Q is for QUARRY

by Sue Grafton

  “I meant if he’d known about it up front. He’s hard to predict, especially now that he thinks you’ve made a fool out of him.”

  “Well, give it some thought and let me know.”

  “I’d have to talk to Cornell. He’s pissed off, too, because his dad blames him about the car.”

  “That’s dumb. Ruel’s the one who took title and let it sit all those years.”

  “True, but I don’t want to give him reason to come down on me. He complains enough as it is. He thinks I’m controlling. Ha. Like he’s not.”

  “He doesn’t have to know. That’s entirely up to you. I don’t want you getting into trouble on my account.”

  “Trust me. I won’t. You have to watch your backside around him. He might seem harmless, but he’s a snake.”

  “Well. I better let you go. I’m staying at the Ocean View. I’d appreciate your calling once you’ve talked to Cornell. He might have something to contribute even if you don’t.”

  “I doubt it. He really only knew Charisse because of me.”

  “Speaking of that, your mother told me Charisse hung out with a bunch of hoodlums at Lockaby. You might ask if Cornell remembers anyone in particular. We could use a few names.”

  “You really expect to find her killer after all these years?”

  “We’ve made it this far,” I said. “I hope to hear from you.

  “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do what I can.”

  I went back to the motel and put a call through to Dr. Spears. I told Mrs. Gary, his assistant, what I’d learned from Medora Sanders. She remembered Charisse Quinn as soon as she heard the name. She made a note and said she’d pass the information along to him. She assured me that if he had time, he’d search the dead storage boxes for her chart. If he couldn’t do it himself, she promised she’d pitch in. I thanked her profusely. Once I hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed, grinning from ear to ear, finally allowing myself a moment to celebrate. I couldn’t wait to tell Dolan. A match on dental records would I, confirm my hunch. I was convinced this was her, but we needed concrete proof.

  Chapter 18

  *

  I went in through the front entrance of Quorum General and asked the volunteer at the reception desk for directions to the CCU. The facility wasn’t large, but it seemed up-to-date, at least judging by the portions of it I saw en route. As it turned out, Dolan had been taken into surgery by the time I reached the floor. The Palm Springs cardiologist had blown in an hour before, and he’d kicked butt in six directions getting the procedure under way. I got a cursory briefing from the charge nurse, who checked with the OR. She assured me everything was going fine, though it’d be a while before Dolan was out of post-op. She suggested I call her at 7:00 to make sure he’d returned.

  Leaving the hospital, I could feel my exhilaration fade. It was 4:30 by then. I had no access to Dolan and no way to know when Stacey Oliphant would appear. At best, I wouldn’t hear from Justine until some time the next day, if I heard from her at all, which left me with no one to talk to and nothing to do. I retreated to the Ocean View. I parked the car in the motel lot and bought a can of Diet Pepsi from the vending machine. I used Dolan’s key to let myself into his room, where I retrieved my Smith-Corona. Once ensconced in my own room, I set up a minioffice, using the motel desk. I typed up my notes, a process that took the better part of an hour and a half.

  At 6:15 I opened the phone book and consulted the yellow pages for the nearest pizza joint. I called and ordered a medium sausage-and-pepperoni pizza with jalapeno peppers and extra cheese on top. Given Dolan’s diet restrictions, there was no way I’d be able to eat such fare in front of him. As a courtesy, I decided to indulge now. While I waited for delivery, I popped out to the vending machine and bought another Diet P. I ate supper sitting on my bed, my back propped against the pillows, watching the news and feeling completely decadent.

  I called the hospital shortly after 7:00 and talked to the ward clerk in CCU. She said Dolan was in his room if I wanted to visit, which, of course, I did.

  It was fully dark outside and the temperature had dropped precipitously by the time I emerged from my room and headed back to the hospital. Despite the halo of light pollution hovering over the town, the stars were as distinct as pinpricks in black construction paper, light shining through from the other side. The moon hadn’t yet risen, but I could see where the darkness would lift and the desert would glow like a silver platter once it mounted the sky. I parked in the hospital lot and walked through the entrance doors for the second time that day.

  All of the interior lights were ablaze, and it lent the premises a warm, cozy air. The lobby was filled with evening visitors. I passed the gift shop and the coffee shop and continued to the elevators, heading for the second floor. In all the semiprivate rooms I peered in, the curtains were drawn and the corner-mounted television sets were tuned to reruns. Dinner had probably been served at 5:30 or so, and the trays were now in the meal carts that still sat in the corridor. I caught glimpses of partially consumed foodstuffs: canned green beans and Salisbury steak (which is a fancy name for meatloaf) and countless packets of saltines still secured in cellophane. Plastic cups of taut red Jell-O squares sat untouched, and I suspected the hospital dietitian would find herself in a state of despair. These meals, like those in elementary schools, look better on paper than they do to the hapless participants. Half the items end up in the trash.

  CCU was quiet and the lights were subdued. Dolan was in a private room attached by tubes and wires to a bank of monitors. His vital signs were flashed on a digital read-out, like the time and temperature bulletins outside a bank. The decor had been designed to minimize stress. The color scheme consisted of restful blues and pale, soothing greens. There was a bank of windows and a wall-mounted clock, but no television set and no newspapers trumpeting the day’s quota of economic woes, murders, disasters, and fatal accidents.

  One of Dolan’s IV lines had been removed and I could see the bruising in the crook of his arm. His one-day growth of beard already looked like the splayed white bristles on a toothbrush used to clean the bathroom grout. Two clear-plastic oxygen prongs extended from his nose. That aside, he was alert, his color was good, and some of his friskiness had been restored. He seemed tired, but he didn’t look half-dead. Any minute now, he’d get cranky about the absence of booze and cigarettes.

  “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 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’s lymphoma, 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 ill 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 Sheriffs 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 t
o 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.”