She looked like Daryl. Her hair was sixties straight, and she had the funked-out sixties look in a granny dress, but it could have been Daryl with a protest sign. The picture was too small for me to read the sign.
'And now she's been dead for. what?'
'Twenty-eight years,' I said. 'Her daughter looks just like her.'
'She had a daughter? I didn't even know she was married. listen to me-as if she would have had to be married to have a child. God, am I middle-aged suburban or what?'
'It happens,' I said. 'Do you know where Bunny Lombard is now?'
'No idea,' Anne said. 'When I knew her, she was from the North Shore someplace. Paradise, maybe.'
'When did you last see her?'
'She left in the middle of sophomore year, so 1965, I guess, probably in the winter. Why are you looking for her?'
'I wanted to ask her about Emily Gold,' I said.
'Because of the murder?'
'Yes.'
'I thought she was shot, like at random, by some guy holding up a bank.'
'We'd like to find out who that was,' I said.
'Are you working for Emily's daughter?' Anne said.
'I am.'
'Jesus Christ,' Anne said. 'How are you going to find out a murder that happened twenty-eight years ago.'
'Diligence,' I said.
She smiled and shrugged. 'Well,' she said. 'You found me.'
41
It was a little after 3:30 in the afternoon when Hawk and I carefully opened up my office for a new business day. Hawk looked around the empty room. 'Harvey don't show me shit,' Hawk said. 'I working for Sonny, you be dead now.'
'You wouldn't work for Sonny,' I said.
'Beside the point,' Hawk said.
I opened the windows behind my desk and looked out at the Back Bay. There was a group of three young women, rigorously conforming to the current look: cropped T-shirt, low-slung jeans, and a clear view of the navel. None of the three was slim enough to carry it off. Most people weren't. I listened to my messages.
While I listened, Hawk unlocked my closet door, got the sawed-off, put it beside him on the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table, and began to read some more about evolution. I called Samuelson.
'Remember Ray Cortez?' he said.
'Leon Holton's PO,' I said.
'Well, Ray appears to be a man of passionate convictions,' Samuelson said. 'He knows Leon is swimming in an ocean of drug money, and he seems to be getting away with it, and Ray's dying to violate him right back inside.'
'I got no problem with that,' I said.
'None of us do,' Samuelson said. 'After I got Leon's address from him, he started thinking more about Leon, and how last time Leon did time it was for possession with intent and he served nine months in Lompoc.'
'Minimum security?' I said.
'It's like serving nine months at Zuma Beach,' Samuelson said, 'on a conviction that usually carries serious time, and even more so if it's your third strike.'
'Third?' I said.
'Yeah. We got him for two, but Cortez says that Leon used to brag how he did time back there.'
'In Massachusetts?' I said.
'Yep. He was bragging how connected he was.'
'Back here?'
'All over. He said even if he got busted, he did soft time and not for long.'
'Who's he wired to?' I said.
'I was wondering that, too,' Samuelson said. 'Which set me wondering why the FBI queried us about him in '75. So I called the L.A. office. I get along with the SAC. And they checked back in the files, and it took them awhile but they found it. The request came from the Boston Office.'
'Evan Malone,' I said.
'I'll be damned,' Samuelson said. 'It always amazes me when you know something.'
