The Wrong Quarry (13 page)

“And he killed Candy to protect himself.”

“Yes! Yes! And if I had my way, I’d take his skinny neck in my hands and I’d wring it like a goddamn chicken’s!”

“It’s an option.”

Jenny got up and went to her brother and slipped an arm around him. He was trembling. “Sweetie,” she said. “Sweetie. You know Candy wasn’t perfect. She was headstrong and she... well, we both know she had adult desires.”

He pushed her away. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

She gave me a pained little look and returned to her chair.

“Just because
you’re
that way,” he said petulantly, “that doesn’t mean she was.”

That hit her like a slap. “You don’t have to be cruel.” Now
she
had tears in her eyes.

Jesus, was I the only one here who could control himself?

And Stockwell was definitely out of control, Hugo Boss threads or not. I was some reporter from Who-the-Fuck-Knew-Where, and he was threatening to strangle a dance instructor and talking trash to his sister, and I almost wished I really
was
a reporter. I’d sure have some juicy quotes.

I said, “Was your daughter dating anybody regularly at her high school?”

Stockwell nodded, distractedly, answering by rote now. “Yes. The Pettibone boy. Captain of the football team. No Rhodes scholar, but a hell of an athlete. No question he’ll get major full-ride offers this year.”

Jenny said, “He was an All-American high school pick as a junior. Best running back in the state.”

Rah yay Stockwell High.

I said, “And he was her steady?”

“Yes.”

“You mean, a not very bright lummox who thought his girl was cheating with her fruity dance instructor?”

He gave me a curdled smile. “You think
Rod Pettibone
could have murdered my daughter?”

I thought,
What wouldn’t a guy named Rod Pettibone do?

But I said, “Did the police consider him a suspect?”

“Of course not.”

“Why, because he made All-American as a junior? As opposed to being a swishy dance instructor? All I’m saying is, there may be other possibilities.”

He was shaking his head. “No. Not Rod. That’s patently ridiculous.”

Jenny leaned and said, “Larry—you
know
Candy had a lot of boyfriends. You
know
she ran around on Rod and it made him furious, but then he always came running back like a puppy.”

“Maybe a rabid one this time,” I said.

Stockwell seemed very tired, and a little irritated. “Mr. Quarry, if you intend with your story to whitewash Roger Vale, you are
not
going to get my cooperation. And I will advise my sister to steer you a wide path, since you’ve obviously misrepresented your approach to both of us.”

I was shaking my head. “Sir, my approach would be journalistic. I would keep an open mind.”

“Mr. Quarry...”

“All I’m saying is, the Pettibone kid is worth looking at, and any other boy she was seeing behind his back. The worst mistake you can make in an investigation is to decide at the outset who’s responsible, and then try to prove it.”

His chin was crinkling, quivering. “So, then, you’ll go sorting through my daughter’s dirty laundry?”

“If you knew the answer was in her dirty laundry,
wouldn’t
you look?”

That rocked him back, and when he next spoke, he no longer seemed quite as put out with me. “Mr. Quarry, I’m sure you know this from your initial background research, but the circumstances of my daughter’s disappearance are such that determining the alibis of suspects is impossible.”

“Well, obviously.”

Actually, I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about.

“I was out of town on a business trip that weekend,” he said, forcing himself to tell it yet again. “Candy had a private lesson Saturday morning with Vale, which he admits, making him the last to report seeing her alive. She had no plans that weekend— nothing lined up with her girlfriends, nothing with Rod or any other boy that we know of. I came home Sunday afternoon and found the house empty. I wasn’t alarmed. Frankly, she often went out on her own, and rarely ever left a note, so I didn’t get worried till around ten o’clock that evening. When she didn’t show up all night, and missed school Monday, I obviously became concerned. Hell, distraught.”

“I assume the police talked to all her friends and acquaintances, to see if anyone saw her after that Saturday morning lesson.”

He nodded. “And we used local paper and radio to ask if anyone had seen her. She was very well-known in the community. The only junior girl in the history of Stockwell High to be voted Queen of the Junior-Senior Prom.”

And he began to cry.

To sob, both hands covering his face. A wreck of a man in Hugo Boss.

