I nodded and sipped a little beer.
“Sort of implies that I won’t,” Farrell said. “Doesn’t it? Sort of implies that maybe I’m not so good.”
“You got other things to do. I don’t.”
Farrell emptied his shot glass, and drank the remainder of his beer. He nodded toward the bartender, who refilled him. There was a flush on Farrell’s cheeks, and his eyes seemed bright.
“How many people in this room you figure are gay?” he said.
I glanced around the room. It was full of men. I swallowed a little more beer. I looked at Farrell and shrugged.
“Everybody but me,” I said.
“Pretty sure you can tell by just looking?”
“It’s a gay bar,” I said. “I know you’re gay. Quirk told me.”
“I’m not so sure I like that,” Farrell said.
“Why, is it a secret?”
“No, but why is he talking about it?”
“As an explanation of why you might be stuck on a dead-end case.”
“I never thought Quirk cared.”
“I don’t think he does.”
“Lotta people do,” Farrell said.
“True,” I said.
We sat for a while.
“You figure fags got no iron?” Farrell said.
“I assume some do and some don’t,” I said. “I don’t know enough about it to be sure.”
We sat some more.
“I’m as good as any cop,” Farrell said.
I nodded encouragingly.
“Good as you too,” Farrell said.
“Sure,” I said.
Farrell drank more whiskey. His speech was still fully formed, but his voice was very thick.
“You believe that?” he said.
“I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t care if you are as good as I am or not. I don’t care if you’re tough or not, or smart or not. I don’t care if you are gay or straight or both or neither. I care about finding out who killed that broad with a framing hammer, and so far you’re not helping me worth shit.”
Farrell sat for a while staring at me, with the dead-eyed cop that all of them perfect, then he nodded as if to himself. He picked up the whiskey and sipped a little and put the glass down.
“You know,” he said, “sometimes if I’m alone, and there’s no one around…”
He glanced up and down the bar and lowered his voice.
“… I order a sloe gin fizz,” he said.
“A dead giveaway,” I said. “Now that we’ve established that you’re queer and you’re here, can we talk about the Nelson case?” I said.
“You got the case file,” Farrell said.
“Yeah, and I’ve seen the house, and I’ve talked to the children.”
“Always a good time,” Farrell said.
The bartender came down and looked at Farrell’s drink. Farrell shook his head.
“They’re under stress,” I said.
“Sure,” Farrell said.
“Tripp and his wife had separate rooms,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Which doesn’t mean they didn’t get along,” I said.
“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.
I told her who I was. She seemed thrilled to meet me.
“Mr. Tripp is at his club,” she said. “I’m sure he didn’t realize you were coming.”
She was wearing taupe hose that fitted her legs perfectly.
“Actually I’d just as soon talk with you,” I said.
She lowered her eyes for a moment, and smiled.
“Really?” she said.
I was probably not the first guy to say that to her, nor, in fact, the first guy to mean it. I hooked a red leather side chair over to her desk and sat down. She smiled again. Ready to help.
“You know I’m looking into Mrs. Tripp’s murder?”
“Yes,” she said. “How terrible for them all.”
“Yes,” I said. “How’s business?”
She shifted slightly in her chair. “I beg your pardon?” she said.
“How’s business here?” I said.
“I… I don’t see why you ask.”
“Don’t know what else to ask,” I said.
“I’ve talked with the police,” she said.
Her big eyes looked puzzled but hopeful. She’d like to help, but how?
“I know,” I said. “No point in saying all that again. So we’ll talk about other stuff. Like business. How is it, are you busy?”
She frowned. Conflicting emotional states were a breeze for her. A pretty frown, an understated hip wiggle, a slight shift in her eyes. It was beautiful to see.