Q Is for Quarry

by Sue Grafton

  "Sure does. We'll have to ask McPhee if one was taken the same time the car was."

  I looked down, catching sight of the battered right rear fender of the red Mustang. "Found it."

  Together we removed the car cover and folded it like a flag. To my untutored eye, the car looked as though it hadn't been touched since the day it was hauled out of the ravine back in '69. At best, the exterior had been hosed off, but dried dirt still clung to the underbelly of the car with its scraped and dented right side and its banged-in driver's door. Both sides were rumpled. A portion of tree branch was caught under the left rear fender. Something about it made my heart thump. Dolan took out a handkerchief and gingerly pressed the trunk lock. The lid swung open. Inside, the spare tire was missing from the mount. A couple of dusty cardboard boxes filled with old National Geographic magazines had been shoved into the space. Dolan removed the boxes and set them aside. The exposed matting looked clean except for two large dark smudges and two smaller ones near the back. Dolan peered closer. "I think we better call the local sheriffs department and get the car impounded."

  He crossed to the single door and tested it again. Satisfied that it was frozen shut, he said, "Wait here. I'll be back in a minute." I stood just outside, staring at the untilled pasture with its tangle of wildflowers while Dolan headed off toward his car. I noticed he steered a wide path around the backside of the garage, where I assumed McPhee was still sitting. I couldn't see the old man, but the occasional drift of frenetic music suggested he'd remained in his wooden chair, watching TV. I returned to the Mustang and circled it, hands behind my back, peering in the windows with their cracked and broken glass. The black leather seats, while gray with dust, seemed to be in good shape.

  Dolan returned six minutes later carrying a Polaroid camera, his pant legs covered with burrs. He handed me the camera while he took out a pen and a packet of seals he'd retrieved from his car. He jotted his initials, the date, and the time on four seals and affixed one across each of the two doors, one to the hood, and the remaining seal across the trunk opening. Then he clicked off a series of Polaroid shots while he circled the car. As each photograph emerged from the slot, Dolan handed it to me. I waited for the image to appear and then wrote a title across the bottom. Dolan added his name, the date, and the time, and tucked them in an envelope he placed in his jacket pocket.

  I said, "Does McPhee know we're doing this?"

  "Not yet."

  "What now?"

  "I'll go back to the motel and call Detective Lassiter. He can send out a deputy to secure the car until a tow truck arrives. I'll also put in a request to the Santa Teresa Sheriffs Department to send down a flatbed as soon as possible. They can load the car at the local impound lot and tow it back."

  "How long will that take?"

  Dolan checked his watch. "It's ten thirty now. They should be able to get someone here by six tonight. Meantime, I'll call Judge Ruiz in Santa Teresa and ask him to issue a telephonic warrant. We'll return the affidavit with the Mustang and have Stacey file the paperwork up there. I'll be back within the hour."

  Chapter 14

  * * *

  I hadn't sat surveillance for ages and I'd forgotten how long an hour could feel. At least the car wasn't going to move. I took off my watch and slipped it in my pocket so I wouldn't be tempted to keep peeking at the time. I settled in the shade, leaning against the garage while I added a few notes to my index cards and then slipped the paperback from my shoulder bag and found my place.

  Half a chapter later, I heard a car door slam, and when I peered around the comer, I saw Cornell getting out of a white truck. He was crossing the parking pad, heading for his parents' back door, possibly to have lunch. I was starving and had to take my nourishment in the from of an ancient Junior Mint I'd tossed in the bottom of my shoulder bag. I figured the fuzz on it would supply my quota of fiber.

  The day had warmed up considerably and the air smelled of wildflowers and weeds. An occasional bumblebee lumbered by, a black-and-yellow gumball in flight. A swarm of gnats danced in the light and a horsefly zipped around, looking for a place to land. This was entirely too much wildlife for my purposes. I'm an indoor kind of person, and I prefer my contact with Nature reduced to the front of a picture postcard.

