Robert B Parker - Spenser 30 - Back Story

by Back Story(lit)

  "Tell Sonny that he's starting to annoy me," I said.

  Then I turned and went uphill to the car. I ran up to show that I could, and maybe somebody had called the cops. Hawk must have thought the same, because he roared away while I was still closing my door, and in ten seconds we were doing 50. I buckled my seat belt.

  "What'd you use?" I said.

  "Model 70," he said.

  "Winchester," I said, "five-round magazine, bolt action?"

  "And a scope," Hawk said.

  "Oh, hell, a scope. That's no fair."

  "No," Hawk said. "It ain't."

  35

  According to the papers the next morning, two men had been shot at Taft University and two getaway cars were being sought. Two other men were said to have escaped on foot as police searched the campus and surrounding woods. Both were described as white males, as were the victims.

  "For crissake," I said to Hawk. "Nobody even saw you."

  "I run off lippity-lop," Hawk said.

  "You ready to make another try at Taft," I said, "in your car?"

  "Be a number of policemen still around," Hawk said.

  "Got nothing to do with us," I said. "I'm working on a case. You're my trusty sidekick."

  "Long as I don't have to call you Kemo Sabe."

  "Ever wonder what that meant?" I said.

  "I always thought it meant Paleface Motherfucker," Hawk said.

  "That's probably it," I said.

  No one followed us this time when we drove out to Taft. There was some crime scene tape down by the pond and several state police cars parked near the administration building. Hawk stayed in the car. I got out. Nobody paid much attention to either one of us.

  Inside the registrar's office, I had to ratchet up my virile charm a little to get past the grim woman at the counter. But I did, and she took my card in and came back and said I could go into the inner office.

  "I'm Betty Holmes," she said. "Are you involved in the investigation?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Do you have any idea who shot those men?"

  "We have some possibilities," I said.

  She was maybe fifty, a tall, pale blonde woman with a strong nose, her hair pulled back tightly, and a gleam of intelligence in her eyes. She looked at me silently for a moment. I could see her thinking.

  "Who's we?" she said.

  "Me," I said. "I was trying to deceive you."

  "How charming," she said. "What is it you are actually doing?"

  "I'm investigating the death of a woman who went here probably in the late 1960s."

  "Which has nothing to do with the recent shootings," she said.

  "I don't know what has to do with what," I said. "But I'm not here to investigate the shooting."

  "Well," she said, "good. At least now we know what we're talking about."

  "Sort of," I said. "Could you see if you have any record of Emily Gold? Or a woman named Lombard."

  "If they attended, we would have a record. What is Ms. Lombard's first name?"

  "I don't know. She's been referred to as Bunny Lombard, but I assume it's a nickname."

  "One would assume," she said. "But, working here, I've encountered some unusual names."

  She wrote the names on a piece of paper.

  "While you're at it," I said, "see if you have any record of Leon Holton or Abner Fancy."

  "What was the second one?"

  "Fancy," I said. "Abner Fancy."

  She smiled but didn't comment. "Why do you want these names?" she said.

  "Emily Gold is the victim. Others are names associated with her at the time of her death."

  "She would be," Betty Holmes did some brief addition in her head, "in her fifties."

  "She was murdered, probably in her late twenties," I said.

  "In 1974."

  "And you're still working on the case?"

  "On behalf of her daughter," I said.

  She thought about it for a little while. I sat and waited quietly, shimmering with virile charm. It worked again, as she summoned the grim woman from out front and dispatched her to find the names.

  "Have you always been a private detective," Betty Holmes said.

  "I was once a cop," I said.

  "And?"

  "And I've always been inner-directed," I said.

  "But you still wanted to be a detective."

  "I'm good at this," I said.

  "And one can make a living?"

  "I can," I said.

  The grim guardian returned with some computer printouts. She looked at me with disapproval. I did not stick out my tongue at her. Betty Holmes looked at the printouts for awhile.

  "Emily Gold enrolled with the class of 1967 in September of 1963. She left school in June of 1965 at the end of her sophomore year. We have a Bonnie Lombard in the same class. She left school in January of 1965. We have no Leon Holton or, sadly, an Abner Fancy."

  "Addresses?"

  "Yes. Nearly thirty years old," she said.

  "Got to start somewhere."

  "Here," she said.

  I took the printout. Emily had an address on Torrey Pines Road in La Jolla. In her final semester she'd gotten four D's and a C. Bonnie Lombard had an address in Paradise. "How do I get the names of some classmates?" I said.

  "Why?"

