Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Author’s Note
“The spunkiest, funniest, and most engaging private investigator in Santa Teresa, California, not to mention the entire detective novel genre.” —Entertainment Weekly
Back in 1969, a lot of young people were hitting the road and disappearing. More than one of them wound up dead—including the girl in daisy-patterned pants who was found in a quarry off Highway 1 in Lompoc, the victim of multiple stab wounds. Eighteen years later, she’s still a Jane Doe—and the cops who found her are still haunted by the case. Anxious to solve it, but no longer in their prime, they turn to Kinsey Millhone for help. If nothing else, they’d just like to identify the body. But this ice-cold case heats up more quickly than they expect. And for Kinsey, it will lead to a lot of dangerous discoveries—including some about her own past . . .
“Grafton is so good that when you’re immersed in one of her books—and even afterward—you believe that there is a Kinsey Millhone in Santa Teresa, California, who is a private investigator and lives in a converted garage and dines fairly often on Big Macs.” —The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Kinsey Millhone is Grafton’s best mystery, one that has been unfolding deliciously since the letter ‘A.’”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“[A] first-class series.” —The New York Times Book Review
“D is for Dependable. Sue Grafton returns with Q is for Quarry, the seventeenth spoonful—and one of the tastiest—of her mystery alphabet soup . . . Based on an actual, unsolved murder . . . [the book’s] foundation in fact is apparrent throughout and provides a grounding in procedural detail . . . that is convincing . . . cunning . . . one of the most satisfying stories to come from the ever-dependable Grafton in years.” —The Washington Post Book World
“Q is for quite a good read. Sue Grafton’s alphabet thrillers just keep getting better . . . Q is quintessential Grafton. It is so well written that many readers might consider it her best . . . Fans will love Q because there’s a strong focus on Kinsey’s past . . . tasty tidbits for those of us who know that Kinsey is still trying to come to terms with her parents’ deaths . . . One of Grafton’s most admirable traits as a writer is her respect for the victims of a crime as well as the people who solve them. Solid methodology and a straightforward writing style are the groundwork for Grafton’s two decades of success. Q is so neatly and superbly unraveled, it’s sure to inspire many a fan to return to A is for Alibi and begin the series again.” —USA Today
“Well written . . . wonderfully realized . . . Kinsey plumbs the closeness and isolation of these tiny desert towns . . . This faint poignancy is intensified once the reader learns that Grafton has built her book on an actual unsolved case, extrapolating a fictional solution from available evidence. Her final bare account of this young girl who remains unidentified provides its own haunting epilogue.”
—The Houston Chronicle
“Involving . . . It’s narrated by Kinsey with her usual wry humor and eye for telling detail.” —The Orlando Sentinel
“Sue Grafton still spins a wicked mystery.” —Marie Claire
“Another class act from Grafton . . . Should a contest be held to name the credible private eye in mystery fiction, Kinsey Millhone would certainly rank at or near the top. The central figure in Sue Grafton’s long-running series conveys a verismilitude, in both her professional and private lives, that makes most of her competitors seem like cartoons. Believability is once again the cornerstone of Grafton’s latest and most ambitious novel, fiction founded on fact . . . an intriguing story, convincing in detail and satisfying in development. Still, what lifts this above the crowd is the character of her protagonist Kinsey Millhone, who rings true both as a detective and as a woman.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Q is for Quarry is a different approach for Grafton, who now has the name and the clout to try some real-life crime-solving . . . This book was inspired by real unsolved homicide in 1969 . . . and readers are encouraged to come forward with any information . . . one of Grafton’s best.”
—Hartford Courant
A NOTE TO THE READER
Q is for Quarry was inspired by a real case in which the body of a young woman was found in Santa Barbara County, California, in 1969. The victim remains unidentified; however, with such advancements as forensic reconstruction, it is still possible that someone may recognize this Jane Doe, and that the case might even be solved. A reconstruction of the victim’s face, created by Betty Gatliff, an internationally recognized forensic artist who is a fellow of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, appears on the final page of Q is for Quarry. It is the hope of the Santa Barbara Sheriff’s Department and Sue Grafton that, even after all this time, a reader or two may recognize Jane Doe and come forward with her identity.