  I heard someone trampling through the grass. I got to my feet, dusted off my jeans, and tucked the book back in my bag. I was expecting to see Dolan. Instead, Cornell appeared, smoking a cigarette he'd cupped in the palm of his hand. He didn't seem all that happy to see me. His gaze shifted to the open garage door, where the Mustang sat in plain view, its tarp removed, a seal affixed across the opening of the hood.

  I said, "Hi. I'm Kinsey. We met this morning." I flicked a look toward the driveway, hoping to see the deputy arriving, but no such luck.

  "I know who you are. What's all this?"

  "A sheriffs deputy should be here shortly. Lieutenant Dolan thinks this might be the vehicle used to transport our victim. He wants to have it checked."

  "What's that mean?"

  I put a casual shrug in my voice. "It's no big deal. He wants the evidence technicians to go over it."

  "And Dad knows about this?"

  "I'm assuming so," I said, lying through my teeth. "I'm not sure what the lieutenant told him. You'd have to ask him."

  Cornell frowned. He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. "How long's this going to take?"

  "Probably no more than a couple of days." I was hoping it wouldn't occur to him we'd be removing the Mustang from the premises. Also, hauling it north where he probably wouldn't see the car again for months. I didn't want to deal with him if he raised a big stink.

  He hunched his shoulders. "The law allows you to just waltz in this way? You're on private property out here, same as the house. My dad owns everything as far as that fence."

  I turned and followed his gesture. "I wasn't aware of that. Lot of land," I said. "Actually, we had a chat with your father and asked to see the Mustang. He told us to help ourselves."

  "I don't think he understood what you meant. He didn't mention it to me."

  "Is that a problem?"

  "Well, no. Not at all. It just seems weird."

  I looked down at the ground, snubbing the tip of my right Saucony in the dirt. "I don't know what to tell you. Maybe Lieutenant Dolan can explain it when he gets back. He asked me to secure the car until the deputy arrives. Did you need something out here?"

  "I came out to see what was going on. Dad saw you head in this direction, but then you never came back. Where's Lieutenant Dolan?"

  "Ah. I guess he went around the other way. He probably didn't want to bug your dad while he was watching his show." I let a silence settle. I didn't want to manufacture small talk and I wasn't interested in continuing the conversation on its present course.

  "I better let Dad know. He's not going to like it, but that's your look-out."

  "Go ahead. Do anything you like."

  Cornell backed up a step and then took off for the house. By the time he reached the driveway, a black-and-white unit was pulling in. When the deputy got out, he and Cornell shook hands. I watched the two men confer, joined moments later by the old man himself. He had his straw hat set square on his head, the rim shading his face. Even from a distance, I could see he'd taken on the air of a bandy rooster whose barnyard was under siege. The conversation continued with a lot of hand waving on Ruel's part. The three faces turned in my direction. Behind them, Lieutenant Dolan pulled up and parked at the curb. The three of them waited for Dolan and then another discussion ensued, at the end of which the four of them formed a little ragtag parade and trudged toward me.

  Dolan introduced the deputy, whose name was Todd Chilton. He seemed to be acquainted with Ruel, and I gathered their relationship predated the current meeting. Chilton was in his late thirties, with dark hair clipped short on the sides and curling slightly on top. He'd loosened his tie, and he took a moment to rebutton his collar before the two of us shook hands.


  Ruel peered at me and then turned to Lieutenant Dolan. "This the technician you were talking about?"

  "She's a private investigator. We'll tow the car to Santa Teresa and do the evidence search up there."

  Ruel turned and stared. "You mean to take the car away?" He looked from Dolan to the deputy in disbelief. "He can't do that, can he?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "But I hold title to that car and it's registered in my name. He never said what he was up to or I'd've told him to get lost."

  Chilton said, "We understand that, Mr. McPhee, and I'm sure Lieutenant Dolan appreciates the inconvenience."

