"Q" is for Quarry (33 page)

“Hey, Lieutenant, you look great. How’re you feeling?”

“Better. Almost human, as a matter of fact.”

There was a murmur behind me and I turned to find a nurse standing in the doorway. She was in her forties, with dark eyes and shiny brown hair streaked with gold. She wore civilian clothes, but her shoes were crepe-soled and her name tag announced her as CHRIS KOVACH, RN. She said, “Sorry to bother you, but there’s a fellow at the nurses’ station claiming he’s related to you. I checked your chart, but you don’t have him listed as an emergency contact or your next of kin.”

Dolan’s face went blank.

Chirpily, I said, “It must be your brother, Stacey. When I called and told him about your heart attack, he said he’d hop in the car and head right down.” I turned to Ms. Kovach. “I know the lieutenant’s not supposed to have more than one visitor at a time, but his brother’s just finished chemo for non-Hodgkin’slymphoma, and it’d be great if we could be together after all these months.”

I thought the medical angle was a nice touch, but the look she gave me indicated she heard tales like that, on average, three times a day. “His brother? I don’t see the family resemblance.”

“That’s because he’s bald. With his hair grown in, they look enough alike to be mistaken for twins.”

“And you’re
his
daughter,” she said, indicating Dolan with a tilt of her head.

“Uh-huhn.”

“So the fellow in the hall is your uncle Stacey, is that correct?”

“On my mother’s side.”

She wagged a warning finger. “Just this once, but not for long. I’ve got my eye on the clock. No cheating on the time.”

Piously, Dolan said, “Thank you, Nurse.”

His tone was what finally netted us the smile she’d been trying to suppress.

Stacey appeared in the doorway moments later. I was happy to see he’d doffed his watch cap, exposing an endearing patchwork of bald spots and fuzz. At least the nurse would know I hadn’t lied about that.

Dolan said, “How’d you get here? I thought you sold your car.”

“Rented one—a spiffy little Ford I drove like a bat out of hell. I’m surprised I didn’t get a ticket. How are you?”

“Especially driving without a license.”

Stacey pulled over a chair, offering it to me. “You want to sit?”

“You take that. I prefer to stand.”

Since the visit was being limited, we truncated polite talk in favor of a Jane Doe update. I said, “I think I may have a line on her.” I told them about the quilt with the daisy-print patches that led me to Medora Sanders. “From what Medora says, the girl’s name is Charisse Quinn. She was apparently a ward of the State, fostered out through Riverside County Social Services. Both Medora and her daughter said she was a pain in the ass: dishonest, promiscuous, and foul-mouthed. According to Medora, she lived with ’em five months or so and then took off without a word. This was in the summer of ’69. I should also mention that Wilbur Sanders, Medora’s husband, disappeared at about the same time. I asked if the two events could be related, but she hated that idea. Let’s hope Dr. Spears can confirm the ID when he pulls her old chart.”

“You know the date this girl left?”

“I’m still trying to pin that one down. The timing’s close enough to work, or so it appears. I hope to talk to Justine again and maybe she can narrow the frame. By the way, she’s married to Ruel’s son, Cornell, if that’s significant.”

Stacey piped up. “The auto upholstery guy?”

Dolan said, “That’s him. The Mustang was recovered from his shed.”

Stacey was squinting. “And this runaway. You’re sure the name’s Charisse Quinn?”

“Fairly sure,” I said. “Why?”

“Because she shows up in one of the old reports. You can check for yourself. Her mother called the Sheriff’s Department here a week or so into the investigation. She’d heard her daughter’d been reported missing and wanted us to know she was alive and well.”

“I remember now. You’re right. I knew I’d read the name, but I couldn’t think where.”

Dolan said, “Well, she couldn’t be Jane Doe unless she rose from the dead. You said she called in a week or so after the body was found.”

“The caller
said
she was Quinn’s mother. Might have been someone else,” Stacey said.

“I don’t guess those old phone records still exist,” I said.

“Probably not,” Dolan replied. “Too much time’s elapsed. All we can hope is the deputy took down her number when the call came in.”

Stacey said, “Let’s see what this dentist says. If the records match, then we know the victim’s Quinn and the call’s a fake.”

“Any word on the Mustang?” Dolan asked.

