Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

The neighborhood was quiet and the air felt damp. I walked half a block down and one block over, crossing Cabana Boulevard to the bike path that parallels the beach. I began to jog, feeling sluggish, aware of every footfall and every jolt to my frame. With me, jogging is seldom a subject for debate. I get up and do the run, unless it rains, of course, and then I burrow in my bed. Otherwise, five mornings a week, I shake off the sleep and hit the road before I lose my nerve, knowing that whatever I’m feeling at the outset of a run will be gone by the time I reach the end. The gym I can do without, though I’d been good about lifting weights for the past several months.

The sunrise had already presented itself in a dazzling light show that left the sky a broad and unblemished blue. The surf looked forbidding, a silt-churning cold, applauded only by the sea lions who waited offshore, barking their approval. I ran a mile and a half down to the Cabana Recreation Center, did a U-turn, and then ran the mile and a half back, finally slowing to a brisk walk as I headed for home.

I’d been resisting the urge to ponder events from the day before, but I could feel my thoughts stray. Dolan and Stacey had both caught the name “Kinsey” as soon as Johanson mentioned it, but my expression must have warned them to keep any observations to themselves. I had said little or nothing while the ranch foreman showed us through the barn, the old orchards, and the greenhouse, which was largely abandoned. Most of its panes were intact. The air was humid and smelled of mulch, peat moss, compost, and loam. In that protected environment, alien vines and opportunistic saplings had flourished, creating a towering jungle that pushed against the glass on all sides, threatening to break through. The minute we walked into the space, I knew I’d been there before. Cousins I’d discovered in the course of a previous investigation had sworn I’d been at Grand’s house when I was four years old. I had only the scantiest recollection of the occasion, but I knew my parents must have been there, too. The three of them—my father, my mother, and her sister Virginia—had been banished from the family after my parents eloped. My father was a mailman, thirty-five years old. My mother, Rita Cynthia Kinsey, was an eighteen-year-old debutante whose mother was convinced she was destined for someone better than Randy Millhone. Instead, my mother ran off with him, thumbing her nose at the entire Kinsey clan. Virginia sided with the newlyweds.Thereafter, all three were cast into the Kinsey family equivalent of the Outer Darkness.

Despite being exiled, my parents apparently made secret visits to the ranch whenever my grandparents were away. Rumor had it there were numerous contacts with the three remaining sisters, but I only knew of two occasions. On the first, there was an incident in which I’d fallen off a porch and hurt my knee. I did remember the sight of the scrape with its alternating stripes of dirt and blood, which smelled like iron. I could also remember the searing pain when my mother dabbed at the abrasion with a cotton ball that seemed to hiss on my skin. She and I took turns blowing on the wound, huffing and puffing to dry the medication and thus ease its sting. On the only other drive to Lompoc I remembered, my parents were killed before we ever arrived. My grandmother had known of my existence since the day I was born. I was still smarting from the fact she’d never bothered to make contact.

Walking the property with Arne Johanson, I’d dreaded the idea of entering the house, and I’d been hoping to avoid it when I realized Stacey’s breathing had become labored and much of the color had drained from his face. I laid a hand on his arm and called, “Con?”

Dolan turned and looked back. Stacey shook his head, making one of those gestures meant to assure us we needn’t worry about him. Johanson had forged on ahead and he was still chattering about the ranch when Dolan caught up with him. “Mr. Johanson? Sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got a meeting coming up in town and we have to get back.”

“This won’t take long. You don’t want to miss the house.”

“Maybe another day. We’ll take a rain check.”

“Well. I guess that’s that then. Whatever you say.”

Within minutes, he’d delivered us to Dolan’s car and we were back on the highway. The drive home had been low-key, with Stacey slumped on the backseat, the red knit cap pulled down to shield his eyes.

“Are you all right, Stace?” I asked.

“Walking wore me out. It’s my damn back again. I’ll be better in a bit.” In the absence of animation, his face looked old.

Dolan readjusted the rearview mirror, keeping one eye on Stacey and one on the road. “I told you not to come.”