Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

When I knocked on his screen door, I could see him perched on a cardboard carton in the living room. His desk drawers were open and a shredder was plugged into an extension cord that trailed across the room. He motioned me in.

I held up the white bag. “I hope you haven’t eaten supper. I’ve got Cokes, french fries, and Quarter Pounders with cheese. Very nourishing.”

“I don’t have much appetite, but I’ll be happy to keep you company.”

“Fair enough.”

I left the bag on the desk and moved into the kitchen where I found a package of paper plates and a roll of paper towels. I returned to the living room, put the dinnerware on the floor, and hauled over two boxes from the stack against the wall. I sat on one box and used the second as a table that I arranged between us. I unpacked Cokes, two large cartons of fries, packets of ketchup and salt, and a paper-wrapped QP with cheese for each of us. I squeezed ketchup on the fries, salted everything in sight, and then downed my QP in approximately eight bites. “I’m going for the land speed record here.”

Stacey lifted the top of his bun and eyed his burger with misgivings. “I’ve never eaten one of these.”

I paused in the midst of wiping my mouth. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” He tried a cautious bite, which he chewed with suspicion, letting the flavors mingle in his mouth. He wagged his head from side to side. With his second bite, he seemed to get the hang of it, and after that he ate with the same dispatch I did.

I reached into the bag and took out another burger that I passed to him. This time, halfway through, a nearly subliminal moan escaped his lips. I laughed.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked, pointing to the shredder with a french fry.

“Fellow next door,” he said, pausing to swallow his bite. “I’m cleaning out my desk. Can’t quite bring myself to shred my receipts. I don’t intend to file a tax return. I figure I’ll be dead before the IRS catches up with me. Even so, I worry about an audit without the proper paperwork on hand.” He licked his fingers and wiped his mouth. “Thank you. That was great. I haven’t had an appetite for weeks.”

“Happy to help.”

He gathered all the trash and put it back in the bag, then turned and made a free throw, tossing it in the wastebasket. He reached into the bottom drawer and took out a cardboard box filled with black-and-white photographs. He set the box in his lap, picked up a handful, and fed them to the machine.

I watched while six images were reduced to slivers. “What are you doing?”

“I told you. Cleaning out my desk.”

“But those are family photographs. You can’t do that.”

“Why not? I’m the only one left.”

“But you can’t just destroy them. I can’t believe you’d do that.”

“Why leave the job for someone else? At least if I do it, there’s a personal connection.” He sang, “Good-bye, Uncle Schmitty. Bye Cousin Mortimer...” Two more images were converted to confetti in the shredder bin.

I put a hand on his arm. “I’ll take them.”

“And do what? You don’t even know these folks. I can’t identify the better half of ’em myself. Look at this. Who’s he? I swear I never saw this guy before in my life. Must have been a family friend.” He touched the edge of the photo to the shredder teeth and watched it disappear before he picked up the next.

“Don’t shred them. Aren’t those your parents?”

“Sure, but they’ve been dead for years.”

“I can’t stand this. Give me those. I’ll pretend they’re mine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re alone just like me. If I let you take ’em, someone else will end up throwing them in your trash.”

“So what? Come on, Stace. Please.”

He hesitated and finally nodded. “Okay. But it’s dumb.”

He handed me the box of photos, which I placed near my bag out of his reach. I was worried he’d change his mind and shred someone else. He turned his attention to a file folder marked AUTO INSURANCE and fed its contents into the shredder. Idly, he said, “I almost forgot to mention, Joe Mandel called with an address for Iona Mathis. She’s living in the high desert, little town called Peaches.”

“Which is where?”

“Above San Bernardino, off Highway 138. There’s no phone in her name so she might be bunking in with someone else. Did I tell you Mandel got a line on the red Mustang? This guy Gant, the original owner, died about ten years ago, but his widow says the car was stolen from an auto upholstery shop in Quorum, California, where he’d taken it to get the seats replaced. Gant had the car towed back from Lompoc, but it was such a mess he turned around and sold it to the guy whose shop it was stolen from—fellow named Ruel McPhee. According to our sources, the car’s now registered to him. I’ve left him four messages, but so far I haven’t heard back. Con thinks it’s worth a trip down there just to see what’s what.”