  "Inconvenience, my foot! That car's been setting out there for the past eighteen years. If the cops thought it was so all-fired important, they should have taken it back then."

  Dolan said, "The information came in a week ago. That's the first we'd heard of it, or we'd have done just that."

  "This's private property. The car belongs to me. You can't sashay in here and walk off with what's mine." He turned to the deputy. "I want him out of here."

  Chilton said, "I can't help you with that. He has the right to take it."

  "Then you clear off, too! What good's that gall-dang badge of yours if you can't protect us any better than this?"

  Chilton's manner was beginning to shift. Where at first his tone had been conciliatory, now it was turning flat. "Excuse me, sir, but that car's considered evidence in a criminal investigation. You don't have a choice. Techs don't find anything, you get the vehicle back and there's no harm done."

  "I'm calling my lawyer."

  Lieutenant Dolan said, "Mr. McPhee, we have a legitimate search warrant. You can call anyone you want, but it won't change what's happening. No disrespect intended, but you might as well save your breath."

  "I'm entitled to one call."

  "That's only if they put you in jail," Chilton said, exasperated. "No one's proposing to arrest you. It's the car he wants. He's talking about a homicide. You interfere here and you're only making trouble for yourself. None of us want that."

  Cornell said, "Let it go, Dad. Come on. They're going to do it anyway."

  Ruel gave way suddenly. He took his hat off and slapped his thigh with it. "People been telling me we live in a police state, but I never thought I'd see the day. It's a damn shame when a law-abiding citizen gets treated like dirt."

  He walked away from the group. Cornell glanced back with a dark look and then followed his father to the house.

  We heard a quick horn toot at the street and saw the local towing company with a flatbed truck idling at the curb. Chilton whistled to catch the driver's eye and then gestured him in our direction with a series of arm rolls. The driver shifted gears, pulling the truck forward. He then backed into the driveway and eased up the long dirt lane toward the garage where we were standing.

  Dolan and I acted as sideline supervisers while the chain was attached to the Mustang's front axle and the car was winched up the ramp. Cornell's truck was gone by then and there was no sign of Ruel. Once the Mustang was loaded, we tagged after the moving tow truck as far as the street. The driver waited while we got in Dolan's car. We followed him, keeping the Mustang in view.

  I said, "By the way, you talked to Stace? What's he heard about his biopsy and X-rays? They must know something by now."

  Dolan looked at me blankly. "Completely slipped my mind. He wanted to come down here and I was so busy trying to talk him out of it I forgot to ask."

  "He's joining us?"

  "Not if I can help it. I'd rather have him up there where he can do some good."

  At the impound lot, we waited while the Mustang was unloaded and the rolling gate was locked. Dolan took care of all the paperwork and then he returned to the car. We headed for the motel. He was whistling idly to himself, tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel.

  "You seem chipper."

  "I am. I got a good feeling about this."

  "How long until the forensics guys can get back to us?"

  "Soon, I hope. Things are quiet at the moment, so Mandel said he'd ask them to get right on it."

  "And in the meantime, what?"

  "Nothing. If they can connect our victim to the Mustang, we'll use her dental chart to canvas the local dentists. Teeth that bad, someone might remember her."

  "Can't we do that while we wait? I hate sitting around. We know someone stole the car and drove it up to Lompoc. C. K. spotted it near the quarry..."

  "We still don't know for sure this is the car he saw. It could've been something similar; some guy stopping near the quarry to take a leak. Don't be so quick off the mark."

  "But suppose this was the car, doesn't it seem safe to assume it was used to move the body?"

  "Where do you get that, unless they find trace evidence?"

  "Oh come on, Lieutenant..."

  "I'm serious. Even if we're right about the car, it still doesn't prove the girl was from Quorum. Killer could have picked her up and stabbed her when he was on the road."

  "Okay, I'll grant you that one. So what now, we just sit?"

  "Yep."

  "But it could take days."

  "I can put you on a bus and send you home," he said mildly.

