Q Is for Quarry

by Sue Grafton

  It was clear at a glance that Tasha knew her stuff. I couldn't identify all the kinds of goop on her face, but she'd tinted herself with care. Her skin had a healthy glow, her cheeks showed a hint of pink, and her eyes looked enormous because her lashes were so thick. I could see her assessing me while I assessed her. We smiled at the same time, which only furthered the notion we were looking at ourselves. We had identical teeth.

  She said, "After our telephone conversation, I had a long talk with Mom. Her version of events is different."

  "Oh, really. How so?"

  "She says your parents made that trip to meet with Grand and Granddaddy in hopes of a reconciliation. They were killed on the way.

  Grand blamed herself. Aunt Gin blamed her, too. Mom says Grand tried to keep in touch, but Gin was having none of it. Finally, Grand gave up, but only after years of trying to make contact."

  "Bullshit. I don't believe it."

  "I'm not asking you to believe. I'm telling you what Mother said."

  "Well, of course she'd say that. She's still tied into Grand. How can you afford to think ill of someone who has the power to pull the rug out from under you? You'd do just about anything to see them as good no matter what they've done."

  "Kinsey, if you really want to find out what went on back then, you can't start by rejecting the messages you don't want to hear. There are two sides to every story. That's why we have the courts. To settle disputes."

  "Oh, right. Compare this to litigation. That'll win you points," I said. "Most people can't stand lawyers. I'm one of the few with any respect for the trade." I stopped. I stared down at the floor for a moment and then shook my head. "I'm sorry. Forget it. I didn't mean to get into it with you again."

  Tasha smiled slightly. "I told you we couldn't talk without hassling."

  "You set me off."

  "That's not my intent."

  "I know. The hard part is that neither of us has any concrete proof. We can do this 'Did too! Did not!' routine until the cows come home. It's Grand's word against Aunt Gin's, or my mother's word against your mom's. There is no fact of the matter."

  "Probably not. Just keep an open mind. That's really all I ask."

  "I'm afraid it's too late for that. My mind's been made up since the day I met Liza. I wasn't interested then and I'm probably not interested now."

  "At least you use the word 'probably.' That's progress, isn't it? You used to be adamant. Now you're obdurate."

  "Which means what?"

  "Resistant, but less flinty. It's a big improvement."

  The comment seemed patronizing, but I shrugged it off. Why take offense when she might not have actually meant it that way? I said, "It feels like unfinished business and that bothers me. Regardless of how it comes out, I'd like to think I'm doing the right thing."

  "That works both ways. We're having to go back and revisit the past, which is good for all of us. The point is, we have time to work this out."

  "Thirty-two years of it so far."

  "So what's thirty-two more? We can't settle a long-standing quarrel in a few casual talks." She glanced at her watch and then rose. "I have to get back to work. Did you finish the tour?"

  I pulled myself up. "Essentially. I hoped I'd remember something, but I'm drawing a blank." The two of us paused simultaneously to brush off the backs of our pants.

  We crossed to the front door, our shoes making scratching sounds in the grit that had accumulated on the marble floor. She said, "What do you think of the place?"

  "It must have been beautiful in its day."

  Tasha turned back, letting her eyes travel across the foyer and up the stairs. "You know Grand moved out shortly after Aunt Rita's death." Rita Cynthia Kinsey was my mother's maiden name.

  "I didn't know that."

  "Granddaddy Kinsey was fit to be tied, but she finally got her way. That's when they bought the house in town. You remember him at all?"

  I shook my head.

  "Maybe I can find some family photographs."

  "I'd like that. I don't think I've ever seen pictures of anyone. Aunt Gin discounted sentiment as a form of sniveling. She refused to let either of us sink to such depths."

  "She was tough."

  "That she was."

  "Well. I better go."

  "Me, too," I said. "I do have one request. I know you've already talked to your mother about me, but please don't bring Grand into this."

  "My lips are sealed."

