"In the folder," Epstein said. "Seems to have been a model prisoner."
Epstein put the folder on my desk. "You know anything salient I should know?"
"You know everything I know," I said.
"Let's keep it that way," Epstein said.
"You bet," I said.
Epstein glanced at Hawk without saying anything, hesitated for a moment, then left.
Without looking up from his book, Hawk said, "Liar, liar, pants on fire."
"I never got in trouble keeping my mouth shut," I said.
"Sonny got a daughter named Bonnie whose mother's maiden name was Lombard," Hawk said.
"I thought you were reading."
"Super Bro," Hawk said. "I can read and listen."
"It would be a spectacular coincidence," I said, "if Bonnie Louise Karnofsky were not Bunny Lombard."
"If Sonny live there back then."
"I'm working on that," I said.
"Rita?"
"Yeah."
"You ought to give in to her one time," Hawk said.
"And tell Susan what?"
"Line of duty," Hawk said.
I shook my head. "Maybe you need to step in," I said.
"Man, I got to do everything for you?"
"Almost," I said.
39
According to his prison sheet, Abner Fancy had been born out of wedlock in Boston in 1940. He was living in the South End when he was arrested, on Canton Street in the years when it was somewhat less rarified. There was no indication in the record that he was a problem while he was doing his time. The parole board, when they paroled him, took note of the fact that he had taken every class he could in the Taft prison-outreach program and appeared serious in his attempts to improve himself.
While I was reading Abner's folder, Rita Fiore called me.
"House at Seventeen Ocean Street in Paradise was purchased in 1961 by Sarno and Evelina Karnofsky for one hundred twelve thousand five hundred dollars," she said.
"Bada bing," I said.
"Bada bing?"
"Bada bing!"
"I gather this information is useful to you," Rita said.
"It is," I said.
"So you owe me?"
"I do."
"I want lunch," Rita said. "I could send some over," I said.
"I want to eat it with you, you sonova bitch, so I can ply you with strong drink until you succumb."
"Oh hell," I said. "Everybody does that."
"Monday," Rita said. "Noon. Lock Obers."
"A debt is a debt," I said.
"You are one sweet-talking dude," Rita said and hung up.
"Bonnie is Bunny," I said to Hawk, "is Bonnie Louise Karnofsky."
"Sonny live there early enough?"
"Bought the place in '61."
"And when his daughter goes to college, she don't want to be the daughter of a hooligan," Hawk said. "So she use her mother's maiden name."
"And either Bonnie got morphed into Bunny," I said. "Or Daryl remembered it wrong."
"So where is Bonnie/Bunny now?" Hawk said.
"Alumni directory still has her living with Sonny," I said.
"She'd be how old now?" Hawk said.
"Late fifties," I said.
"Christ, how old is Sonny?"
"Late seventies," I said. "I have to do all the math for you?"
"I concentrating on saving your life," Hawk said. "Can't do that and math, too."
"You're easily confused," I said. "We could go out and ask her whereabouts."
"Sure," Hawk said. "Sonny be glad to tell us."
"Okay, so we put that plan on hold," I said. "She must have had friends in college. Maybe I can find one that's kept in touch."
"Lotta phone calls," Hawk said. "Could have Epstein pick her up for questioning."
"If he can find her," I said. "Fifty's kind of old to be living at home. And if he does find her, he hasn't got anything to hold her on. And if she has got something to hide, as soon as Epstein lets her go, Sonny will ship her off to Zanzibar, and nobody will find her."
"We could stake out the property," Hawk said. "See if we see her."
"We could," I said.
" 'Course, if we don't see her, it won't mean she isn't there," Hawk said. "Just mean she hasn't come out while we there."
"And if we do see her, how will we know it's her," I said.
"And maybe Sonny a little more alert to stakeouts than your average suburban dad," Hawk said.
"And since he's trying to kill us anyway. "
"There you go saying 'us' again."
"All for one and one for all," I said.
"Don't that suck," Hawk said.
40
We settled for a lot of phone calls.
Of the 3,180 students that entered Taft in the fall of 1963, 954 of them were from greater Boston. The alumni directory had addresses for 611. At the rate of one minute per phone call, it would take me ten hours to call them all. If I didn't go to the bathroom. On the assumption that she would have more girlfriends than boyfriends, I went through the list again and winnowed out 307 female names.
"You wanna make some of these calls?" I said to Hawk.
"No."
"Maybe I'll be lucky," I said. "Maybe she was pals with Judy Aaron."
"You got one chance in three hundred seven," Hawk said.
"I thought you didn't do math."
"I do when I want to," Hawk said.
"They'll chisel that on your headstone," I said.
I picked up my cordless phone and leaned back and put my feet up and began. Most of the calls took longer than a minute. Who was I again? Why did I wish to locate Bonnie Lombard? Was I authorized by the university? This was compensated to some extent by the people who hung up on me or who weren't home. Still, I'd been at it almost three hours when I talked to Anne Fahey. "Bonnie? Sure, I remember Bonnie."
"May I come and see you about her," I said.
"Sure. You got my phone number, does that mean you got my address?"
I read her address to her. "That's it. When do you want to come?"
"I'll be there in an hour," I said.
"Okay," she said. "Maybe I can rummage around, find some pictures or something. Should I do that?"
"Anything you have would be helpful," I said.
Anne Fahey lived in Sudbury, in a very large house of the kind that Susan called McMansions. There were Palladian windows and a number of roof peaks and an assortment of architectural conceits, all overlooking a vast lawn devoid of ornamentation.
Anne herself was a handsome woman in her fifties, with a lot of curly silver blond hair and a strong, graceful body. I introduced myself.
"And this is Mr. Hawk," I said. "My driver."
Hawk would be more easily mistaken for Santa Claus than someone's driver, but Anne smiled widely as she held the door open, as if she were unaware of my small deceit. We went into the front hall and then to the living room on the left. It appeared that, having spent far too much for the house, they had nothing left to furnish it. There were no rugs on the floor. There was a couch and three armchairs in the living room. The windows were undraped. There were no pictures on the walls. The huge slate-framed fireplace was ash-free, soot-free, and perfectly clean. There was nothing on the mantel. I sat on the couch. Hawk sat in an armchair with a view out the front window. Anne offered coffee. We declined.
"I found a few pictures of Bunny Lombard," she said.
"So her nickname was in fact Bunny?" I said.
"Yes. While I was waiting for you, I checked our yearbook."
She picked up a thick, white leatherette yearbook from the floor beside her chair. It read TAFT 1967 in blue script on the cover. Bunny had not stayed to graduate, so there was no individual head shot. But she had been in the drama club and the Sigma Kappa sorority, and she appeared in a group photo of each. There was also a candid of her at some sort of picnic, a very young woman wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt, her long dark hair cut straight across her forehead in bangs.
"That's me," Anne said, "with her. The one with the huge cup of beer." She had been plumper then, with a big head of frizzy blond hair.
"I did a lot of beer in those days," Anne said. "Among other things."
"And now?" I said.
"A martini with my husband when he comes home from work."