Jenny got up again and comforted him. I gave them some privacy and went over to the wall of Candy’s pictures. She was a beauty, all right. Even in a photo, wholesome sex rose off her like the steamy aroma of fresh-baked bread. In her prom queen picture, she was exchanging smiles with a big broad-shouldered goofus with tiny eyes and a big stupid grin in a Big-and-Tall Store suit.

“Excuse me,” I said, and pointed to the picture. “Is this Rod Pettibone?”

“It is,” Stockwell said, his composure regained.

“Your daughter was petite. Almost tiny. If that clown got mad at her....Why
wasn’t
he considered a suspect?”

Jenny answered that one. “Rod might be capable of violence, but he wouldn’t have the brains to cover up a murder.”

“Does he have parents?”

“Well, of course he has parents,” Stockwell said. “His father runs the Buick dealership.”

“Smart guy, Rod’s old man?”

Jenny said, “Smart enough to run a Buick dealership.”

“Maybe smart enough to get his kid out of a jam, too,” I said, joining them at the table.

Stockwell said, “You can waste your time on the Pettibone boy if you like, Mr. Quarry. You can talk to any boy Candy dated in junior high and high school, and it’s not a short list. But you’ll find there’s only one real suspect here—Roger Vale.”

“No offense, sir, but that’s an opinion based on suspicions and circumstantial evidence.”

“It’s much more than suspicions and circumstantial evidence,” Stockwell said, “and it’s more than an opinion. He
did
it.”

“You state it like a fact.”

Stockwell swallowed. “I shouldn’t say this. Damnit, I really shouldn’t.” He leaned toward me, his voice hushed. “Mr. Quarry, this is
not
for publication.”

So I wouldn’t be able to mention it under the headline,
LAWRENCE STOCKWELL THREATENS TO STRANGLE MR. ROGER
. Pity.

“Agreed,” I said. “And your sister’s a witness.”

He seemed to be tasting the words before he spoke, as if to make sure they were palatable. “My father has proof.”

I frowned. “Can you share it with me?”

“I would encourage
him
to share it with you. That’s the best I can do. As Jenny will tell you, our father has his own point of view on just about every subject...my daughter’s death especially.”

“What
is
his point of view on the subject?”

“That Vale has to be stopped.” He shrugged. “All I know is that Dad’s exploring options.”

“Maybe
I
can be another option. For example, I can talk to Vale’s other dance students and their parents.”

I had no intention of doing this, of course.

I went on: “If I can uncover a pattern of sexual activity between Vale and his charges, particularly underage ones, that would bring the police back in. The Missouri state cops would pounce on the bastard. We could nail him.”

He was squinting at me, trying to bring me into focus. Admittedly, I had been playing him from all sides. “Now you sound like you believe Vale is guilty, Mr. Quarry.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I lied.

The door burst open as if by a gust of a wind, and a big older man, trimly gray-haired, in a well-tailored gray suit with darker gray tie, stepped in and closed the door firmly behind him, as if he owned the place.

“Dad,” Stockwell said.

Oh. He did own the place.

He, too, had the sharp features of his children, though his eyes were dark—that green translucence must have been courtesy of their late mother. And his build was sturdy, no paunch, despite earned by decades of fine dining. Though he had to be at least eighty years old, his manner suggested he could still kick your ass.

Jenny was on her feet, and smiling, but I could tell she was thrown by his entrance. “Daddy. What a nice surprise. Sit down, join us. This is Mr. Quarry. I left a message—”

He came over to the table like a husband catching a cheating wife. I’d already gotten to my feet—he was the kind of guy you automatically did that for. He gave me a crocodile smile and extended a hand and his grip was a little firmer than it needed to be, possibly to show me his age wasn’t a factor, or maybe he had always intimidated people like this.

“Mr. Quarry,” he said, in a basso profoundo as commanding as his manner, “Clarence Stockwell. I apologize for your inconvenience.”

I frowned. “My inconvenience, sir?”

“My daughter left a message at my office, wanting to bring you around this afternoon. To discuss writing a piece about my granddaughter’s murder.”

“Yes,” I said. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“Daddy,” Jenny said, “please sit down.”

His chin lifted and eyes that had appraised thousands of lessers over the years did the same to me. “You’re with the
Sun,
I understand. I have friends over there.”

