"Q" is for Quarry (24 page)

As we drove through town, we made a brief detour, stopping in at the Quorum Police Department and the Riverside County Sheriff’s substation, which were next door to each other on North Winter Street. I waited in the car while Dolan talked to detectives in both agencies, letting them know he was in the area and what he was working on. Technically, neither visit was required, but he didn’t want to step on any toes. It was smart to lay the groundwork in case we needed local assistance later. When he got back in the car and slammed the door, he said, “Probably a waste of time, but it’s worked in my favor often enough to make it worthwhile.”

It was close to 5:30 by then and the afternoon temperatures were dropping rapidly. Dolan’s plan was to find a motel and then cruise the town, looking for a place to eat. “We can have supper and turn in early, then scout out the auto upholstery shop first thing in the morning.”

“Fine with me.”

Most of the motels seemed equivalent, matching rates posted on gaudy neon signs. We settled on the Ocean View, which boasted a pool, a heated spa, and free TV. We checked in at the desk, and I waited while Dolan gave the clerk his credit card, picking up the tab on two rooms and a key for each of us. We hopped back in the car, driving the short distance so he could park in the slot directly in front of his room. Mine turned out to be right around the corner. We agreed to a brief recess during which we’d get settled.

I let myself into my room. The interior smelled like the Santa Teresa beach, which is to say, faintly of damp and less faintly of mildew. I placed my shoulder bag on the desktop and my duffel on the chair. I christened the facilities, shrugged into my windbreaker, and met Dolan at his door. Not surprisingly, his goal was to find a restaurant with a cocktail lounge attached. Failing that, he’d opt for a decent bar somewhere, after which we could eat pizza in our rooms. We stopped in the motel office, where the desk clerk recommended the Quorum Inn, two blocks down, on High Street. I’d miscalculated the chill in the desert air at night. I walked with my arms crossed, hunched against the brisk wind whipping down the wide streets. The town seemed exposed, laid open to the elements, low buildings the only hope of shelter from the desert winds.

The Quorum Inn was already packed when we arrived: the late-afternoon martini crowd firing up cigarettes, alternating bites of green olives with the mixed nuts on the bar. The walls were varnished pine and the booths were upholstered in red Naugahyde. The free-standing tables were covered with red-and-white checked cloths. Most of the menu choices were either steak or beef. The side dishes were french fries, fried onion rings, and batter-fried zucchini. You could also order a foil-wrapped baked potato smothered in butter, sour cream, bacon, and/or cheese.

We sat at the bar for the first hour while Dolan downed three Manhattans and I sipped at a puckery white wine that I diluted with ice. Once we retired to a table, he asked for a well-done twenty-two-ounce sirloin and I settled for an eight-ounce filet. By 8:00, we were back at the motel, where we parted company for the night. I read for a while and then slept the way you do with a tummy full of red meat and a shitload of cholesterol coursing through your veins.

At breakfast, I had my usual cereal while Dolan had bacon, eggs, pancakes, four cups of coffee, and five cigarettes. When he pulled out the sixth, I said, “Dolan, you have to quit this.”

He hesitated. “What?”

“The booze and cigarettes and fatty foods. You’ll trigger another heart attack and I’ll be stuck doing CPR. Haven’t you read the Surgeon General’s report?”

He gestured impatiently. “Nuts to that stuff! My granddaddy lived to ninety-six and he smoked hand-rolled cigarettes from the time he was twelve until the day he died.”

“Yeah, well I’ll bet he hadn’t had two heart attacks by the time he was your age. You keep ragging on Stacey and you’re worse than he is.”

“That’s different.”

“It is not. You want him alive and that’s exactly what I’m bugging
you
about.”

“If I’m interested in your opinion, I’ll be sure to ask. I don’t need a lecture from someone half my age.”

“I’m not half your age. How old are you?”

“I’m sixty-one.”

“Well, I’m thirty-six.”

“The point is, I can do anything I want.”

“Nah, nah, nah. I’ll remind you of that next time Stacey threatens to blow his brains out.”

Dolan crushed out his cigarette butt in the ashtray. “I’m tired of jawing. Time to go to work.”