  It was 4:35 by the time I reached Santa Teresa. I made a stop at the public library, leaving my car in the adjacent four-story parking structure. My conversation with Roxanne Faught had raised unsettling questions, namely, what did she know and when did she know it? I wondered if there was any way to check. I trotted down the carpeted stairs to the periodicals room, where I asked the reference librarian for the microfilm records of the Santa Teresa Dispatch from the week of August 3, 1969. Since the body was found that Sunday, I didn't expect the news to hit the paper for another day or two. Once I had the box of film in hand, I sat down at the machine and unreeled the strip, which I threaded under the lens, catching the sprocket holes. I hand-cranked it until the strip caught properly and then pressed a button and watched the Sunday paper speed by in a blur. My eyes picked up a remarkable amount of information on the fly. I bypassed the sports, the business section, and the classified ads. I slowed now and then just to see what was going on. The oil spill off the Santa Teresa coast was in it 190th day. Funny Girl and Good-bye Columbus were playing at the local movie theater along with Planet of the Apes. There was talk that Don Drysdale's fourteen-year pitching career might be coming to an end because of a recurrent injury, and a Westinghouse 2-Speed Automatic Washer was selling for $189.95.

  When I reached Monday's paper, I slowed to a dead stop and scanned it page by page. On Monday, August 4, five column inches were devoted to the discovery of the body near the Grayson Quarry in Lompoc. Con Dolan and Stacey Oliphant were both mentioned by name, but there was little to report. The next day, August 5, in a column called "North County Events," I caught the second squib. By then the autopsy had been done and the cause of death was detailed. The same few physical traits were noted-hair and eye color, height and weight-in hopes of identifying the girl. I cranked the reel forward, through Wednesday and Thursday of the same week. Thursday's j paper included a brief follow-up, with the same information I'd read in the initial account. Both gave a brief description of the girl's clothing, detailing the dark blue voile blouse and the daisy-patterned pants.

  Neither article specified the color of the pants. I knew from police reports that the daisies were dark blue, a red dot at each center, on a ground of white, but if you relied strictly on this data, it would be natural to assume the daisies were "daisy-colored," as Roxanne Faught had so aptly summed it up. Factoring in her certainty about the tom earlobe, the big feet, the big-boned wrists, and the closely bitten nails, I doubted the girl she'd dealt with was actually our Jane Doe. It was always possible, of course. Eyewitness testimony is notoriously shaky, easily influenced, subject to subtle modification with each telling of the tale. Roxanne had admitted she'd gone back to reread the very clippings I was looking at myself. I didn't wholly discount what she said, but I wondered at its relevance to our investigation. Stacey had hoped to establish a time line, working backward from Roxanne's encounter to Cloris Bargo's sighting of the girl hitchhiking outside Colgate. Now Cloris had recanted and I suspected Roxanne's observations were too tainted to be of use. I fast-forwarded. That same week, on August 9, five people, including film and television actress Sharon Tate, were found slain in a Bel Air home. Two days later, Leno and Rosemary LaBianca were discovered murdered in a manner similar to the Tate slayings. I tracked forward again, but there was no further mention of Jane Doe. I jotted a few notes on my index cards and then made copies of the news stories, paid for them at the counter, and returned to my car.

  It was just after 5:00, and Con was doubtless at CC's, knocking back Happy Hour drinks o
n a two-for-one deal. For my sake, I hoped he hadn't been at it long. I spotted his car as soon as I pulled up in front, but the area was otherwise deserted. Across the street at the bird refuge, two women in sweats were just starting a walk, chatting with animation. Closer to the water, a mother looked on placidly as her five-year-old child fed day-old bread to the gulls under a sign that read: PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS.

  I went into CC's, pausing in the doorway to let my eyes adjust. A plank of daylight had fallen in the open door, enhancing the contrast between CC's and the outside world. The place was dark. There was no one in the front room except the bartender and a waitress engaged in intimate conversation. Stacey and Dolan were seated in a booth in the rear. Stacey got up when I appeared. He was looking better today. I said, "Hi. Am I late?"

  "Not at all," Dolan said. Both had glasses in front of them. Dolan's contained whiskey dark enough to pass for iced tea. Stacey's was empty except for the ice cubes and a wad of freshly squeezed lime. Dolan hauled himself to his feet just as Stacey sat down. "What can I get you?"

  "Water's fine for now. I may switch later."

  "I'll take another Tanqueray and tonic."