“No, I’m a freelancer, sir. There’s a possibility I can place a story about your granddaughter’s disappearance with them.”

“First of all, Mr. Quarry, it’s not a disappearance. It’s a murder.”

“Daddy,” Jenny said, “sit down, please.”

He ignored her. “Second, while we appreciate your interest, the family prefers to handle this matter personally.”

“Sir, I think my efforts could—”

“Mr. Quarry, this is not open for discussion. We will not be cooperating with you, and while I certainly respect the freedom of the press, I doubt without the Stockwell family’s cooperation that you can get very far.”

“Sir, with the right media coverage, we can expose Roger Vale for the monster he is.”

He regarded me with a skeptical smile. “So you’re convinced that fiend murdered my granddaughter?”

“I am, after talking to your son. After all, he says you have
proof.
...”

The old man shot his son a blast-furnace glare, and the tall insurance exec seemed to shrink.

“I didn’t say anything, Dad,” Lawrence Stockwell said. He might have been ten.

Clarence Stockwell appeared to be finished with me. He swung to his daughter and said, “Jennifer, please remove your young friend from this office. I understand you mean well, dear, but I have this situation in hand.”

“Daddy...”

“Go. Now.”

We went.

Outside, in the chilly fall air, she huddled next to me, her arm through mine. “He’s a charmer, my father.”

“Force of nature, I’d say.”

“Are you discouraged?”

“No, I still plan to work on the story. You aren’t cutting me off, are you?”

She managed a little smile. “Cutting you off from what?”

“Nothing, I hope. Why don’t you take me somewhere nice for lunch? I’ll even let you pay. You can get back at your father that way.”

She took me to the Golden Spike for cheeseburgers and fries, but she did pay. I’ll give her that.

Anyway, I had a problem, and it wasn’t that Clarence Stockwell wasn’t cooperating with me. He’d cooperated just fine. That he had hired the contract was damn near a lock. The question was, was his son in on it? In which case, Lawrence Stockwell would have to go, as well.

I felt kind of bad about it, for two reasons. First, Lawrence seemed like a decent guy and his death would be tough on Jenny. And second, how could I get away with going back to Vale for a higher fee, at this point?

Might have to kill two Stockwells for the price of one.

About two o’clock, Jenny dropped me off in the Holiday Inn parking lot. She wondered if I wanted to go out somewhere tonight, and I said love to, but I had some business things that needed attending—we’d get together tomorrow, if she was free.

I couldn’t break it to her that I already had a date with a teenage girl.

Lingering in the lot, I watched her drive off in that Batmobile of a Firebird, thinking what an incredible woman she was, when I noticed a familiar vehicle pull in across the way, at the Rest Haven Court.

Funny,
I thought,
you wouldn’t think there were that many shit-brown Bonnevilles around....

And there weren’t, because as I watched, that Bonneville slowed near Cabin 12, hesitated at the sight of the vacant space outside it, then pulled into it.

Climbing out of the Pontiac was an unmistakable chunky redheaded guy in a gray quilted ski jacket and jeans—not that many of those around, either.

Looking around with confusion and caution, he walked to the cabin door. He knocked. He pounded. Then stood there with hands on hips, looking exasperated, glancing side to side and then behind him, finally climbing back into the Bonneville and pulling out of the Rest Haven lot.

If he had turned left and headed for Highway 218, I’d have jumped in the Pinto and taken off after him. Right then and there.

But he didn’t.

He was heading into town, presumably to find his partner. After all, other than maybe a restaurant or two—and we were well past the lunch hour—Farrell could only be one place, really.

Staking out Roger Vale’s dance studio.

Why had Mateski returned?

Obviously he had tried to check in with his active half by phone, maybe even at a designated time, and Farrell (being dead) didn’t answer. Maybe Mateski had then checked in with their middleman and been told to go back to Stockwell and see what the fuck was up. More likely Mateski hadn’t taken that step yet, not wanting to send up a red flag to a middleman who might accuse the team of screwing up.

And now the antiques dealer had found no sign of his partner at the motel, which could mean only one of two things: Farrell was carrying out the hit, right this minute...or something had gone very wrong.