TITLES BY SUE GRAFTON
Kinsey Millhone Mysteries
A is for Alibi
B is for Burglar
C is for Corpse
D is for Deadbeat
E is for Evidence
F is for Fugitive
G is for Gumshoe
H is for Homicide
I is for Innocent
J is for Judgment
K is for Killer
L is for Lawless
M is for Malice
N is for Noose
O is for Outlaw
P is for Peril
Q is for Quarry
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
While inspired by a real case, this is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Q IS FOR QUARRY
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with
the author
Copyright © 2002 by Sue Grafton.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced
in any form without permission.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet
or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal
and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic
editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of
copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New Y
ork, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-4406-2019-5
BERKLEY®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY and the “B” design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO
Bill Turner and Deborah Linden
Bob and Nancy Failing
and
Susan and Gary Gulbransen.
Thank you for making this one possible.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following people: Steven Humphrey; Dr. Robert Failing; Retired Sergeant Detective Bill Turner and Retired Chief Deputy Bruce Correll, Criminal Investigations Division; Sergeant Bob Spinner, Forensics Science Unit, and Diana Stetson, Jail Administration and Custody Operations, Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department; retired Coroner’s Investigator Larry Gillespie, Santa Barbara County Coroner’s Office; Betty Pat Gatliff, Forensic Sculptor; John Mackall, Attorney-at-Law; Lucy Thomas and Nadine Greenup, Reeves Medical Library, and Anna Bissell, R.N., O.C.N., Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital; Martin Walker, M.D.; Robert Sorg, Bob’s Canvas Shop; Chuck Nation, Nation’s Auto Upholstery; Linda Perkins, DeBrovy’s Custom Canvas; Richard Madison; Anita Donohue, Julian Ranch; Lamar and Cheri Gable; Jay Schmidt; Maggie Harding; and Joe B. Jones.
Special thanks, also, to Joe Mandel, Gregory Spears, and Chris Kovach for the use of their names.
1
It was Wednesday, the second week in April, and Santa Teresa was making a wanton display of herself. The lush green of winter, with its surfeit of magenta and salmon bougainvillea, had erupted anew in a splashy show of crocuses, hyacinths, and flowering plum trees. The skies were a mild blue, the air balmy and fragrant. Violets dotted the grass. I was tired of spending my days closeted in the hall of records, searching out grant deeds and tax liens for clients who were, doubtless, happily pursuing tennis, golf, and other idle amusements.
I suppose I was suffering from a mutant, possibly incurable form of spring fever, which consisted of feeling bored, restless, and disconnected from humanity at large. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective in Santa Teresa, California, ninety-five miles north of Los Angeles. I’d be turning thirty-seven on May 5, which was coming up in four weeks, an event that was probably contributing to my general malaise. I lead a stripped-down existence untroubled by bairn, pets, or living household plants.
On February 15, two months before, I’d moved into new offices,having separated myself from my association with the law firm of Kingman and Ives. Lonnie Kingman had purchased a building on lower State Street, and though he’d offered to take me with him, I felt it was time to be out on my own.
That was my first mistake.
My second was an unfortunate encounter with two land-lords in a deal that went sour and left me out in the cold.
My third office-related error was the one I now faced. In desperation, I’d rented space in a nondescript cottage on Caballeria Lane, where a row of identical stucco bungalows were lined up at the curb like the Three Little Pigs. The block— short, narrow, and lined with cars—ran between Santa Teresa Street and Arbor, a block north of Via Madrina, in the heart of downtown. While the price was right and the location was excellent—in easy walking distance of the courthouse, the police station, and the public library—the office itself fell woefully short of ideal.
The interior consisted of two rooms. The larger I designated as my office proper; the smaller I was using as a combination library-and-reception area. In addition, there was a galley-style kitchen, where I kept a small refrigerator, my coffeepot, and my Sparkletts water dispenser. There was also a small fusty half-bath with a sorrowful-looking toilet and sink. The whole of it smelled like mildew, and I suspected at night wee creatures scuttled around the baseboards after all the lights were turned off. By way of compensation, the building’s owner had offered unlimited cans of an off-brand paint, and I’d spent the better part of a week rolling coats of white latex over the former pulsating pink, a shade reminiscent of internal organs at work. He’d also agreed to have the rugs cleaned, not that anyone could tell. The beige high-low, wall-to-wall nylon carpeting was matted from long wear and seemed to be infused with despair. I’d arranged and rearranged my desk, my swivel chair, my file cabinets, sofa, and assorted artificial plants. Nothing dispelled the general air of weariness that infected the place. I had plenty of money in savings (twenty-five thousand bucks if it’s anybody’s business) so, in theory, I could have held out for much classier digs. On the other hand, at three fifty a month, the space was affordable and satisfied one of my basic principles in life, which is: Never, never, never to live beyond my means. I don’t want to be compelled to take on work to meet my overhead. The office is meant to serve me, not the other way around.
