Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

When we reached the garage, Dolan tried the side door, but a combination of warping and old paint had welded it shut. We went around to the double doors in front. Both were closed, but there were no locks in the hasps. Dolan gave the one on the right a hefty yank and the three-section door labored up, trailing spider webs and dead leaves. Sunlight washed in, setting a cloud of dust motes ablaze. The two cars inside were both covered with canvas tarps and the space was crammed with junk. In addition to old cars, McPhee apparentlysaved empty cans and jars, stacks of newspapers bound with wire, wood crates, boxes, shovels, a pickax, a rusted tire iron, firewood, sawhorses, and lumber. The garage had also been made home to an ancient mower, automotive parts, and dilapidated metal lawn furniture. The air smelled stale and felt dry against my face. Dolan paused to extinguish his cigarette while I raised a corner of the nearest tarp. “This looks a lot like the tarp the body was wrapped in.”

“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 Sheriff’s 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 Sheriff’s 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.”

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 corner, 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 form 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.