  "That's not what I'm getting at."

  "Then what?"

  "Why don't you do the sitting while I start nosing around."

  He shook his head. "There's no point going off half-cocked."

  "How about this? I'll work with the meter off, but keep a running tab of my hours. If I manage to track her down, pay me, and if I don't, oh well."

  Dolan thought about it, taking up his finger tapping as he studied the street ahead. "Maybe."

  "Come on, Dolan. Please, please, pretty please with sugar on it? Let me take a crack at it. I'll be good. I swear."

  "Begging's unbecoming. You're not the type." He stopped tapping. "I suppose I could borrow your typewriter and catch up on the paperwork. I want to get some of this down while the details are fresh."

  "Good. I'm glad. Makes it a lot more fun."

  Once in my room again, I opened the bed-table drawer and took out the pint-sized Quorum phone book, looking for the address of the public library. The Quorum Branch of the Riverside County District Public Library was on High Street. According to the minimap in to the front of the directory, it was only five blocks away. I tucked the book into my bag, left my typewriter with Dolan, and then headed off on foot.

  At the library, I went straight to the reference room and pulled the city directories for 1966, '67, '68, and '69. I took the phone book from my shoulder bag and turned to the yellow pages under the heading "Dentists." There were ten listed. I checked the current names against those of dentists in practice during the years in question. Two past dentists, Drs. Towne and Nettleton, had disappeared, which I was guessing meant they'd retired, died, or left the area. Four names carried over and six were new. Most seemed to be generalists, judging from their full-page ads, which trumpeted crowns, dentures, fillings, periodontal work, bridges, root canals, cosmetic dentistry, and oral surgery. With my dental phobia, this was making my palms sweat.

  Already I favored the fellow who offered "Nitrous oxide: Dentistry while you sleep." I wouldn't be opposed to postponing my next appointment 'til I was dead.

  Of the carryovers, the fourth dentist, Dr. Gregory Spears, had listed himself twice, once under the general heading and again under the listing for orthodontists, of which there was one, namely him. The word "straightening" had been added in parentheses for those who didn't know what an orthodontist did. I jotted down the four names and addresses, returned to the city map, and charted my route. Given the size of the town, it was no big deal to walk from the library to the first dentist on my list.

  Spears's office was located in a storefront on Dodson. There was no one in the waiting room. His front office "girl" was in her sixties, a Mrs. Gary, according to her name tag. Her desktop was orderly and the surrounding office space was laid out with efficiency; charts filed on the
vertical. A random band of color-coded labels formed an irregular line across the flaps. A small sign in cross-stitch hung on the wall: PLEASE PAY AT TIME SERVICES ARE RENDERED. I was sure she'd be sympathetic when she heard your front cap came off in the middle of a ladies' lunch, but she probably wouldn't take any guff from you if your check should bounce.

  When she opened the sliding glass window that separated her office from the waiting room, I placed a copy of my PI license on the counter. Dolan had given me the file containing Jane Doe's dental chart, showing the number and location of her fillings. I placed that on the counter as well. In the background, I could hear the high-pitched squealing of a drill, a sound that was sometimes sufficient to cause me to pass out. I ran a dampened palm across the seat of my pants and said, "Hi. I'm hoping you can give me some information."

  "I can certainly try."

  "I'm currently working with two Santa Teresa homicide detectives on a Jane Doe case that's been on the books since 1969. This is a chart of her dental work. There's an off chance she lived in this area and we're wondering if she might have been a patient of Dr. Spears's. She was most likely a minor when the work was done."

  She glanced at the file. "He's with a patient right now. Can you come back in half an hour?"

  "It's easier if I just wait," I said. "How long have you worked for him?"

  "Since he opened his practice in 1960. What did you say the patient's name was?"

  "I don't know. That's the point. She was never identified. She had numerous fillings and the forensic odontist who examined the maxilla and mandible thought the work was probably done in the two years before her death. It's a long shot, I know."