Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“You really expect to find her killer after all these years?”

“We’ve made it this far,” I said. “I hope to hear from you.”

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do what I can.”

I went back to the motel and put a call through to Dr. Spears. I told Mrs. Gary, his assistant, what I’d learned from Medora Sanders. She remembered Charisse Quinn as soon as she heard the name. She made a note and said she’d pass the information along to him. She assured me that if he had time, he’d search the dead storage boxes for her chart. If he couldn’t do it himself, she promised she’d pitch in. I thanked her profusely. Once I hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed, grinning from ear to ear, finally allowing myself a moment to celebrate. I couldn’t wait to tell Dolan. A match on dental records would confirm my hunch. I was convinced this was her, but we needed concrete proof.

18

I went in through the front entrance of Quorum General and asked the volunteer at the reception desk for directions to the CCU. The facility wasn’t large, but it seemed up-to-date, at least judging by the portions of it I saw en route. As it turned out, Dolan had been taken into surgery by the time I reached the floor. The Palm Springs cardiologist had blown in an hour before, and he’d kicked butt in six directions getting the procedure under way. I got a cursory briefing from the charge nurse, who checked with the OR. She assured me everything was going fine, though it’d be a while before Dolan was out of post-op. She suggested I call her at 7:00 to make sure he’d returned.

Leaving the hospital, I could feel my exhilaration fade. It was 4:30 by then. I had no access to Dolan and no way to know when Stacey Oliphant would appear. At best, I wouldn’t hear from Justine until some time the next day, if I heard from her at all, which left me with no one to talk to and nothing to do. I retreated to the Ocean View. I parked the car in the motel lot and bought a can of Diet Pepsi from the vending machine.

I used Dolan’s key to let myself into his room, where I retrieved my Smith-Corona. Once ensconced in my own room, I set up a minioffice, using the motel desk. I typed up my notes, a process that took the better part of an hour and a half.

At 6:15 I opened the phone book and consulted the yellow pages for the nearest pizza joint. I called and ordered a medium sausage-and-pepperoni pizza with jalapeño peppers and extra cheese on top. Given Dolan’s diet restrictions, there was no way I’d be able to eat such fare in front of him. As a courtesy, I decided to indulge now. While I waited for delivery, I popped out to the vending machine and bought another Diet P. I ate supper sitting on my bed, my back propped against the pillows, watching the news and feeling completely decadent.

I called the hospital shortly after 7:00 and talked to the ward clerk in CCU. She said Dolan was in his room if I wanted to visit, which, of course, I did.

It was fully dark outside and the temperature had dropped precipitously by the time I emerged from my room and headed back to the hospital. Despite the halo of light pollution hovering over the town, the stars were as distinct as pinpricks in black construction paper, light shining through from the other side. The moon hadn’t yet risen, but I could see where the darkness would lift and the desert would glow like a silver platter once it mounted the sky. I parked in the hospital lot and walked through the entrance doors for the second time that day.

All of the interior lights were ablaze, and it lent the premises a warm, cozy air. The lobby was filled with evening visitors. I passed the gift shop and the coffee shop and continued to the elevators, heading for the second floor. In all the semi-private rooms I peered in, the curtains were drawn and the corner-mounted television sets were tuned to reruns. Dinner had probably been served at 5:30 or so, and the trays were now in the meal carts that still sat in the corridor. I caught glimpses of partially consumed foodstuffs: canned green beans and Salisbury steak (which is a fancy name for meat-loaf) and countless packets of saltines still secured in cellophane.Plastic cups of taut red Jell-O squares sat untouched, and I suspected the hospital dietitian would find herself in a state of despair. These meals, like those in elementary schools, look better on paper than they do to the hapless participants. Half the items end up in the trash.

CCU was quiet and the lights were subdued. Dolan was in a private room attached by tubes and wires to a bank of monitors. His vital signs were flashed on a digital read-out, like the time and temperature bulletins outside a bank. The decor had been designed to minimize stress. The color scheme consisted of restful blues and pale, soothing greens. There was a bank of windows and a wall-mounted clock, but no television set and no newspapers trumpeting the day’s quota of economic woes, murders, disasters, and fatal accidents.