Stacey smiled, holding up three fingers. “Three blond hairs caught in the hinge of the trunk. Characteristics are similar to Jane Doe’s hair. Not conclusive, of course, but it shores up the theory she was stowed in the Mustang for transport. Someone made an effort to wipe the car clean, but the techs picked up a few latent fingerprints, including a partial palm print on the jack. The guy must have moved it when he was clearing space in the trunk.”

I said, “What about the stains, were those blood?”

“We sent the carpet to the DOJ lab in Colgate, but we won’t get results on that for weeks. We’re lucky we have the technology now we didn’t have back then. The blood might be all hers, or we might have some of the killer’s mixed in.”

“Seems like the other question is whether the stains in the trunk match the ones on the tarp. A bloody stabbing like that, she might have put up a fight,” I said.

Stacey’s tone was dubious. “Maybe so, but don’t forget, her hands were bound and the coroner’s report doesn’t make mention of defensive wounds.”

Dolan said, “Even so, the guy might have been nicked.” “Let’s hope. Problem is, we don’t have a suspect for comparison.”

“Correction. We don’t have a suspect
yet.
”

I raised my hand. “Could one of you ask Ruel about the tarp? I want to know if it was his.”

Dolan snorted. “Why should
we
ask? Why not you?”

“Come on. You know he’s going to yell at me. He’d never yell at the two of you.”

“Chickenheart.”

“What a wuss.”

I smiled. “I thought that’s what you tough guys were for. To do the dirty work.”

“I’ll tackle him,” Stacey said. “He won’t pick on a guy as sick as me.”

Dolan said, “Wait a minute, Stace. Don’t pull rank. You said you were well. I’m the sick one. Lookit where I am.”

“So you can ask him. Who cares? Point is, we ought to see if we can find out where the tarp came from.”

“How’re you going to do that? Damn thing doesn’t even have a tag with the manufacturer’s name. Besides which, I don’t see the relevance.”

I said, “The killer might have been a long-distance hauler. They sometimes use tarps to secure a load.” I stopped. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh, what?”

“I just had a flash.”

“Of what?”

“If the victim turns out to be Charisse and the body was transported in the Mustang, then your theory about Frankie Miracle is really screwed.”

Dolan frowned. “How you figure that?”

“We know Frankie stole Cathy Lee’s Chevy. So how could he have driven two cars, one from Quorum and one from Venice, and have both arrive in Lompoc at the same time?”

I could see him calculate. “He could have made two trips.”

“Oh, please. What’s he do—he kills Charisse, drives the Mustang to Lompoc, dumps the body, abandons the car, and then hitchhikes to Venice so he can stab someone else?”

“So he had an accomplice,” Dolan said.

“To do what? There’s no link between the two murders, unless I missed a beat somewhere.”

Stacey said, “Dolan hates the idea Frankie’s innocent.”

“I don’t hate the idea, it’s Frankie I hate,” Dolan said, irritably. “But what you say makes sense. How’d you come up with that?”

“I don’t know. It’s like one of those thought problems in high school math. The minute I’d see that sentence about the two trains, one leaving Chicago at sixty miles an hour, and the other blah, blah, blah, I’d start blacking out. I abandoned math the minute I was allowed.”

“You didn’t believe ’em when they said math would be useful later in your life?”

“Not even a little bit.”

In the doorway, Chris Kovach cleared her throat and pointed to her watch.

“We’re just going,” Stacey said, rising from his chair.

“You can come back tomorrow, but only one at a time.”

Stacey followed me to the motel in his rental car and we parked in adjoining slots. I walked with him to Dolan’s room and gave him the key. He unlocked the door and put his duffel on a chair. The room had been made up and the furniture was back in place. It was 9:25 and I was ready to say good-night, assuming he was tired and wanted to hit the sack. “If you like, we can have breakfast together. What time do you get up?”

“Not so fast. I drove straight to the hospital after hours on the road. I haven’t had my dinner yet. Wasn’t that an Arby’s I saw out on Main?”

“Sure, but the Quorum Inn’s still open. Wouldn’t you prefer a regular sit-down meal?”

“Arby’s has tables. I’ve never had an Arby-Q. Isn’t that what they’re called? Now you’ve introduced me to fast food, I have some catching up to do.”

