Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

Mr. Eichenberger said, “Ms. Millhone, let me make something clear. I’ve been here since the mid-sixties. As a matter of fact, I’m retiring in May. I came to the job when I was forty and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. I don’t mean to brag, but I remember just about every student who’s come through those doors. I make it my priority to know who they are and what they’re about. That’s what these kids need—not a buddy or a pal, they need guidance from adults with their best interests at heart. We’re in the business of getting these kids shaped up to face the real world. They need skills—reading and writing primarily—all in preparation for productive, well-paid work. If they’re not college material, we make sure they find trades. Truancy, gangs, drug problems—we don’t see much of that here, despite our proximity to Los Angeles.”

I flicked a look over my shoulder. Were we being filmed? It’s not that his sentiments weren’t admirable, but the spiel sounded canned and had nothing to do with me. “Excuse me, but is this relevant?”

He seemed to collect himself, as though recovering from a momentary lapse of consciousness. “Yes. Well. You were talking about a student. It would help if you’d give me the details. I can’t be of assistance without that.”

Ever obliging, I repeated my tale while his assistant moved papers randomly across her desk. Before I could finish my account, Mr. Eichenberger shook his head. “Not here. Not during my administration. You might try Lockaby. That’s the alternative high school.”

“Really. I didn’t know there was one.”

“It’s over on the Kennedy Pike; a white frame building across from the town cemetery. You can’t miss it.”

“Is there someone in particular I should ask for?”

“Mrs. Bishop is the principal. She might be able to help.”

“You didn’t know the girl yourself?”

“If I had, I’d say so. I wouldn’t withhold information in a murder investigation.”

“What about your assistant?”

“Mrs. Richards wasn’t working here back then.”

“Too bad. I thought it was worth a try,” I said. I took out a business card and made a note of the motel number on the back. “I’m at the Ocean View for the next couple of days. I’d appreciate a call if you think of anything that might help.”

“You mentioned a foster family. I’d try Social Services.”

“Thanks. That’s a good suggestion. I’ll do that.”

I decided not to make another move until I’d brought Dolan up to speed. For the second time that morning, I was headed back to the motel. I left the car in the parking space in front of his room and gave a rap at his door. From inside, I caught the muffled sounds of the blaring television set. Dolan must not have heard me because he didn’t answer my knock. Head tilted against the door, I waited and then tried it again. No deal. I turned and stared off across the parking lot toward the office. I let my eyes stray to the alcove that housed the soft-drink and Coke machines. No sign of him. I knocked again, this time sounding like the ATF at the outset of a drug raid. Maybe he was in the shower or otherwise indisposed.

I crossed the parking lot to the office and poked my head in the door. The desk clerk, a girl in her twenties, was sitting on a swivel stool, flipping through a copy of People magazine. I’d interrupted her in the middle of an article about Princess Di. The clerk was dark-haired, pretty in a sulky sort of way, with a mouth way too wide. Her lipstick was dark red and her lashes were so thick I thought they must be false. She was wearing a navy skirt and white blouse, topped by a smart red blazer with a phony crest on the patch pocket. The outfit must have been provided by the motel because it didn’t look like anything she’d have worn without the threat of being fired. To compensate, she’d shortened the skirt and left the top three buttons of her blouse undone. She was chewing gum, a habit I’d been warned against when I was in tenth grade. My French teacher swore it made you look like a cow and I haven’t chewed gum since. I hadn’t even liked the teacher, but the admonition stuck.

I said, “Sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you’ve seen the fellow from room 130? I know he’s expecting me, but he doesn’t answer his door.”

She leaned over and checked the register, flipping back a page. While she did this, she pushed her tongue through the wad of gum until it bulged like a small pink lung being extruded through her lips. “You’re talking about the old guy?”