  Dolan frowned. "You just had one. I thought the doc didn't want you mixing meds with booze."

  "Or else what, I drop dead? Don't worry. I'll take full responsibility. I'd be doing myself a favor."

  Dolan gestured impatiently and then moved off to the bar. I slid into the booth and put my shoulder bag on the seat beside me. He said, "How'd your day go?"

  "So-so. I'll tell you about it as soon as he gets back."

  Stacey reached into his vest pocket and removed a pipe and a tobacco pouch, then filled the bowl. He fished around in another pocket for a pipe pick and tamped down the tobacco before he took out a wooden kitchen match and slid the head along the underside of the table. I waited while he puffed at the pipe. The smoke was sweet. smelling, like a meadow full of dried hay.

  I said, "You're as bad as he is."

  Stacey smiled. "On the other hand, suppose I only have a few months left? Why deny myself? It's all in your perspective."

  "I guess it is."

  We engaged in idle chitchat until Dolan returned, bearing a tray with my water and two fresh drinks for them. He'd added napkins, a bowl of popcorn, and a tumbler of nuts."

  "Look at this guy, buying dinner for us," Stacey said.

  "Hey, I got class. More than I can say for you."

  The air was cool and free of cigarette smoke, which Dolan corrected for as soon as he sat down. I didn't bother to complain. Stacey's pipe tobacco and Dolan's cigarette smoke masked the faint whiff of noxious gases from the excavation site outside. Dolan helped himself to a handful of nuts, popping them in his mouth one by one while he looked at me. "What'd you get?"

  "You're not going to like it." I went on with a summary of my travels, starting with Cloris Bargo and the lie she'd told.

  Stacey said, "I talked to her twice myself and she never said a word about that."

  "It's my charm and finesse."

  "Well, shit. I didn't realize she was married to Joe Mandel. He worked with us on this."

  "I know. I remembered the name."

  Dolan said, "I can't believe she was blowing smoke up our skirts. She actually admitted that?"

  "Well, yeah. She said at the time she couldn't see the harm."

  Stacey said, "Let's leave that one alone. No sense butting into their business. I tell you what we might do though is ask Joe if he could locate Jane Doe's effects for us. It'd be good to take a look. Might spark an idea. I'll make a call and clear it with the sheriff. Don't think he'd object, but you never know about these things." He made a note to himself and turned back to me. "What else?"

  "After I left her, I drove on up to Lompoc, stopping off at Gull Cove, which is closed, by the way." I laid out my conversation with Roxanne Faught, what she'd said, and where the story she'd told me varied from what we knew. I gave them copies of the news clippings to demonstrate my point. "I think she lifted the details from these, which means we can't rely on her. I believe she encountered someone, but it wasn't necessarily our Jane Doe."

  "Too bad. It sounds like a dead end," Dolan said.

  Stacey said, "Dead ends are a given. That's how these things go.

  We're bound to run into a few along the way. All that tells us is to back up and look somewhere else. Lucky we found out about it now before we wasted any more time on it."

  "Knocks our hitchhiking theory all to hell," Dolan said.

  "Maybe so, maybe not. She could have gone to Lompoc by train or bus and hitched a ride from there."

  I said to Dolan, "What about the vehicles seen in the area? Any way to check those out?"

  "Johanson said something about a hippie van. We could track down that guy – what's his name..."

  "Vogel."

  "Right, him. Why don't we see what he remembers."

  "It's a long shot," I said.

  "So's everything else we've come up with so far."

  Stacey let that remark pass, still fixating on his original point about where the girl had come from. "Another possibility is she bummed a ride to Lompoc with a friend, someone she stayed with 'til she hit the road again."

  Dolan made a sour face. "Would you quit obsessing? We went over that before. If she'd had friends in the area, they'd have wondered what happened as soon as she disappeared."

  "Not if she'd told 'em she was on her way north. Suppose she stays in Lompoc a couple nights and then leaves for San Francisco. She goes out the door, has a run-in with the Devil, and ends up dead."

  "They'd still put two and two together as soon as the story broke." Stacey stirred irritably. "We're not going to find answers to every question we ask."

  "So far we haven't found answers to anything," I remarked.

