Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Nah, he was long gone by then. I was all set to fire his butt if he hadn’t quit, which I’m sure he knew. Shortly afterward, the project I was working on went belly-up. It was a bad year for me.”

“I don’t suppose you’d recognize the drop cloth if you saw it again.”

“Should. I’ve used the same ones for years. I buy them in Quorum at the hardware store on Main. You have it with you?”

“I wish I did. It’s in the property room at the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department.”

“Well, you might have ’em check for paint spots. During the time Frankie worked for me, the only exterior color we used was something called Desert Sand. I forget the company—Porter most likely, though it might have been Glidden. Get a match on the paint and it might help tie the tarp to him. I’d be willing to testify.”

“Thanks. I’m impressed. You’ve got a good memory.”

“Desert Sand turned out to be a bad luck color. Biggest job I ever bid. At least to that point,” he said. “I’d’ve made thousands if the complex hadn’t gone in the tank.”

I felt a minor jolt in my chest. “Are you by any chance talking about the Tuley-Belle?”

“How’d you hear about that?”

“Ruel McPhee mentioned it earlier today.”

“Oh, I know Ruel. I’ve done many jobs for him over the years.”

“Where is this place? I’d like to take a look.”

“You passed it on your way in. It’s on 78, halfway between here and Quorum. On the west side of the road. From a distance, it looks like a prison. You can’t miss it.”

21

The faded billboard on the side of the road read THE TULEY-BELLE LUXURY CONDOMINIUMS—TOMORROW’S LIVING FOR TODAY. The project had been ambitious, accompanied by hype designed to create a buying frenzy. The banner pasted across one corner of the sign trumpeted ONLY TWO UNITS LEFT UNSOLD! If true, the lawsuits were doubtless still in the courts. I slowed and turned off the highway, following the deteriorating four-lane blacktop that was divided by concrete planting beds as empty as the surrounding landscape. The builders must have intended to create a lavish entrance with lush grass and palm trees lining the parkway, but the project had been abandoned long before the plans were executed. Vegetation was minimal. The flat terrain gave way to foothills stretching upward to form the Palo Verde Mountains. Distances were deceptive, the clear, dry air apparently functioning as an atmospheric zoom lens. The complex, which appeared to be a short quarter mile away, turned out to be closer to a mile and a half.

When I finally pulled into the dirt parking area and cut the engine, the silence enveloped the car like an invisible shield. In the harsh afternoon light, the partially constructed buildings looked as bleak as cliff dwellings. Piles of trash had blown up against the edifices. The surrounding acreage was flat and still. Dolan had told me that despite torrential desert rains, the runoff is usually swift and results in little saturation. Even from the car, I could see numerous deep channels cut into the porous soil, where flash floods had carved runnels, baked now to the hardness of poured concrete.

I got out and slammed the car door. The sound was muffled, as though absorbed by the very air itself. The subdivision was sprawling. Some portions had been completed; others had been framed in and deserted where they stood. Farther out, I could see where a series of foundations had been poured but the slabs remained untouched. There were numerous tire tracks, and I pictured a steady stream of teenagers slipping through the darkness, escaping from the raw night into the relative warmth of insulated walls. Out here, the wind was constant—a strong, whistling presence that whipped my hair across my face. Behind me, sand gusted across the road.

Two hundred feet away, a gaunt gray dog was stretched out on its belly, lazily tearing flesh from the carcass of a recent kill. It took me a moment to realize I was looking at a coyote. He regarded me without interest, but he did rise and pick up his prized bone before he trotted off. His coloring was so close to the muted desert hues that he vanished like a wraith.

I turned back to the nearest building and went in. The windows were gone and the doors had been removed from their hinges. The squatters hadn’t penetrated far. In what must have been intended as a lobby, mattresses now lined the walls like a hospital ward. Some sported ratty blankets, but most were bare. Cardboard boxes had been carted in and now served as bed tables for an assortment of ashtrays, drug paraphernalia, and empty beer cans. I toured, checking out the pharmaceutical fare. These kids were doing grass, hash, and cocaine, but the addiction of choice was still nicotine, with cigarette butts outnumbering the roaches four to one. A used rubber, draped across the toe of a lone high-top basketball shoe, just about summed it up. I tried to imagine the poor teenaged girls whose introduction to sex took place under such sorry circumstances.Maybe they were too drunk or too stoned to care what they were doing or what was being done to them.