  "I'm floundering," I said. "I have lots of information and no proof. Rule Seven of the inner-directed sleuth operating manual says, when you don't have enough proof, learn anything you can."

  "Rule Seven," she said.

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  She smiled. "Our alumni secretary should be able to help you with that," she said.

  "Could you direct me to him?" I said. "And maybe make a phone call to get me by the Gorgon at the gate."

  "Gorgon at the gate," she said and laughed and reached for her phone. "Do all detectives talk that way?"

  "Most of them are less inner-directed," I said.

  36

  There were 3,180 kids in the class that started at Taft in September of 1963. Hawk lay on the couch in my office with his ankles crossed and a Homestead Grays cap tilted down over his eyes, while I went through the list. Emily Gold was there among the G's. Bonnie Lombard was there among the L's. I recognized no other names.

  "If we divided this list equally between us," I said to Hawk, "we'd each have only fifteen-something-hundred people to interview."

  "One thousand five hundred ninety," Hawk said. "And who gonna keep them from shooting your ass while I'm off chatting with my half?"

  "Oh, yeah," I said. "I forgot about that."

  "You want to be the one tells Susan I let them kill you?"

  "There's something wrong with that question," I said. "But no, I don't."

  "So maybe you need to winnow the list," Hawk said.

  "Winnow?" I said.

  "Glean."

  "Absolutely," I said. "I could winnow geographically, and glean all the names in the Boston area."

  "You know," Hawk said, "we checked out Bonnie Lombard we might not have to winnow and glean no more."

  "Why didn't I think of that," I said.

  "You white," Hawk said.

  "I do the best I can," I said.

  It was hot enough for air-conditioning as we drove along the North Shore toward Paradise and turned off into the old part of town. Paradise was a fishing town gone upscale. There were still fishing boats in the harbor, but the pleasure boats now outnumbered them, and Paradise Neck, across the causeway, was some of the most expensive real estate in Massachusetts.

  "Don't appear that Bonnie Lombard be going hungry," Hawk said, as we drove across the causeway with the harbor on our left and the gray Atlantic ocean rolling in to our right.

  "Probably had her own room, too," I said.

  "How many brothers you think I going to see out here?"

  "Well," I said. "These people might have servants."

  Seventeen Ocean Street was a rolling lawn behind a field stone fence topped by a big gray-shingled Victori
an house with a slate roof. There was no gatehouse, but a black Chrysler was parked at the foot of the driveway, its nose toward the street, effectively blocking the way. When we pulled up, a hard-looking guy in a black suit got out and walked over to us.

  "That be the chauffeur?" Hawk said.

  "You bet," I said and rolled down my window.

  "How you doing?" I said.

  "Can I help you?" the chauffeur said.

  It wasn't unfriendly. It wasn't warm. It was flat and neutral and told me nothing.

  "I'm a detective," I said. "I'm trying to locate a woman named Bonnie Lombard."

  "Nobody here by that name," the chauffeur said.

  "Who lives here now?" I said.

  "None of your business," the chauffeur said.

  Again, neither threatening nor friendly, simply a statement.

  "Okay," I said. "How long have they lived here."

  The chauffeur didn't even bother to answer that. He simply shook his head.

  "Well," I said. "Nice talking with you."

  As we drove away, Hawk said, "Maybe he wasn't the chauffeur."

  "What the hell was that all about?" I said.

  "There another guy in the car," Hawk said.

  "I know."

  "Seem kind of unfriendly for a nice suburban family," Hawk said. "Even a rich white one."

  "Makes one curious."

  "It do."

  We drove back across the causeway and found the town library and went in. In the reference section, we found the town directory, which listed residents by address, and found that the property at 17 Ocean Street was owned by Sarno Karnofsky.

  "Would that be the elegant and charming Sonny?" I said.

  "I believe it would," Hawk said.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  37

  Pearl II was tearing around in Susan's backyard with an azalea bush she had uprooted. Hawk and Susan and I were having an entirely delicious sangria, which I had made, and eating cheese with French bread and cherries.

  "What am I going to do," Susan said. "She uproots my shrubs, eats my flowers, digs huge holes."

  "I could shoot her," Hawk said.

  "Shush," Susan said. "She'll hear you."

  "Just a thought," Hawk said.

  He held out a small slice of cheese, and Pearl came to inspect it. She sniffed carefully, took it gingerly in her soft mouth, chewed it once, and spit it out. She looked at it intently for a moment and then rolled on it.

  "I was thinking she might just eat it," Hawk said.

  "That would be common," Susan said.

