Q Is for Quarry Read Online Free PDF Page B

found. We always figured he was good for it, though he denied it."
    Stacey spoke up. "He killed his girlfriend in Venice July 29 during a meth binge. He stabbed the woman umpteen times, then he helped himself to her car, and all her credit cards and started driving north. She was found a couple days later when neighbors complained about the smell."
    "Dumb-ass signed her name to the charge slips every time he stopped for gas," Dolan said. "You'd think someone would notice a 'Cathy Lee Pearse' with no boobs, a mustache, and a two-day growth of beard." He shifted in his chair and then rose to his feet. "You two go on and get acquainted. Time for me to step outside and grab a smoke."
    Once Dolan left, I said, "You have a theory why Jane Doe was never identified?"
    "No. We expected a quick match, someone who'd recognize her from the description in the papers. All I can think is she wasn't reported missing. Or maybe the missing-persons report got buried in the paperwork on some cop's desk. There's probably an explanation, but who knows what it is? By now, it's unlikely we'll ever find out who killed her, but there's a possibility we can get her ID'd and returned to her folks."
    "What are the chances?"
    "Not as bad as you might think. Once enough time passes, people are more willing to speak up. We might tweak someone's conscience and get a lead that way." He hesitated, taking a moment to smooth the edges of his sheet. "You know, Con's wife, Gracie, died a while back."
    "He mentioned that."
    "It hit him hard at the time, but he seemed to be pulling out of it. But ever since he got sidelined with this heart condition, the guy's been in a funk. As long as Gracie was alive, she seemed to keep him in check, but now his smoking and booze consumption are out of control. I've been trying to find a way to get him back on track, so the minute this came up, I jumped on it."
    "You're talking about Jane Doe?"
    "Right. I was happy you agreed to help. It'll give him a lift. He needs to work."
    I smiled with caution, listening for any hint of irony in his tone. Apparently, he didn't realize Dolan had voiced the very same concerns about him.
    When Dolan returned, he stood looking expectantly from me to ; Stacey. "So what's the game plan? You two have it all worked out?"
    "We were just talking about that. Kinsey wants to see the crime scene before we do anything else."
    I said, "Right."
    Dolan said, "Great. I'll set that up for tomorrow."

Chapter 3
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    Dolan picked me up at my place at 10:00 in his 1979 Chevrolet, Stacey in the backseat. He did an expert parallel parking job and got out of the car. He wore a dark blue sweatshirt and a pair of worn blue jeans. The exterior of the Chevy was a mess. By day, I could see that the once-dark brown paint had oxidized, taking on the milky patina of an old Hershey's bar. The back bumper was askew, the left rear fender was crumpled, and a long indentation on the passenger side rendered the door close to inoperable. I managed to open it by means of a wrenching maneuver that made the metal shriek in protest. Once seated, I hauled, trying to get it shut again. Dolan circled the car, shoved the door shut, and secured the lock by bumping it with his hip.
    I said, "Thanks." Already, I was worried about his prowess at the wheel.
    He leaned in the open window and held his hand out to Stacey.
    "Give me your gun and I'll lock 'em in the trunk."
    Stacey winced audibly as he torqued to one side, slipping his gun from his holster and passing it to Dolan. Dolan went around to the rear and tucked the guns in the trunk before he got in on his side.
    The car's upholstery was a dingy beige fabric that made it difficult to slide across the seat. I remained where I was as though glued in place. I turned so I could look at Stacey, who was sitting in the backseat with a bed pillow wedged behind him. His red knit watch cap was pulled down almost to his brows. "Threw my back out," he said by way of explanation. "I was moving boxes