  Stacey waved that aside. "Maybe our mistake is assuming she's from somewhere else. Suppose she's local? Someone kills her and then makes up a story explaining where she's gone. That's why she wasn't reported missing. It's part of the cover-up."

  Dolan was shaking his head.

  "What's wrong with that?" Dolan sat back in the booth. "No one exists in a vacuum. She must've had family and friends. She worked, went to school. She did some damn thing. Somebody must have wondered. Essentially, this girl dropped off the face of the earth and you're telling me no one noticed? There's something off about that."

  I said, "But, Dolan, think of all the kids who disappeared in those days. There must be dozens unaccounted for. Families probably still fantasize they'll show up one day."

  Stacey said, "Why don't we forget that angle and come at it from the other direction?"

  "Which is what?" I asked.

  "What we talked about before, assume Frankie killed her and see if we can find a way to make it stick."

  "Based on what? Make that leap and we could end up spinning our wheels," I said.

  "We're doing that anyway. The exercise is only pointless if it turns out we're wrong. What do you say, Con?"

  "I'm with you on that one. We'd be no worse off. I've always thought Frankie had a hand in it."

  Stacey turned to me. I said, "You're the boss."

  "My thought exactly. Let me show you what I got."

  He opened a manila folder and removed two connected sheets of computer paper with perforated edges. I peered at the pale print. There, in abbreviated form, was Frankie Miracle's criminal history, starting with his first arrest in Venice, California, in January of 1964. Stacey picked up the paper and began to rattle off the long string of his offenses. "I love this guy. Look at this. 1964. Kid's twenty-one years old, arrested for drunkenness and resisting arrest. Fined twenty-five bucks and put on a year's probation. Well, okay. No problem. His first contact with the law..."

  "That we know of," Dolan said.

  Stacey smiled. "That's right. But boys will be boys. They're not going to execute the lad for public drunkenness. In May that same year, he was arrested for burglary and contributin
g to the delinquency of a minor. Probably screwed a thirteen-year-old. That'd be about his speed. Put on probation. In February of '65, he was arrested for another burglary. He pleaded guilty; sentence was six months in jail and probation. Judge is really cracking down on him," he said, tongue in cheek. "June 1965. Burglary again. This time, his probation's revoked and he's sentenced to state prison, six months to fifteen years; released after serving ten months. December 1965. Drunk and disorderly, assault, and marijuana possession. Admitted for psychiatric evaluation and treatment of drug and alcohol dependency." Stacey snorted derisively. "The guy's a creep. We all know that. April 1966-burglary and escape. November 1966-robbery, kidnapping, attempted rape. This time they threw in assault and possession of a dangerous weapon. March 1967-another burglary. Oh, and here's a good one. I can't believe this guy's back on the street. In January 1968, Frankie abducted a woman from a supermarket parking lot. He was later arrested on charges of kidnap, assault, robbery, oral copulation, sodomy, and attempted murder. You better believe she hasn't had a good night's sleep since she ran into him. January 1969-attempted kidnap, statutory rape, contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Now we're getting down to business. In March 1969, he was picked up on charges of armed robbery, assault, and attempted murder. Case dismissed. Cops probably beat a confession out of him, and the public defender had the whole thing thrown out. Sometime in June, he met a sixteen-year-old girl named Iona Mathis. He was married to her briefly-six months I think. About as long as some of his jail time, as it turns out. Which brings us to Venice, California, late July, when Frankie killed Cathy Lee Pearse." Stacey shook his head. "God bless the courts. If they'd done their job right, they could have saved her life."

  I said, "How'd he manage to get away with all that shit?" ."Easy," Dolan said. He stubbed out one cigarette and fired up the next. "He knew how to work the system. Every time he was charged with multiple crimes, he'd plead guilty to one in exchange for the others being dropped. You haven't met Frankie. He can be as charming as all get out. He had judges and prosecutors bending over backwards, trying to give him a chance to straighten up and fly right." Stacey returned the report to the manila folder. "Lot of times he was sentenced to state prison under the old indeterminate sentence system. Other times he was released on automatic parole. Longest he ever went between crimes was this period between March of '67 and November of '68." Dolan said, "Bet you a dollar he just didn't get caught. He hasn't gone that long between crimes since he started out."