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.
"That Hawk?" Epstein said.
"Yes."
Epstein turned in his chair.
"I'm Epstein," he said.
Hawk nodded. Epstein turned back to me.
"Malone was part of a surveillance team on Sonny Karnofsky, back in the early seventies, when the bureau was trying to put Sonny away."
"Anyone else on the team?"
"Malone was the youngest. Everyone else is dead."
"So he knew Sonny," I said, "from a long time ago. That's true of almost everyone in the cops-and-robbers business in Boston."
"It's better than finding out he didn't know him."
"They ever get Sonny?"
"No. But from what oral history I've been able to collect, Malone was occasionally seen in Sonny's company." I nodded.
"That's all I have on Malone. Clean record. No hint of impropriety."
"How about Sonny?" I said.
Epstein took a folder out of his briefcase and opened it. "Born Sarno Karnofsky, no middle name, in Hamtramck, Michigan in 1925. Married Evelina Lombard in 1945. Had a daughter, Bonnie Louise, born 1945. Did street-thug work in Detroit in the early forties, moved here the same year his daughter was born. You want his rap sheet?" I shook my head.
"Worked here for awhile with Joe Broz, then split with Broz and, by 1965 had his own outfit," Epstein said and grinned. "The rest is history."
"Only in America," I said. "You got anything else salient?"
"Abner Fancy," Epstein said. "That salient enough?" I could hear him struggling to keep the self-satisfaction from his voice. And failing.
"What about Abner?" I said.
"Did time in Massachusetts. Cedar Junction. Armed robbery."
"When?"
"Was in from 1961 to 1965."
"It was Walpole then. When did he get out?"
"What month?"
"Yeah."
Epstein looked into his folder. "Paroled February second," he said.
"So he had a PO."
"He did, but we can't find him. For crissake, Spenser, this was nearly forty years ago."
"Got the parole board hearing records?"
"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.