I sat with Stacey, watching him plow through an Arby-Q, two orders of curly fries, and a roast beef sandwich, oozing a yellow sauce that was rumored to be cheese. He looked as if he’d picked up a few pounds in the days since I’d seen him last. “You do this often?”

“Couple times a day. I found a cab company that delivers fast food, sort of like Meals on Wheels. Geez, this is great. I feel like a new man. I never would have known if you hadn’t turned me on to this stuff.”

“Happy to be of help. Personally, I never thought of junk food as life-affirming, but there you have it.”

Stacey wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Forgot to mention this to Con. I got a call from Frankie’s PO. Dench says he may be in violation. Looks like he left the county without permission.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday.”

“That surprises me. To hear Frankie talk, he knew all the rules and regs and wasn’t going to be caught out. Wonder what set him off?”

“Might have been your visit. Con said he seemed cool, but you never know about these things. What’s on for tomorrow?”

“Let’s talk to Ruel. I’ve got the perfect excuse. I still have Edna’s quilt. We can ask him about the tarp when I take it back it to her.”

Stacey leaned forward. “Kinsey, we’re cops. We don’t need excuses. That’s for them to give us.”

Sheepishly, I said, “Oh. You’ve got a point.”

When we reached the motel again it was 10:15. The wind had kicked up and I had my arms crossed, trying to protect myself from the cold.

Stacey said, “Hang on a minute. I have your jacket in my trunk.”

I stood by his rental car while he opened the trunk and extracted my bomber jacket, along with a bulky mailing pouch he handed to me. “What’s this?”

“Henry sent it. He said he found it on your doorstep and didn’t think you’d want to wait. What is it?”

I turned the package to the light. “Beats me. Postmark’s Lompoc, which means it’s probably something from my aunt Susanna.”

“I didn’t think you had folks.”

“I don’t. Well, sort of. The jury’s still out.”

“Got it,” he said. “I’ll leave you to open it. Good-night.”

“’Night,” I said.

In the privacy of my room, I turned on the light and set my jacket aside. I left my shoulder bag on the chair and then I sat on the bed, turning the mailing pouch over in my lap. On the back, there was a pull tab that opened a seam along one edge. I pulled the strip and peered in. I removed the leather-bound album she’d sent. I remembered her mentioning family pictures, but never imagined she’d actually send them to me. I leafed through page after page of heavy black paper on which black-and-white photographs had been mounted by means of paper seals affixed to the corners and glued into place. Some of the pictures had come loose and the photos were tucked into the spine of the book. Under each, someone had written in white ink, identifying the subject, the date, and the circumstance.

There they were. All of them. My mother. Various uncles and aunts. The wedding of my grandfather Kinsey and my grandmother Cornelia Straith LeGrand. Babies in white christening dresses that trailed to the floor. Group photos, complete with cousins, servants, and family dogs. In most, the faces were solemn, the poses as stiff as paper dolls assembled on the page. A Christmas at the ranch with everyone gathered in front of an enormous pine tree laden with ornaments, garlands, and lights. A summer picnic near the house, with wooden harvest tables set out on the grass. Long dresses, pinafores, straw hats with wide brims freighted with artificial flowers; women looking buxom and broad-shouldered, their waists pinched by corsets that made their ample hips look twice as wide. Two men had been photographed in the army uniforms of World War I. One of the two appeared at later family gatherings while the other was never seen again. Sometimes the men were in shirt sleeves, dark vests, and black bowlers; sometimes striped summer jackets and white straw boaters. I could see the passing years reflected in women’s rising hems, their arms increasingly bare. Thanksgiving of 1932, suddenly all the little girls were decked out like Shirley Temple. Nothing of the Great Depression seemed to have touched the house or its occupants, but time did march on.

Many of these people were dead by now. The adults had grown old. The children had married and given birth to children of their own. There was my mother in that long white dress again at her coming-out party, July 5, 1935. There were other snapshots of the occasion. In one, I could have sworn the photographer caught my father in the background, his eyes fixed on her. I’d never actually seen a picture of him, but I felt I’d recognized him nonetheless. After that, the pages were abruptly blank, the entire last third of the album empty. That was odd. I thought about it, puzzled that the family history so carefully recorded up to that point should suddenly be abandoned.