Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

I sat down at the foot of the king-size bed, almost knee to knee with her. “Is he all right?” From the way she was behaving, I suspected he was dead, but I was unwilling to voice that possibility until she did.

“They called at seven. They think it’s him. They need someone to look, but I can’t.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. They told me to come in.”

“Where, the Sheriff’s Department downtown?”

She nodded. “This is bad. He’s been gone for days. If he was hurt, they wouldn’t ask me to come in, would they? They’d tell me where he was.”

“You don’t know that for sure. Did they call you at work?”

“I was still at home. I don’t start until eight. I was having a cup of coffee in my robe when the phone rang. I don’t even know how I got here. I remember getting in the car, but I don’t remember the drive.”

“We’ll go. Leave your car where it is and we’ll take mine. Just let me grab my things. In the meantime, breathe.”

I breathed in and out for her, demonstrating the process. I knew her anxiety was such that she’d end up holding her breath. Jacket and bag in hand, I ushered her out and pulled the door shut behind us. She didn’t have a purse and her hands were shaking so badly the car keys she carried jingled like a length of chain. I put a hand out to still them. She looked at me in surprise and then stared down at the keys as though she’d never seen them before. She tucked them in her jeans. I opened the passenger door for her, then circled the car and slipped in under the wheel. Once I started the car, I turned the heat on full blast. The day wasn’t cold, but she was so tense I knew she’d be feeling chilled. She sat, shoulders hunched, pressing her hands between her knees, while she shook like a dog on the way to the vet’s.

The Police Department and Sheriff’s Department were housed together in a two-story brick building, which, like everything else in Quorum, was hardly more than seven blocks away. I found parking on the street and went around to the passenger door to help her out. Once she was on her feet, she regained some of her composure. I knew she was still rattled, but something about being in motion helped her assume control. So far, she really hadn’t heard any bad news. It was the anticipation that was crushing her.

We went into the station. I had Felicia take a seat on a wooden bench in the corridor while I went into the office. This was strictly no-fuss decor: a counter, plain beige floor tile, gray metal desks, rolling swivel chairs, and government-issue gray filing cabinets. Cables and connecting wires ran in a tangle from the backs of the computers and down behind the desks. A cork bulletin board was littered with memos, notices, and official communications I couldn’t read from where I stood. There were also framed color photographs of the Riverside County sheriff, the governor of California, and the president of the United States.

I told the uniformed deputy at the desk who Felicia was and why we were there. He referred me in turn to a Detective Lassiter, who emerged from the inner office to have a chat with me. He was in his forties, clean-shaven, trim, and prematurely gray. He was dressed in civilian clothes, gun and holster visible under his dark gray sport coat. He kept his voice low while he detailed the information he’d received. “We got a call from a woman who lives out on Highway 78, four miles this side of Hazelwood Springs. Are you familiar with the area?”

“I know the section of the road you mean.”

“There are coyotes in the hills near her property, so she leaves her dog inside unless she can be in the yard to keep an eye on him. Yesterday, the trash haulers left the gate open and the dog escaped. He was gone all night and when he came back this morning he was dragging a bone. Actually, an arm. The deputy remembered Felicia’s call about Cedric. Most of us know him, but we want someone else to take a look.”

“I really only met him once and I’m not sure I’d recognize his arm. Unless it’s the one with all the tattoos,” I added. I had a quick vision of his left arm from the one and only time I’d seen him at the Santa Teresa county jail. On it, he’d had a tattoo of a big-breasted woman with long, flowing black hair. In addition, he had a spiderweb, the sombrero-clad skull, and a pornographic sex act he would have been well advised to have tattooed on his butt.

“We had a warrant out on him for a traffic-related felony— this was 1981. Along with his mug shot we have a description of his tattoos that seems to match.”

“Can’t you use the hand to roll a set of prints?”