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 Victorian 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.
