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
"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
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