McPhee’s Auto Upholstery was located on Hill Street in the heart of town. We parked across from the shop and took a moment to get our bearings. The morning was filled with flat, clean sunlight. The air felt pleasant, but I was guessing that by afternoon the heat, while dry, would feel oppressive. By the time the sun went down, it’d be as cold as it had been the night before. Behind the shop, we could see a small lot where six cars had been parked, each shrouded in an automobile cover. That part of the property was enclosed by heavy chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The building itself was constructedof corrugated metal with three bays on one side, the doors rolled up to reveal the shop’s interior. It looked like a gas station, surrounded with the usual cracked asphalt. We could see two men at work.

“You really think the car we’re after is the one C. K. saw?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” he said. “We know it was stolen from here.”

“If it was parked near the quarry, then what?”

“Then we’ll see if we can establish a connection between the car and Jane Doe.”

We got out and crossed the street to the front entrance. Under the big plate glass window, a large concrete planter sat empty except for packed dirt. To the right of the shop there was a lumberyard; to the left, a long-distance hauling company with a lot full of tractor rigs and detached semitrailers. This was a commercial neighborhood made up of businesses that catered to customers in pickups and vans.

The showroom was an extension of the shop area out back. The floor was done in black-and-white vinyl tile. Behind a glass case filled with service manuals, there was a metal desk, metal file cabinets, and a Rolodex. The top surface of the glass case was piled high with sample books showing automobile and marine vinyls, “Performance-rated fabrics for heavy-duty application.” Rear and side camper windows in a variety of styles had been mounted on pegboard and hung on the wall. We picked our way through a cluster of bench and bucket car seats still exhibiting their torn upholstery. A display board was set up to show the leather/vinyl match for Ford, GM, Chrysler-Jeep Eagle, Honda, and Toyota interior upholstery. You could order any number of convertible tops, tonneau covers, floor mats, and glass or plastic window curtains.

An open door led from the showroom into the first of the three connecting bays, where one of the two men looked up. I pegged him in his mid-thirties. He was medium height, clean-shaven, his complexion ruddy. His hair had the kind of blond streaks that women pay money for. He wore it parted in the middle with strands falling loosely on either side of his face. Most of his teeth were good. There were creases around his mouth where his smile had made inroads. His hands were dirty, his nails permanently underlined with black like a lady’s French tip manicure in reverse. Blue-plaid flannel shirt, jeans, desert boots. He was built like a high school football player— which is to say, some guy who’d get creamed if he played football today. I tried to decide whether I’d have been attracted to him when I was sixteen. He looked like the type I’d have had a crush on from a distance. Then again, most guys in high school were like that as far as I was concerned.

He was using a crescent wrench and a pair of pliers to dismantle a car seat that was propped up in front of him. The workbench, which extended the length of the wall behind him, was stacked with bolts of vinyl, hoses, coffee cans, sheets of foam rubber, toolboxes, cans of latex paint, tires. Two fans were blowing, thus circulating the smell of synthetics. Beside him there was a garbage bin full of scraps. A second ripped and cracked auto seat sat on a counter nearby. He was smoking a cigarette, but he put it out casually before he spoke to us. “Help you?”

Dolan put his hands in his pants pockets. “We’re looking for Ruel McPhee.”

“That’s my dad. He’s retired. Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Dolan, Santa Teresa Police Department. This is my colleague, Ms. Millhone. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Cornell McPhee. Are you the one who left the phone message?”

“That’s my partner, Detective Oliphant. As a matter of fact, he left four and says your father never called him back.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was urgent. I gave Dad the messages and he said he’d take care of it. I guess it slipped his mind.”

The second man in the shop was older, possibly in his fifties. He’d returned to his work as soon as he figured out the conversation had nothing to do with him.

“Your dad still in town?”

Cornell put down his crescent wrench and wiped his hands on a rag. “Sure. What’s this about?”

“We’re hoping to track down a vehicle stolen from his shop in 1969.”

Cornell’s brow shifted slightly. “That car was recovered. It belonged to a guy in Arizona.”

