Q Is for Quarry

by Sue Grafton

  "Sure. What'd she do?"

  "She didn't do anything. Her body was found dumped off the side of the road."

  His attitude shifted slightly. "Sorry to hear that. You never said she was dead or I wouldn't have smarted off."

  "The point is, she had no ill and her body was never claimed. We'd like to find out who she is."

  "Yeah, but 1969? Why worry about it now after all these years?"

  "It's someone's pet project. 'Couple of guys I work with. What about you? What happened when you got out of jail?"

  "I had to call my old man to come pick me up. He was royally pissed. Soon as we got home, the shit-head threw me out; flung my clothes in the yard and broke my dinner plate on the porch. Fucking drama queen. Had to make a big scene, make sure all the neighbors knew he'd busted my ass."

  "At least he was willing to drive all the way from Creosote."

  "Yeah, but not before I'd spent the worst three days of my life in a cell with a bunch of freaks," he said and shrugged. "Worst until then. I've seen a lot worse since."

  "You remember Lorenzo Rickman or Frankie Miracle?"

  He snorted. "Lorenzo? What kind of name is that? What's the guy, some kind of fruit?"

  "You shared a cell with those two and a guy named John Luchek. You remember him?"

  "Not especially. I guess. Any reason I should?"

  "What about Rickman?"

  "Is this about him? Mean, it'd be nice if I knew what you were going for."

  "We'll get to that. Did the two of you talk?"

  "Jail's a bore. You talk just to keep from going out of your gourd. Food stinks, too, until you get used to it. Here, it's not bad; you know, heavy on the starch. Macaroni and cheese tastes like library paste. You ever eat that stuff?"

  I wasn't sure whether he was referring to the jail cuisine or library paste. I'd dined on both, but I didn't think that was any of his business. I wasn't here to compare exotic foods. "What about Frankie? You have a conversation with him?"

  "Must have. Why not? I'm a friendly little fuck. 'Course, I probably wouldn't recognize those guys now if I saw 'em on the street."

  "Would it help if you saw pictures?"

  "Might."

  I shifted the handset from my right ear to my left, tucking it between my cheek and shoulder so I could free my hands. I removed assorted mug shots from the file folder and placed them by twos against the glass in front of him. There were twelve in all; names, aliases, and personal data, wants and warrants carefully blocked out. Pudgie subjected the black-and-white photos to the same careful scrutiny he'd lavished on me. He pointed to Frankie. "That one? That's Frankie. I remember him. Coked up and jumpy. He talked up a storm until the high wore off."

  "What about the others?"

  "Maybe him. I'm not sure." He pointed to Lorenzo Rickman, his memory better than he realized.

  "Anyone else?"

  "Don't think so."

  "Did Frankie talk about his arrest?"

  "What, you mean the chick he whacked? I guess he cut her up bad and then he fucked it up big time."

  "Like what?"

  "Stole her car, for one thing. What's he think? The cops aren't going to put out a fuckin' APB? Then he takes her credit card and uses that to pay for his entire escape. He left a paper trail a mile wide. Guy's dumb as he is mean. You kill a girl, you ought to have more sense." He stopped and stared. "I bet you know all this stuff, right? What's the story, is he out?"

  "You're full of questions."

  "How can I help if you won't say what you're after?"

  "Did he indicate how long he'd been in Lompoc before his arrest?" Pudgie smiled. "I don't get your fascination with a little puke like him."

  "I'm not fascinated with anything, except the truth."

  "Hey, come on. Tell me the game and I can play for keeps."

  I broke off eye contact. "Well, thanks for your time. Actually, I think that's it." I pinned the handset against my ear again while I gathered the mug shots and tucked them in the folder.

  "Wait! Don't go. We're not done yet. Are we done?"

  I paused. "Oh, sorry. I was under the impression you'd told me everything you knew. I didn't want to waste your time."

  "It's like this: I might remember more if we could sit and chat awhile. You know, small talk and like that. Ask another question. Maybe it'll stimulate my brain."

  I smiled at him blandly, getting to my feet. "Why don't you get in touch if you think of anything useful?"

  "About what exactly? At least put me in the ballpark here."