  "Maybe she needs more exercise," I said. "Tire her out."

  "I run with her every morning along the river," Susan said. "And Ann takes her to the woods at noon and lets her run with the other dogs. And Susanna comes around four and walks her for an hour."

  "And she's not tired," I said.

  "Not tired enough," Susan said.

  "Ah, sweet bird of youth," I said.

  "You're both making light of this, but I love my yard, and she's ruining it."

  "She'll outgrow it," I said. "She's just a puppy, albeit a large one."

  "Baby Hughie," Hawk said.

  "I know," Susan said. "But by that time, I'll be living in a patch of arid wasteland."

  "When this Emily Gold thing is over, maybe she can come stay with me for awhile," I said.

  "That's Daryl's mother?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you find out anything useful at Taft?"

  "Maybe," I said.

  "Was Hawk with you when you went to Taft?"

  "We're inseparable," I said.

  "I read in the paper that there was a shooting," Susan said.

  I smiled at her and nodded. She looked at Hawk. He smiled at her and nodded. Susan sat quietly for a moment, without anything showing in her face except being beautiful.

  Then she said, "What did you find out?"

  I told her. Pearl had discarded the azalea bush and was now digging intensely near the back steps.

  "You mean Bunny Lombard gave an address now occupied by this Karnofsky person?"

  "If Bunny is the same as Bonnie," I said.

  "Did he live there when she gave the address?"

  "Don't know yet," I said. "But among the things Sonny told me to lay of off was his family."

  "You think she's his family?"

  "Don't know yet."

  Susan watched Pearl dig. I knew she was deeply distracted, because she didn't tell Pearl to stop.

  "I assume that Karnofsky made another attempt at Taft," Susan said.

  I nodded. The hole Pearl was so industriously digging was now deep enough to contain all but her rear end.

  "And it hasn't deterred you."

  "It has increased my anxiety," I said.

  "Really?" Susan said. "I'm not certain you feel anxiety."

  "I try not to dwell on it," I said.

  "But you are frightened sometimes."

  "Of course."

  She looked at Hawk. "Are you ever scared?" she said.

  "Ah is descended from generations of proud warriors," Hawk said.

  "Oh, God," Susan said. "You're not going to give me some kind of Shaka Zulu rap, are you?"

  Hawk grinned at her.

  "All of whom were scared," he said.

  "Like you?"

  "Sho'."

  Pearl came over smelling of fresh earth and put her head on Susan's lap. Susan stroked her automatically.

  "But. ?" she said.

  Hawk and I looked at each other.

  "When I was boxing," I said, "people would occasionally say to me, 'doesn't it hurt to get hit like that?' And of course it did. But if I couldn't put up with the pain, I couldn't be a fighter."

  Susan nodded.

  "I know," she said. "You've explained it before."

  "Repetition is an excellent learning tool," I said.

  "Of course, I'm not talking about you, anyway," Susan said.

  "I know."

  "I'm scared, and I don't want to be."

  "You get used to it," I said.

  "I wish I didn't have to," Susan said.

  I shrugged. "I can't sing or dance," I said.

  "I know."

  Pearl moved over to Hawk and pushed her head under his hand to be patted.

  "You folks barely talk," he said, smoothing Pearl's ears. "One of you say something cryptic, the other one say, 'I know.' Pretty soon you be speaking in clicks."

  Susan smiled at him. "Yes," she said softly.

  "Nobody gonna kill us," Hawk said.

  "They never have," Susan said.

  38

  So far it was a good day. No one had attempted to murder me. The weather was bright and pleasant. I had finished Tank McNamara and was reading Arlo and Janis. There was two-thirds of a large coffee and a second corn muffin beside me on my desk. Hawk, with a sawed-off doubled-barreled shotgun next to him on the couch, was reading a book about evolution by Ernst Mayr. I had the window open behind me, and the bright summer air smelled clean coming in.

  When I finished Arlo and Janis, I called Rita Fiore at her office.

  "I need a favor," I said.

  "Your place or mine," Rita said.

  "Not that kind of favor."

  "It never is," Rita said. "What do you want."

  I told her.

  "Easy," she said. "I'll send a paralegal up to Essex County."

  I thanked her and hung up and broke off half of my corn muffin. Suddenly Hawk dog-eared his page, put down his book, and picked up his shotgun. My office door opened. It was Epstein with a thin black leather briefcase under his arm. Hawk put the gun down and picked up his book. Epstein glanced at Hawk, glanced at the sawed-off, came to my desk, and sat in a client chair.