It wasn't hard to spot. The mansion is a grand Georgian structure that commands a pleasant knoll not too far south of the tennis house. The redbrick home looks down both front and rear-and both literally and figuratively-on an expansive neighborhood that has grown up around it on what the Phipps family probably once called "the grounds." I was deterred from entering a long circular drive up to the mansion by two large men in gray suits who I surmised had not been hired for their facility at traffic control. I smiled at their stern warning to move on and continued around the block, driving a long, looping route that rolled up and to the west before circling back behind the tennis house.

I was in a nice neighborhood. On a street shaded by stately elms I parked across from a brick-and-stucco house that looked like a country hotel designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and in front of a vaulting A-frame that would have done Aspen proud. I decided to forgo the services of the valet because I'm cheap and also because I didn't want my car to be boxed in by the cars of the attendees of the day's fundraising event. I knew I would be exiting early. Trish had informed me that my meeting with Representative Welle was pre luncheon only.

She had asked me if that was clear.

I told her I thought it probably meant that I wasn't staying for lunch.

Yes. Trish and I had been on the same page.

In that morning's editions the Denver newspapers had reported that political supporters of Dr. Welle were going to pay one thousand dollars each to attend a pre lunch reception at the tennis house. I could only guess how much the two dozen or so who had been invited to luncheon in the dining room at the mansion afterward would be paying-or, more likely, had already paid-for the privilege of tearing puglia with the congressman.

Some memory fragment from the long-ago nuptials I'd attended suggested that I could cut through the gardens of the tennis house from near the spot where I'd parked my car and thus considerably abbreviate my walk to the mansion. I followed some catering employees past a redolent Dumpster, through a ratty wooden gate, and into the familiar tennis-house gardens. I listened for the percussive evidence of flickers. None around. From the tennis-house gardens I wandered up some brick stairs and through a charming wrought-iron-and-brick portico into the formal gardens on the north side of the mansion.

Although the flowering plants weren't at their peak, they hinted at what was to come in July and August. The grape arbors offered shade, and the abundant rose gardens were in perfect early-summer form. The cherry and apple trees showed the beginnings of a summer of good fruit. Upright junipers spaced like soldiers at parade rest protected the perimeters of the huge garden.

I wished Lauren were with me. She could tell me what some of the perennials were.

One of the two gray-suited men from the end of the driveway spotted me wandering the paths of the gardens. He apparently didn't think my stroll was a good idea and jogged up the driveway and across the lawn to tell me so.

"I have an appointment with Representative Welle," I said in response to his query about whether he could help me find my way.

"Your name, sir?" He stood between the distant entrance to the mansion and me.

"I'd like to see some ID." I told him my name and handed him my driver's license. When he returned it I asked, "And your name is?" I also held out my hand to shake his. He didn't notice; he was busy repeating my identity into a microphone that was hidden somewhere in his gray suit.

A moment later he said, "They are expecting you, Dr. Gregory. At the front door." He pointed up the hill.

I checked my watch.

"I'm a little early."

"That's not a problem. We would prefer that you not be on the grounds unaccompanied, sir. Would you like me to accompany you the rest of the way to the mansion?"

"I don't think that will be necessary."

"I'm glad to hear that."

The man who met me at the door of the big house was built like a double pork chop that had a grape stuck on the meaty end. Thin legs, tiny head, huge trunk.

Maybe five-nine. The only way to get by him in an airplane aisle would be to get down on your knees and crawl past those spindly legs.

"Phil Barrett" he said in a slightly too loud voice that I could only imagine coming in useful at a high school reunion as he was greeting someone he was afraid didn't remember who he was.

"Alan Gregory," I replied.

He shook my hand.

"Of course. Of course. Welcome. Come in." I imagined that he'd been at Phipps no more than half an hour and he was already acting like he'd just inherited it from some dead aunt.

I looked around.

"Nice place." "Yes," he said.

"Rays an alumni."

I was tempted to correct his Latin. Didn't.

"Of?"

"D.U. He was a Chi Phi. President, I think. His undergraduate degree is in economics. Not too many people know that part of Rays background. Before he became a healer he was quite a student of economic policy and all. Bet you're surprised. Am I right? I know I'm right. We have to do a better job of getting that part of Ray's background out to his public. Ray's been good to his school and the trustees are kind enough to let us use this place once in a while."

"That's nice."

"It's especially appropriate this year, of course. The original Mr. Phipps was a United States senator from Colorado, too. Did you know that? I'm afraid the history of this great state of ours eludes too many of its citizens."

I had indeed been aware that Lawrence Phipps was Senator Phipps but I said that I hadn't. It seemed important to Phil Barrett that I be ignorant.

We'd stepped far enough into the entrance hall so I could see the bustle of activity in the dining room, where the caterers were setting up tables for at least two dozen people. Lunch, apparently, was going to require a lot of silverware.

"Major supporters," Phil Barrett explained. Maybe he'd been thinking the same thing about the silverware.

"Hey," I said, shrugging my shoulders. I wondered if Raoul Estevez, my partner Diane's husband, would be in attendance. Diane had told me that R-aoul threw major money at politicians sometimes. Raoul's politics were usually difficult to discern but I felt confident that he threw money at both Democrats and Republicans without revealing his bias about their beliefs. He was practical enough, and honest enough, to admit that he was seeking influence, not ideology.

Barrett led me in the opposite direction from the dining room and we promptly got lost in the huge house. We backtracked once unsuccessfully and a second time with more success and he showed me into a library that was almost as large as the top floor of my house. The paneling and shelves were of knotty pine that had aged to a color halfway between honey and bourbon.

I let my eyes wander the room. Walls of books. Comfortable furniture. Nice lights. I decided I could read there.

"Ray will be just a minute or two. You'll be fine?"

I smiled.

Less than a minute later I was checking titles on the shelves when a young man dressed as though he was from the caterers staff entered the room and asked me if I would like something to drink.

"Please. A soft drink. Something brown and diet would be great."

I climbed a rolling library ladder and was perusing titles on the upper shelves, my back to the door, when I heard, "Your libation, sir."

I chuckled at the pretension and turned around to see not the young man from catering, but rather the familiar face of Dr. Raymond Welle. He was bowing lightly at the waist, a tray balanced perfectly on his right hand, a linen napkin folded expertly over his wrist. From my vantage, I could see that the crown of his head was becoming mostly bald.