Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

We tucked him in the front seat of Stacey’s rental car while I climbed in the back. He carried a manila envelope with copies of the ER report, his EKGs, and his record of treatment. As Stacey turned the key in the ignition, Dolan said, “Bunch of bunk. They exaggerate this stuff, trying to keep you in line. I don’t see what’s so bad about an occasional smoke.”

“Don’t start on that. You do what they say.”

“How about I’ll be as compliant as you were? As I remember it, you did what suited you and to hell with them.”

Stacey turned off the key and threw his hands up. “That’s it. We’re going right back upstairs and talk to the doctor.”

“What’s the matter with you? I said I’d do as I’m told . . . in the main. Now start the car and let’s go. I’m not supposed to be upset. It says so right here,” he said, rattling his envelope.

“Does not. I read that myself.”

“You read my medical records?”

“Sure. The chart was in the slot on your door. I knew you’d lie about things.”

I leaned forward, resting my arms on the front seat between them. “Guys, if you two are going to bicker, I’ll get out and walk.”

All three of us were silent while they thought about that.

Finally, Dolan said, “Oh, all right. This is making my blood pressure go up.”

At the Quorum Inn over dinner, Dolan’s mood improved and the tension between them eased. Dolan made a pious display of ordering broiled fish with lemon, steamed vegetables, a plain green salad, and a glass of red wine, which he swore he was allowed. After our day of junk food, Stacey and I both ate broiled chicken, salad, and the same steamed vegetables. We all pretended to enjoy the dinner more than we did. By the time our decaf coffee arrived, it was clear we’d run out of conversation. In the morning, Stacey would drive Dolan back to Santa Teresa in the rental car, leaving Dolan’s for me. The case had sailed into one of those inevitable calms. We were waiting for paperwork, waiting for test results, waiting for comparison prints; in short, waiting for a break that might never come. I probably should have headed home at the same time they did. I’d certainly join them in a day or two, if nothing further developed.

I said, “In the meantime, what’s left? I don’t want to sit here idle.”

Dolan said, “Just don’t get in trouble.”

“How could I do that? There’s nothing going on.”

Tuesday morning, I saw them off at 8:00, giving a final wave as Stacey turned out of the parking lot. I went back to my room, feeling a mild depression mixed with relief at being on my own again. I usually experienced a similar reaction after Robert Dietz had been with me and finally hit the road. It’s hard to be the one left behind. If I were home, I’d clean house, but in the confines of the motel, I couldn’t even do that. I gathered my wee pile of laundry, rooted in the bottom of my bag for loose change, and walked to the Laundromat half a block away. There’s no activity more profoundly boring than sitting in a Laundromat, waiting for the washer and dryer to click through their cycles from beginning to end. If you dared leave your clothes, thinking to return later when the load was done, someone would steal them or pull them out of the machines and leave them in a heap. I sat and did surveillance on my own underwear. It beat doing a records search, but not by much.

24

I hadn’t been back from the Laundromat for more than ten minutes when I heard a knock on my door. I peered through the fisheye and saw Felicia Clifton standing outside, staring off across the parking lot. I opened the door. The face she turned to me was pale and undefined, free of makeup. Her eyes, without the black liner and false lashes, were actually prettier, though not nearly as large or as vivid. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and running shoes without socks, as though she’d dressed in haste. Her red hair was pulled back in a jumbled ponytail.

“This is a pleasant surprise. Come in.”

She stepped in, reaching out a hand to steady herself. At first I thought she was drunk, but I realized within seconds, she was shaken and upset. “Felicia, what’s wrong? Is it Pudgie?”

She nodded mutely. I moved her to one side and closed the door after her, saying, “Hey, you’re safe. You’re fine. Take your time.”

She sank onto the desk chair, putting her head between her knees as though on the verge of passing out.

So far, I didn’t like the way the conversation was shaping up. I went into the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth. I rung it out with cold water and carried back to her. She took it and pressed it to her face. She made a sound that was half-sigh and half-moan.