Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

About as long as some of his jail time, as it turns out. Which brings us to Venice, California, late July, when Frankie killed Cathy Lee Pearse.” Stacey shook his head. “God bless the courts. If they’d done their job right, they could have saved her life.”

I said, “How’d he manage to get away with all that shit?”

“Easy,” Dolan said. He stubbed out one cigarette and fired up the next. “He knew how to work the system. Every time he was charged with multiple crimes, he’d plead guilty to one in exchange for the others being dropped. You haven’t met Frankie. He can be as charming as all get out. He had judges and prosecutors bending over backwards, trying to give him a chance to straighten up and fly right.”

Stacey returned the report to the manila folder. “Lot of times he was sentenced to state prison under the old indeterminate sentence system. Other times he was released on automatic parole. Longest he ever went between crimes was this period between March of ’67 and January of ’68.”

Dolan said, “Bet you a dollar he just didn’t get caught. He hasn’t gone that long between crimes since he started out.”

“Probably right about that. If you look at the pattern, you can see the stakes go up. Violence escalates. The stretch between crimes starts getting shorter and shorter until he killed Cathy Lee. For that one, he only served seventeen years on a life sentence so he’s still lucking out. If I were her parents, I’d be pissed as hell.”

I said, “What else do we have?”

Dolan pulled a battered notebook from his jacket pocket and began to leaf through the pages. He clicked his ballpoint pen. “Frankie’s cellmates. Turns out there were twelve altogether, but half the last known addresses are incorrect. We got two in state prison and one serving time in a federal prison camp in Yankton, South Dakota. I know the whereabouts of three for sure: Lorenzo Rickman, Pudgie Clifton, and John Luchek.”

Stacey said, “Scratch Luchek. He was killed in a two-car accident in 1975. Drunk hit him head on.”

“Right. That’s the information I have.” Dolan drew a line through the name. “Rickman’s out on parole. Word has it he’s been a real good boy of late, working as an auto mechanic at a place out in Colgate. I got the name here somewhere. Stacey’ll stop by Monday to have a chat with him. Which leaves Clifton, who’s currently at the tail end of ninety days on a misdemeanor possession. I picked up mug shots on all these guys in case you need something to refresh people’s memories. I mixed in some unrelated photos so we can’t be accused of biasing the witnesses—assuming we find a few.”

“Let’s be optimistic. It doesn’t cost anything,” Stacey said.

Dolan passed one pack of photos to me and one to Stacey, who said, “We’ll let Kinsey talk to Pudgie. He’s the type who’d respond to her feminine wiles.”

“Like I got some.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself.”

Dolan said, “That leaves Frankie.”

“You and I can draw straws, but let’s hold off on that until we contact the other two.” Stacey winced and then stood up abruptly, saying, “Shit! Hang on a sec.”

Dolan said, “What’s wrong?”

Stacey groaned, then sucked in air through his teeth, his face tense. “Damn back’s seizing up. Jeez, that hurts. Pain’s shooting all the way down my leg.”

“What’s the doctor say?”

“How do I know? This ain’t Death at my door. I told you— I pulled a muscle. I can’t call the oncologist for every little thing.” He leaned sideways, stretching. After a moment, he stood upright, taking a long, slow, deep breath.

“Better?”

“Much. Sorry to interrupt. Damn thing caught me by surprise.”

“Would you quit the self-diagnosis and call the guy?”

“The doctor’s a woman, you sexist prick. You ought to give some serious thought to the assumptions you make.”

“Quit the bullshitting, Stace. This is all a big smokescreen. You keep acting like you’ve only had the back pain for the past two days when you’ve complained of it for weeks. You should have had the docs take a look while you were in the hospital.”

“It wasn’t hurting me then.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You know what? This is called ‘denial. ’ This is you trying to minimize a problem that could be damn serious. Hell, give me the gal’s name and I’ll call her myself.”

“No, you won’t.”