Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“He isn’t old,” I said, offended.

“Yeah, right. The day he checked in? He got an AARP discount. Fifteen percent off. You can’t get that unless you’re old. You have to be fifty at least.”

“I’m fifty myself.”

She said, “Far out. You look forty.” She blew a bubble and popped it to punctuate her point. She looked at me. “Oops, sorry. You were kidding, right?”

“Never mind. I asked for that,” I said. “Did he leave the motel for some reason?”

“He went out for cigarettes, but I saw him come back.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Hour. He stopped by to pick up messages and then he went to his room.”

“Had any calls come in?”

“Ask him yourself, you’re such a pal.”

“Ring his room for me, okay?”

“Sure.” She picked up the phone, blowing another bubble as she punched the number in. It must have rung fifteen times. “He must have gone out again. Lotta old people get antsy. Too much energy. Have to be on the go or it drives ’em nuts.”

“I appreciate your assessment. Can you come with me to his room and use your key?”

“Nope. I’m here by myself and I can’t leave the desk. Why don’t you go around the back and bang on his bathroom window? He might be on the pot.”

I didn’t like this at all. I returned to his room and knocked again about as loudly as the villagers at Frankenstein’s castle door. Nothing. I circled the building, counting off the intervening rooms until I reached one I assumed was his. All the bathroom windows were too high off the ground to do me any good. I went back to his front door and stood there, undecided, while I thought about life. Why wasn’t he answering? I reached for my shoulder bag and pulled out my wallet. In the windowed compartment under my driver’s license, I keep a simple set of lock picks. This was not the battery-operated device I own that opens just about anything. I’d left that one at home, primarily because if I happened to get caught with it, the cops would take a dim view. What I had in hand was a set of the old-fashioned picks, a little hook and a tiny torque wrench, for occasions such as this. In my bag, I also carry a pin light and a folding screwdriver, neither of which would be necessary for today’s B&E.

I knocked one more time and called Dolan’s name in bullish tones. The guy in the next room opened his door and stuck his head out. “Hey! Keep it down, for cripes sake? And while you’re at it, you can tell that jerk to turn off his TV set. It’s been blasting since ten o’clock and I’m sick of it. Some of us have to work.”

“Sorry. He’s handicapped,” I said, and tapped my ear. “Severe hearing deficit, the poor guy.”

The man’s expression shifted from annoyance to something less. “Oh. I didn’t realize . . .”

“That’s okay. People treat him badly all the time. He’s used to it.”

I waited until he’d disappeared and then I set to work. In movies, thieves tend to pop the locks in no time flat, often with the use of a credit card, a method I avoid. I don’t trust the process. I knew a guy once whose credit card snapped off in the door he was trying to open. A neighbor spotted him breaking in and called the cops. When he heard the sirens approach, he hightailed it out of there, leaving half his card behind. The cops picked up his surname and the last six digits of his account. He was busted within a day.

In reality, picking locks takes practice, great patience, and no small measure of dexterity. Though most lock mechanisms are similar, there are variations that would drive the novice burglar insane. It usually takes me a few tries. I manipulated my little torque wrench with one eye on the parking lot. If Dolan was out, I didn’t want him to catch me breaking into his room. And I was not all that keen on having the cops called if one of the other occupants was watching me from behind the drapes. At the same time, if he was in there, it was time to find out what was going on. I felt the last gate give way. I turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped in. “Lieutenant Dolan?”

He was lying on the bed, fully dressed, his shoes off. He turned toward me. His breathing was shallow and his face was a pasty gray. I flipped off the TV and crossed the room.

His voice was hoarse and raspy. “Heard you knocking, but I was in the bathroom being sick. I’m not doing so good.”

“I can see that. You look awful. Are you having chest pains?” Up close, I could see a fine sheen of clammy sweat on his forehead and cheeks.