  "I'm not going to feed you lines. If you don't know anything, that's fine. We'll let it go at that."

  "Naw, now don't get mad. How's this? I'll think real hard. Meanwhile, you come back later and bring a carton of smokes."

  "I'm not buying you cigarettes. Why would I do that?"

  "It's the least you can do, compensation for my time." I glanced at my watch. "Four minutes' worth."

  "Smoking helps me think."

  I adjusted my shoulder bag, the handset still at my ear. "Bye now."

  He said, "Okay. Skip the carton. Three packs. Any kind except menthol. I really hate those things."

  "Buy your own," I snapped.

  "I'm out tomorrow. I can pay you back."

  "Quit while you can. That's my advice."

  "What's your name again ?"

  "Millhone. I'm in the book. If you can read." I returned the handset to the cradle.

  "I love you," he mouthed.

  "Yeah, right. I love you too."

  He winked and wiggled his tongue, a gesture I pretended not to see.

  On my way home from the jail, I stopped at the supermarket to pick up items for Henry's return. Traffic permitting, he was due back in town sometime between five and six. He'd left his car in long-term parking at the Los Angeles airport. I'd offered to take them down, but Henry, ever independent, had preferred driving himself. He and Rosie and William had flown to Miami, where they were joined by their older sister, Nell, age ninety-seven, and brothers Lewis and Charles, ages ninety-five and ninety, respectively. This morning, after two weeks in the Caribbean, they'd dock in Miami and three of them would catch a plane to L.A. while the three older siblings returned to Michigan.

  I loaded my shopping cart with milk, bread, bacon, eggs, orange juice, bananas, onions, carrots, a four-pound roasting chicken, new potatoes, and fresh asparagus, along with salad mix and a fifth of Jack Daniel's, Henry's beverage of choice. Briefly I considered fixing dinner for him myself, but my repertoire is limited and I didn't think pouring skim milk over cold cereal was that festive. Shopping done, I stopped at a corner kiosk a block from the market and bought a bouquet of zinnias and dahlias, a mass of orange and yellow with a ribbon tied around the stems. I could feel my energy lifting the closer I got to home, and by the time I unloaded groceries in Henry's kitchen and put away the perishables, I was humming to myself. I arranged the flowers in a silver coffee server and set them in the middle of the kitchen table.

  I did a quick circuit of the house. His answering machine was blinking, but I figured he could pick up any messages as soon as he came in. I went into his cleaning closet and hauled out the vacuum cleaner, a dust mop, a sponge mop, and some rags. I made a second circuit of the house, dusting and vacuuming. All I needed were the singing mice to keep me company. After that, I scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom sinks and ran the sponge mop across the kitchen floor until it gleamed. Then I went home and took a serious world-class nap.

  I woke at 5:25, at first reluctant to leave the cozy swaddling quilt in which I'd wrapped myself. It was still light outside. The spring days were getting longer, and we'd soon have the equivalent of an extra half-day at our disposal. People getting off work still had time to walk the dog or to sit on the front porch with a drink before supper. Mom could take a moment to read the paper. Dad could mow the lawn or wash the family car.

  I pushed the covers back and moved into the bathroom, where I peered out the window, angling my face s
o I could catch a glimpse of Henry's back door. The kitchen light was on and I was energized by the idea that he was home. I put on my shoes, washed my face, tidied my bed, and trotted down the spiral stairs. I went out, locking the door behind me, noting with satisfaction that Henry's station wagon was now sitting in the drive where I'd parked the day before yesterday.

  He had his back door open, the screen door latched but unlocked. There was no immediate sign of him, but I knocked on the frame and heard his "Yoo hoo" coming at me from the hall. He appeared half a second later in his usual T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. Before he could get the door open, his wall phone rang. He motioned me in and then snatched up the receiver. He had the briefest of conversations and then said, "Let me switch to the other phone. Hang on a minute. Don't go away." He held out the handset and whispered, "Be right back. Help yourself to a glass of wine."

