Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

Once close to St. Terry’s, we found street parking within two cars of each other on the same block of Castle. It was now fully dark and the hospital was lit up like a lavish resort. We went in through the rear entrance and took the elevator to 6 Central, the oncology floor. The lights had been dimmed, and the wide, carpeted corridor muffled our footsteps. Three spare IV poles and two blood pressure monitors were clustered against the wall, along with a linen cart and a multitiered meal cart filled with trays from the dinner served earlier. I caught sight of a few visitors, but there was none of the lively interplay between patients and family members. Getting well takes work and no one wants to waste energy on superficial conversation. Passing the nurses’ station, Dolan gave a nod to the clerk at the desk.

Stacey was in a private room, looking out on a darkened residential street. He seemed to be sleeping, his hospital bed elevated at a forty-five-degree angle. Poking out from under his red-knit watch cap were wisps of ginger-colored hair. Two get-well cards were propped upright along the wide windowsill, but there was nothing else of a personal nature. The television screen was blank. On his rolling bed table, there were a pile of magazines and a paper cup filled with melting ice.

Dolan paused in the doorway. Stacey’s eyes came open. He waved and then pushed himself up on the bed. “I see you made it,” he said, and then to me, “You must be Kinsey. Nice to meet you.” I leaned forward and shook his hand. His grip was strong and hot, almost as though he were metabolizing at twice the normal rate.

While Dolan went about the business of rounding up chairs from opposite corners of the room, I said, “I believe you knew the guys who trained me—Morley Shine and Ben Byrd.”

“I knew them well. Both good men. I was sorry to hear about Morley’s murder. That was a hell of a thing. Have a seat.”

“Thanks.”

Dolan offered me one chair and settled in the other. While the two of them chatted, I studied Stacey. He had small mild blue eyes, pale brows, and a long, deeply creased face. His color was good, though it looked as though he hadn’t shaved for days. He seemed to be in good spirits and he spoke with all the vigor of an active man.

After some preliminary conversation, Dolan brought the subject around to the Jane Doe investigation. “I gave Kinsey the file to read. We thought we should talk about where we go from here. The doc still talking about letting you out tomorrow?”

“Looks that way.”

The two of them chatted about the case while I kept my mouth shut. I don’t know why I’d expected Stacey to resist Dolan’s proposition, but he didn’t seem at all opposed to our resurrecting the case. He said to Dolan, “Speaking of which, Frankie Miracle got out. His parole officer, Dench Smallwood, called me and said Frankie found a place in town. By now, he probably has legitimate employment.”

“That’d be a first.”

I said, “How does Frankie Miracle fit in? I remember his name from the file.”

Dolan said, “He got picked up in Lompoc August 1, two days before Jane Doe’s body was found. We always figured he was good for it, though he denied it.”

Stacey spoke up. “He killed his girlfriend in Venice, July 29, during a meth binge. He stabbed the woman umpteen times, then he helped himself to her car and all her credit cards and started driving north. She was found a couple days later when neighbors complained about the smell.”

“Dumb-ass signed her name to the charge slips every time he stopped for gas,” Dolan said. “You’d think someone would notice a ‘Cathy Lee Pearse’ with no boobs, a mustache, and a two-day growth of beard.” He shifted in his chair and then rose to his feet. “You two go on and get acquainted. Time for me to step outside and grab a smoke.”

Once Dolan left, I said, “You have a theory why Jane Doe was never identified?”

“No. We expected a quick match, someone who’d recognize her from the description in the papers. All I can think is she wasn’t reported missing. Or maybe the missing-persons report got buried in the paperwork on some cop’s desk. There’s probably an explanation, but who knows what it is? By now, it’s unlikely we’ll ever find out who killed her, but there’s a possibility we can get her ID’d and returned to her folks.”

“What are the chances?”

“Not as bad as you might think. Once enough time passes, people are more willing to speak up. We might tweak someone’s conscience and get a lead that way.” He hesitated, taking a moment to smooth the edges of his sheet. “You know, Con’s wife, Gracie, died a while back.”