“True.”
“Un huh.”
“What do you think?”
“Hers doesn’t look like she spent much time there,” Farrell said.
“What’s he do?” I said.
“For work?”
“Yeah.”
Farrell shrugged. “Runs the family money, I guess. Got an office and a secretary in the DePaul Building downtown. Goes there every day. Reads the paper, makes some calls, goes over to Locke’s for lunch.”
“Nice orderly life,” I said.
“Maybe it was just a random crazy,” Farrell said.
“Maybe. But if we assume that, we got no place to go,” I said.
“So you assume it’s not random. Where does that leave you?”
“Looking for a motive,” I said.
“We been over that,” Farrell said. “Me, Belson, Quirk, everybody. You going to go over it again?”
“Probably,” I said. “And then, probably, I’ll try it from the other end.”
“Her past?”
“If it’s not a random killing, there’s something in her life that caused it. You people have been all over the recent events. I’ll go over them again because I’m a methodical guy. But I don’t expect to find something you missed. On the other hand, you haven’t turned out all the pockets of her history. You don’t have the budget.”
“But you do?”
“Tripp does,” I said.
“Until he decides you’re just churning his account,” Farrell said.
“Until then,” I said.
We sat for a while in the crowded bar. It was full of men. Most of them were in suits and ties. Some were holding hands. A tallish guy with a thin face had his arm around a gray-haired man in a blue blazer. No one paid me any mind.
“You married?” Farrell said.
“Not quite,” I said.
Farrell looked past me at the bar scene.
“How about you?” I said.
“I’m with somebody,” Farrell said.
We were quiet again. People circulated among the tables. I watched them, and nursed my beer.
“You notice nobody comes over,” Farrell said.
“They know you’re a cop,” I said. “They figure I’m from the outside. They don’t want to out you in case you’re en closet.”
“On the money,” Farrell said.
I waited. Farrell stared at the crowd.
“I come on too strong about things,” Farrell said.
“True,” I said.
“You understand why.”
“Yeah.”
Farrell shifted his eyes toward me and nodded several times.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally.
“Okay,” I said. “But I don’t think I want to go steady.”
chapter eight
TRIPP’S SECRETARY WAS named Ann Summers. It said so on a nice brass plate on her nice dark walnut desk. She was probably fortyfive, and elegant, with dark auburn hair worn short. Her large round eyes were hazel. And her big round glasses magnified the eyes very effectively. The glasses had green rims. She wore a short gray skirt and a long gray jacket. She was sitting, with her legs crossed, tilted back in a swivel chair, turned toward the door. Her legs were very good.
On her desk was an in-basket, empty, and an out-basket with a letter in it. There was also a phone, a lamp with a green glass shade, two manila file folders, and to one side a hardback copy of a novel by P. D. James.
“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was full of polished overtones. She sounded like she really thought it was a good morning, and hoped that I did too.