  I took the phone, waiting while he went into the bedroom and picked up in there. As soon as I knew he was on the line, I replaced the handset in the wall-mounted cradle. He'd already opened a bottle of Chardonnay, which sat in a frosty cooler with a stemmed glass close by. I poured myself half a glass of wine. I could smell chicken baking and I peered through the oven window. The plump hen I'd bought was already turning brown, surrounded by onions, carrots, and rosy new potatoes. He'd set the kitchen table for four, and I knew it wouldn't be long before William and Rosie popped in. It'd take them a day or two to get the tavern up and running. I wondered if Rosie's Hungarian dishes would take on the flavors of the Caribbean. I tried to imagine her pork stew gussied up with coconut, pineapple, and plantains.

  Henry returned to the kitchen moments later and poured a drink of his own. He looked tanned and fit, his cheeks wind-burned, his eyes a lustrous blue. William and Rosie arrived at that point, William in a straw boater, Rosie with a tote made of woven fibers that looked like a cross between com husks and grass. William was two years Henry's senior and blessed with the same silky white hair and the same lean frame. To my mind, he isn't quite as handsome as Henry, but he looks good nonetheless. William is a recovering hypochondriac who still can't resist a good story about inexplicable illness and sudden death. Rosie, by way of contrast, is stocky and solid, bossy, opinionated, insecure, humorless, and generous at heart. The tropical sun had rendered her dyed red hair a singular salmon hue, but she was otherwise unchanged. While Henry took out lettuce and tomatoes, I asked the newlyweds how they'd liked the cruise.

  Rosie made a face. "I din't like the food. Too blend. No taste and what there was is no good."

  William poured them each a glass of wine. "You ate more than I did! You were gluttonous."

  "But I din't enjoy. That's what I'm say. Is forgettable. I don't remember nothing I ate."

  "You forgot that pineapple pie? Delicious! Extraordinary. You said so yourself."

  "I make twice as good if I want, which I don't."

  "Well, I can't argue with that, but you were there to be pampered. The point of the whole vacation was not having to cook."

  "What about activities? What'd you do with yourselves all day?"

  William pulled out a chair for Rosie and then took a seat at the table. "It was terrific. Wonderful. We docked at various ports, maybe seven in all. When we weren't off seeing the sights, we had lectures and movies, swimming, shuffleboard, aerobics – you name it. They even had a bowling alley. At night, there was gambling and ballroom dancing. Bridge, chess tournaments. Never an idle moment. We had a ball."

  "Good for you. That sounds great. How about the other sibs? Did they enjoy it?"

  William said, "Well, let's see now. Charlie finally got his hearing aids adjusted and he's a changed man. You can hardly shut him up. Used to be he kept to himself since he never had a clue what anyone was saying to him. He and Nell played bridge and beat the socks off their opponents."

  "And Lewis?"

  "You put him around a bunch of women and he's happy as a clam. Men were outnumbered ten to one. He was the cock of the walk."

  Rosie held up an index finger. "Not quite." She gave Henry a sly smile. "Tell what you did."

  "No, no. Unimportant. Enough about us. What about you, Kinsey? What are you working on? Something interesting I'm sure."

  "Come on, Henry. You haven't finished telling me about the trip. I've never been on a cruise. I really want to know what it was like."

  "Just what William said. Little bit of everything. It was nice," he said, busy with oil and vinegar and his whisk.

  Rosie leaned forward, her tone confidential. "He's pose for calendar and now all the old womens calling him night and day."

  "Don't be silly," he said over his shoulder to her.

  "What kind of calendar?"

  "Oh, you know, the usual. The crew thought it'd be a good way to commemorate the trip. They do this all the time. It's nothing. Just a joke."

  Rosie nodded, lifting one brown-penciled brow. "The 'nothing' I agree. Is what he's wearing. Our Mr. February, Kings of Heart."

  "He wasn't wearing nothing," William said. "You make it sound like he was nude when he was no such thing."

  She reached in her tote and pulled out a glossy calendar filled with color photographs. "I heve right here. You take a look and see for yourself. The mans got no clothes. Only underpents." She flipped to the month of February and turned the page so I could see it. The candid shot showed Henry on the upper deck, leaning against the rail with his back to the ocean. A distant palm-dotted island was visible to his right. He wore red shorts, no shoes, a white dress shirt hanging loose and unbuttoned down the front. A captain's hat was tilted forward at an angle. His grin was unaffected, showing a flash of white teeth against the tan of his face. The effect was rakish, the perfect combination of charisma and sex appeal. Henry, in the kitchen with us, blushed from ear to ear.

