“Yeah.”
“Jesus,” Belson said. “President Stratton.”
“How about Tripp?”
“I talked to him.”
“And?”
“He says everything was perfect.”
“You got anything, Lee?” Quirk said.
Farrell jerked a little, as if he’d not been paying close attention.
“No, Lieutenant, no, I don’t.”
“Why should you be different?” Quirk said. He kept his eyes on Farrell for a long moment.
“One thing,” I said. “I don’t know why you would have, but has anyone run a credit check on Tripp?”
“Worried about your fee?” Belson said.
It was two-thirty in the afternoon and his thin face already sported a five o’clock shadow. He was one of those guys who looked cleanshaven for about an hour in the morning.
“In fact, his check bounced. But I think there’s something goofy about his finances.”
I told them about the checkbook. “Might be something,” I said.
“Lee?” Quirk said.
Farrell nodded.
“I’ll find out,” he said. “Anything else?”
“The name Dr. Mildred Cockburn shows up in his checkbook a lot.”
“Written like that?” Belson said.
I nodded.
“Probably not a medical doctor,” Belson said.
“Yeah,” I said, “then the check would be to Mildred Cockburn, DMD, or Mildred Cockburn, MD.”
“Maybe she’s a shrink,” Belson said.
“Or a chiropractor, or a doctor of podiatry,” I said.
“Hope for a shrink,” Quirk said.
chapter thirty-one
SUSAN AND I had dinner at Michela’s in Cambridge with Dennis and Nancy Upper. Susan knew Dennis from them both being shrinks. Nancy turned out to be an ex-dancer, so I was able to dazzle her with the knowledge of dance I had gained from Paul Giacomin, while Susan and Dennis talked about patients they had known.
I asked if either of them had heard of Dr. Mildred Cockburn. Neither of them had. Still, there was risotto with crab meat and a pistachio pesto. The room was elegant, and the bartender made the best martinis I’d ever drunk.
“I’ve got to find out how he does that,” I said to Susan on the ride home.
“Well, you’re a detective.”
“And how complicated a recipe can it be?” I said.
“Vodka and vermouth?”
“Yeah.”
“Sounds complicated to me,” Susan said.
“Recipes are not the best thing you do,” I said.
We were on Memorial Drive. Across the river the Boston skyline looked like a contrivance. The State House stood on its low hill, the downtown skyscrapers loomed behind it. And strung out along the flatness of the Back Bay, with the insurance towers in the background, the apartment houses were soft with the glow of lighted living rooms. It was Friday night. I was going to stay with Susan.
“Why do you want to know about Mildred Cockburn?” Susan said.
“Saw her name in Loudon Tripp’s checkbook, `Dr. Mildred Cockburn,‘ every month, checks for five hundred dollars. So I looked her up in the phone book. She’s listed as a therapist with an office on Hilliard Street in Cambridge.”
“Odd,” Susan said.
“You’d expect to know her?”
“Yes.”
“When I talk with her, what is it reasonable to expect her to tell me?” I said.
“Ethically?” Susan said.