Dolan smiled briefly. “We know about him. DMV says the car’s now registered to Ruel McPhee.”

“What brought this up again?”

“We’re looking at the possibility of a link between the car and a homicide back then.”

“A homicide?”

“That’s right,” Dolan said. “We’re taking another run at it.”

“I’m still not clear why you want to talk to him.”

“We have a witness who says he saw a red Mustang in the area shortly before the body was found. We’re wondering if the vehicle’s the same one stolen from his shop.”

“You can ask him if you want. He and Mom live on Fell. 1520. It’s just a few blocks away. You go down two blocks, take a left at Ruby. You’ll find Fell five blocks down. You want me to call and make sure he’s there?”

“That’s fine. We can swing by later if he’s out somewhere,” Dolan said. He indicated the seat Cornell was working on. “How long’s it take to do a job like that?”

“Couple of days. Depends on the condition. You have some work you need done?”

“Might.”

“What kind of car?”

“Chevy. 1979.”

“Leather seat?”

“No, cloth.”

Cornell smiled. “Throw a bedspread over it. You’d be better off.”

“That’s my idea. I just wondered what you’d say. Appreciate your help.”

“Sure, no sweat. I wish you luck.”

The house at 1520 Fell was a redbrick ranch with a detached two-car garage on the right-hand side of the drive. Behind the house, at a distance, I caught sight of the rear of an outbuilding that looked like a large storage shed or second garage. A basketball backboard was still planted in concrete on a wide asphalt apron set aside for guest parking. Cornell probably spent his leisure time in high school practicing his free throws. I imagined him lettering in three sports, elected pep king or treasurer of his senior class. A check of the yellow pages had indicated that McPhee’s was the only game in town, so he must be doing well financially even if his job lacked glamour and pizzazz.

Dolan parked at the curb out in front and we made our way along the walk to the porch, where we rang the bell. The door was opened by a girl who was probably six years old, judging by the number of missing teeth. Her hair was still a white blond that would probably darken over time. She wore glasses with pink plastic frames and a pair of barrettes with a row of pink and blue flowers. Her dress was pink-and-blue plaid with rows of white smocking across the bodice.

Dolan said, “Hey there, young lady. Is your grandpa at home?”

“Just a minute.” She shut the door and a moment later her grandmother opened it, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. A mild, vanilla-smelling breeze wafted out from behind her. She was heavy-set and wore small rimless glasses and a knee-length striped apron over a loose floral-print housedress. Her gray hair had a fringe of curls around her face while the rest was cut short. “Yes?”

“Good morning. We’re looking for Ruel McPhee. Cornell, over at the shop, gave us this address.”

“Ruel’s out back. Won’t you come in? I’m Edna, his wife.”

She opened the door for us. We did a round of introductions that included the McPhees’ granddaughter, Cissy, who skipped on ahead of us in her Mary Janes. Edna led us through the house, saying, “We’re about to frost cupcakes for Cissy’s birthday. Six years old today. She’s having a little party with her kindergarten class this afternoon.”

Cissy said, “My grammaw made me this dress.”

Dolan said, “Well, that’s real cute. I like that.”

As usual, I played the silent sidekick, prepared to fly into action if Edna or the child suddenly went berserk.

Cissy had climbed onto a kitchen chair and was now perched on her knees, inspecting the baking project. On the table, there were two muffin tins, each containing twelve freshly baked cupcakes in paper liners with little golden-brown domed heads. I could see the yellow-cake mix box on the counter by the sink where the mixing bowl sat.

The room was decorated in a patriotic flurry of red, white, and blue. The kitchen paper was done in Revolutionary War motif, a repeating pattern of battle scenes, complete with cannons, ships, and soldiers in various heroic poses. The woodwork was white, the counters red, and a window seat built into a side bay was filled with plump pillows and a neatly folded quilt, all in coordinating hues.

Crayon and fingerpaint projects were fixed to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like fruit. There were also school pictures of two additional girls, ages about eight and ten, who might have been Cissy’s sisters. All three had the same blond hair and features reminiscent of Cornell’s. Cissy lowered her face, her nose a mere centimeter from a cupcake.