  "Ooo, I love this. I have to have a copy of my own," I said.

  "Is yours. You keep. I heve more for ladies in the neighborhood."

  "Thanks." I flipped through the pages, checking the other entrants.

  While some of the photographs showed moderately attractive men – all octogenarians, by the look – not one was as dashing as Henry. I laughed with pleasure. "I never knew you were so photogenic. No wonder the phone's ringing. You look fabulous."

  "The phone's not ringing," he said.

  At that moment, the phone did, in fact, ring.

  "I get," Rosie said, heaving herself to her feet.

  "No, you won't. That's what machines are for."

  We waited out the three additional rings until Henry's answering machine kicked in. From the other room, we heard the outgoing message, followed by the usual beep. "Henry? This is Bella, 'ma petite belle.' Remember me? I promised I'd call you so here I am. I just wanted to say how disappointed I was we didn't have a chance to visit again before you left the ship. You bad boy. When you have a chance, you can reach me at... "

  Dinner was punctuated by two additional calls, which Henry ignored. He kept his eyes on his plate, cutting his chicken with a concentration he rarely lavished on his food. The third time the phone rang, he left the table and went into the living room, where he turned off the ringer and lowered the volume on the answering machine. None of us said a word, but Rosie and William exchanged a look as she smirked at her plate. I could see her shoulders shake, though she pretended to cough, a napkin pressed to her lips.

  "It's not funny," Henry snapped.

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  With Stacey back in the hospital for a second time in five days, I volunteered to take the Monday interview with Lorenzo Rickman. Dolan had offered to do it, but I knew he was eager to be on hand when the doctors talked to Stacey about this latest round of tests. As it turned out, my chat with Rickman was brief and unproductive. We stood in the service bay of an import repair shop that smelled of gasoline fumes, motor oil, and new tires. The floor, work benches, and all available countertops were littered with a jumble of tools and equipment, parts, manuals, blackened spark plugs, crac
ked cylinder heads, valves, fan belts, drive shafts, alternators, and exhaust manifolds.

  Rickman was in his late thirties with an angular face and a neck that appeared too thin to hold his head upright. His dark hair was receding, a few feathers combed down on his forehead to form a fringe of sparse bangs. A beard, closely trimmed, ran along the line of his jaw, and he stroked it reflexively with fingers blackened by oil. His uniform probably wasn't any different than the outfits he'd worn in prison, except for the machine-embroidered name above his left shirt pocket. He made a show of being cooperative, but he had no memory of incarceration with Frankie Miracle.

  He shook his head. "Can't help. Name doesn't ring a bell. I was only in jail the one night. First thing the next morning, a friend of mine bailed me out, but only after I promised to join AA. I've been on the wagon-well, more or less ever since." He smiled briefly while he smoothed his hair toward his forehead. "I still get in trouble with the law, but at least I'm clean and sober – condition of my parole. Right now, I do, you know, five, six meetings a week. Not that I like hanging out with dudes hyped up on coffee and cigarettes, but it sure beats incarceration." He put his hands in his back pockets and then changed his mind and crossed his arms, fingers drifting back to his beard, which he stroked with his thumb.

  "What about the other guys in the cell that night? You remember anything about them?"

  "Nope. Sorry. I was eighteen years old, drunk and stoned the night they picked me up. My second or third blackout, I forget which. Third, I think. I could've been in with Charlie Manson and you couldn't prove it by me."

  I tried priming the pump, claiming we had a witness who was there at the same time and said Frankie'd bragged about a killing. This generated no response. I handed him the packet of photographs, which he shuffled through carelessly. He shook his head and handed them back. "Look like a bunch of thugs."

  I tucked the photos in my bag. "I know this is none of my business, but what'd you do to warrant a prison sentence?"

  His fingers became still and then he pulled at a thatch of beard growing under his chin. "What makes you ask?"