.
chapter twenty-nine
TRIPP’S OFFICE WAS as peaceful as ever. Ann Summers was there at her desk, in a simple black dress today. She remembered me and was glad to see me, a combination I don’t always get. On the other hand, given the activity level in the office, she was probably glad to see anyone.
“He’s back,” I said.
“Yes, he’s just down the hall.”
“Do you handle his checkbook?” I said.
“Mr. Tripp’s? Not really, why do you ask?”
“His check bounced,” I said and took the bank notice out of my pocket and showed it to her.
“Mr. Tripp’s?”
“Un huh.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “Probably a mistake.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is.” I said.
I waved it off and she showed me into Tripp’s big office and sat me in the leather chair by his desk. The office was done in green. The walls and woodwork were green. The rug was a green Oriental, the furniture was cherry, the high-backed swivel chair behind Tripp’s desk was cherry with green leather upholstery. The long desk had a red leather top, with a gold leaf design around the edges of it. There was a wet bar at the far end of the office, and a fireplace on the wall behind Tripp’s desk. It was faced in a sort of plum-colored tile with a vine pattern running through the tiles, and it was framed on each side by big cherry bookcases. The books looked neat and mostly unread. A lot of them were leather-bound to match the room. In two of the four corners there were cherry corner cabinets with ornate tops, and gold leaf dentil molding highlighting them. The corner cupboards were filled with designer knickknacks, and in the middle shelf on one of them was a picture of Olivia Nelson, or whoever the hell she had been, as a younger woman. Tripp’s desktop was empty except for the onyx pen set, a telephone, and a big three-check checkbook. The checkbook was set square in the center of the desk as if to demand reconciling as soon as you sat down. I picked it up and opened the ledger pages, and ran back through them looking for my check. As I read, I noticed that there was no running balance. Each check was carefully entered, numbered and dated, but there was no way, looking at the checkbook, to know how much you had. I found my check, right below a check to Dr. Mildred Cockburn. I read back further. There were checks every month to Dr. Cockburn. All the entries were in the same thin hand. I’d seen it on my check. Most of the other checks were obvious. Telephone, electricity, insurance, cleaners, credit card payments. The only recurring one that was not obvious was Dr. Cockburn. Many of the check entries had Returned written across the original entry, in red ink, in the same hand, including several of Dr. Cockburn’s. I looked a little harder. There seemed to be no checks rewritten to make good the ones that bounced. Something else was off in the check register. I didn’t get it for a minute. I went back through more pages. And then I saw it. There were no deposits. In the whole ledger, there was no deposit entry. I put the checkbook back, and sat, and thought about that, and in a while, Tripp came into his office carrying a folded copy of The Wall Street Journal.
“Spenser,” he said. “Good of you to come.”
We shook hands, and he went around his desk and got into his padded leather swivel. He put the paper on the desk next to the checkbook, which he straightened automatically so that it was exactly square with the desk.
“Do you have a report for me?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “Maybe a couple of more questions.”
“Oh, certainly. But I am disappointed. I was hoping you’d have something.”
I had something all right. But what the hell was it?
“Have you ever met any of your wife’s family?” I said.
“No. She had none. That is, of course, had she one once, but they all died before I met her. She was quite alone, except for me.”
“Ever been to Alton?” I said.
Tripp smiled sadly.
“No. There was never any reason.”
I nodded. We were both silent for a moment.
“Sometimes,” Tripp said, “I think I ought to go down there, walk around, look at the places where she walked, went to class, had friends.”