Since the bungalows on either side of mine were vacant, I was feeling isolated, which may account for a newfound ambivalence about my single status in a world of married folk. Except for two brief failed marriages, I’d been unattached for most of my natural life. This had never bothered me. More often than not, I rejoiced in my freedom, my mobility, and my solitude. Lately, circumstances had conspired to unsettle my habitual content.
Earlier that week, I’d encountered my friend Vera with her husband, (Dr.) Neil Hess. I was sneaking in a late-afternoon jog on the bike path at the beach when I’d spotted them sauntering along ahead of me. Vera was a former employee of California Fidelity Insurance, for which I’d also worked. She’d met Neil, decided he was too short for her, and tried passing him off on me. I knew at a glance they were smitten with each other, and despite protests to the contrary, I’d persuaded her that he was her perfect match, which had turned out to be true. The two of them were accompanied that afternoon by their eighteen-month-old son in his stroller and a grinning golden retriever pup, frolicking and prancing, tugging at his leash. Vera—massive, lumbering, milky, and serene—was clearly expecting again, apparently in mere days, judging by her swollen state. We paused to chat and I realized that in the three and a half years since I’d last seen her, my life hadn’t changed a whit. Same apartment, same car, same work, same boyfriend in absentia in a relationship that was going no place. The revelation generated a prolonged pang of regret.
Meanwhile, Henry, my beloved landlord, was off cruising the Caribbean in the company of his siblings and his sister-in-law, Rosie, who owns the tavern half a block from my apartment. I’d been bringing in his mail, watering his houseplants once a week and his yard every couple of days. Rosie’s restaurant would be closed for another five days, so until the three of them returned home, I couldn’t even have supper in familiar surroundings. I know all of this sounds ever so faintly like whining, but I feel morally obliged to tell the truth.
That Wednesday morning, I’d decided my attitude would greatly improve if I quit feeling sorry for myself and got my office squared away. To that end, I’d gone to a thrift store and purchased two additional (used) file cabinets, an upright wooden cupboard with assorted pigeon holes, and a funky painted armoire to house my accumulation of office supplies. I was perched on a low stool surrounded by cartons I hadn’t unpacked since I’d moved into Lonnie’s office three and a half years before. This felt a little bit like Christmas in that I was discovering items I’d long forgotten I had.
I’d just reached the bottom of box number three (of a total of eight) when I heard a knock at the door. I yelled “I’m here!” When I turned, Lieutenant Dolan was standing on the threshold, his hands sunk in the pockets of his tan raincoat.
“Hey, what are you doing here? It’s been months.” I got up and dusted my hand on the seat of my jeans before extending it to him.
His grip was strong and warm, his smile almost sheepish, as pleased to see me as I was to see him. “I
ran into Lonnie at the courthouse. He said you’d rented this place so I thought I’d pop in.”
“That’s great. I appreciate the visit.”
“I see you’re getting settled.”
“About time. I moved in February fifteenth and haven’t done a thing.”
“I hear business is slow.”
“It is—at least the kind of jobs I like.”
I watched while Con Dolan made a circuit of the room. He seemed ill at ease and covered his discomfort by wading through a steady stream of small talk. He chatted idly about Lonnie, the weather, and miscellaneous matters while I made what I hoped were the appropriate responses. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted, but I assumed he’d get down to his purpose in due course. He’d never been the type to drop in unannounced. I’d known him for ten years, the greater portion of which he’d headed up the homicide unit of the Santa Teresa Police Department. He was currently out on a medical disability, sidelined by a series of heart attacks. I’d heard he was eager to return to work full-time. According to the scuttlebutt, his chances ran somewhere between slim and none.
He paused to check out the inner office, glanced into the half-bath, and then circled back in my direction. “Lonnie said you weren’t crazy about the place and I can see your point. It’s grim.”
“Isn’t it? I can’t figure it out. I know it needs something, but I can’t think what.”
“You need art.”
“You think so?” I let my gaze trace the bare white walls.
“Sure. Get yourself some big travel posters and some double-sided tape. It’d perk the place right up. Failing that, you might at least wipe the dust off the artificial plants.”