Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Yeah, if it wasn’t for the taillight, Frankie could’ve been in Oregon and we might not’ve tied him to the situation here.”

“What about the weapon? I don’t remember any mention of it.”

“We never found the knife, but judging from the wounds, the coroner said the blade had to be at least five inches long. Rumor has it, Frankie carried something similar, though he didn’t have it on him when we picked him up.”

Stacey said, “He probably tossed it or buried it. Country up there is rugged. Search and Rescue came through and did a grid search but never turned up anything.” He leaned forward and tapped Con on the shoulder, pointing to a side road going off on our right a hundred yards ahead. “That’s it. Just beyond this bridge coming up.”

“You think? I remember it was farther down, along a stretch of white three-board fence.”

“Oh. Maybe so. You could be right about that.”

Dolan had slowed from forty miles an hour to a cautious fifteen. The two peered over at a two-lane gravel road that cut back at an angle and disappeared from view. It must not have looked familiar because Stacey said, “Nuh-uhn. Try around the next bend. We could have passed it already.” He turned and stared out the rear window.

In the end, Dolan made a U-turn and we circled back, making a second slow pass until they settled on the place. Dolan pulled onto a secondary lane, gravel over cracked asphalt, that followed the contours of a low-lying hill. Directly ahead of us, I could see where the road split to form a Y. A locked gate barred access to the property with its No Trespassing signs. On the near side of the gate and to the right, a Jeep was parked.

“Where’s Grayson Quarry?” I asked, referring to the crime scene as designated on the official police reports.

“Around the bend to the right about a quarter of a mile,” Dolan said. As he edged over on the berm and set the handbrake, an elderly gentleman in jeans, cowboy boots, and a leather hat emerged from the Jeep. He was small and wide, with a full-sized Santa belly pushing at the buttons of his western-style shirt. He approached our car, walking with a decided limp. Dolan cut the engine and got out on his side.

Stacey murmured, “That’s Arne Johanson, the ranch foreman. I called and he agreed to meet us to unlock the gate.”

By the time Stacey eased out of the backseat, I’d emerged from the passenger side and shoved the car door with one hip. Now that Dolan was in the open air, he lit a cigarette.

Stacey moved toward the old man and shook his hand. I noticed he was making an effort to appear energetic. “Mr. Johanson. This is nice of you. I’m Stacey Oliphant with the County Sheriff’s Department. You probably don’t remember, but we met in August of ’69 back when the body was found. This is Lieutenant Con Dolan from Santa Teresa PD. He’s the fellow who was with me. Two of us were up here to hunt when we came across the girl.”

“I thought you looked familiar. Good seeing you.”

“Thanks. We appreciate your help.”

The old man’s gaze drifted in my direction. He seemed puzzled at the sight of me. “Like to see some ID if it’s all the same to you.” This was directed at the guys though his eyes remained on me.

Stacey moved his jacket aside to expose the badge attached to his belt. His badge specified that he was retired, but Johanson didn’t seem to notice and Stacey didn’t feel compelled to call it to his attention. Dolan rolled his cigarette to one corner of his mouth and took out a leather bifold wallet with his badge, which he held up. While Johanson leaned forward and studied it, Dolan took out a business card and handed it to him. Johanson tucked the card in his shirt pocket and glanced at me slyly.

“She’s with us,” Dolan said.

I was perfectly willing to show him a copy of my license, but I liked Dolan’s protectiveness and thought I’d leave well enough alone. This time, when the old man’s eyes returned to mine, I looked away. I pegged him as a throwback, some old reprobate who believed women belonged in the kitchen, not out in the “real” world going toe to toe with men. He had to be in his eighties. His eyes were small, a watery blue. His face was sun-toughened, deeply creased, and bristling with whiskers that showed white against his leathery skin. He shifted his attention to Dolan’s cigarette. “I’d watch that if I was you. It’s fire country up here.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Johanson took out a set of keys and the four of us walked over to the metal rail gate with its ancient padlock. His stride had a rocking motion that suggested an old injury. Maybe in his youth he’d worked the rodeo circuit. He selected a key, turned it in the padlock, and popped it off the hasp. He pushed the sagging gate aside, forcing it back to a point where it was anchored in the grass. The four of us passed through, Dolan and Stacey leading while I tagged behind them and Johanson brought up the rear.