"Q" is for Quarry Read Online Free PDF Page B

hoping to run into a Santa Teresa vice cop named Cheney Phillips. Our long acquaintance had never progressed as far as romance—he had a girlfriend, for one thing—but one could always hope. Rumor had it the two of them had split up, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to put in an appearance.
    Part of what sparked my interest was the fact I hadn’t heard from Robert Dietz in months. He’s a semiretired private eye who worked as my bodyguard in 1983 when a cut-rate hit man was hired to rub me out. Our connection since then has been intense and sporadic, with long, inexplicable intervals between visits. Only two weeks before, I’d called him in Carson City, Nevada, and left a message on his machine. So far, he hadn’t bothered to call me back, which meant he was either out of the country or had moved on to someone new. Though I was crazy about Dietz, I’d never thought of him as my beau, my steady, my significant other, or my main squeeze (whatever the hell that is). Oh sure, Dietz and I had fooled around some over the past four years, but there was no commitment between us and no promises on either part. Naturally, I was irked at his neglect, even though I was equally at fault.
    I caught sight of Dolan at the bar. He was wearing a worn brown leather bomber jacket. I paused for a moment to scope out the crowd and saw his gaze slide in my direction. Dolan’s been a cop for too many years not to keep an eye on his surroundings, perpetually scanning faces in hopes of a match for one of the mug shots that had once crossed his desk. Off duty or on, no cop can resist the notion of a wholly unexpected felony arrest.
    He raised a hand in greeting and I steered a course toward him, threading my way among parties waiting for tables. The stools on either side of him were occupied, but he gave the guys a look and one of them stood up to make room for me. I placed my shoulder bag at my feet and perched on the stool next to his. The ashtray in front of him was thick with butts, and it didn’t take any of my highly developed detecting skills to note the number of cigarettes he’d smoked, including the one he was in the process of lighting from the still lit. He was drinking Old Forrester and he smelled like a Christmas fruit-cake, minus the dried maraschino cherries. He was also snacking on a plate of poppers: batter-fried jalapeño peppers filled with molten cheese. I thought I’d avoid pointing out the continuing error of his ways. There’s nothing more obnoxious than someone calling attention to our obvious failings.
    I said, “I thought I might run into Cheney Phillips. Have you seen him?”
    “I think he’s in Vegas on his honeymoon.”
    “His honeymoon? I thought the two of them broke up.”
    “This is someone new, a gal he met in here five or six weeks ago.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Afraid not. Anyway, forget him. He’s not your type anyway.”
    “I don’t have a type. Of course, I don’t have a boyfriend either, but that’s beside the point.”
    “Have a popper.”
    “Thanks.” I took one and bit into it, experiencing the spurt of melted cheese before the heat of the jalapeño set my tongue aflame. The jukebox came to life, and I peered over my shoulder as the strains of a country-western melody line-danced its way across the room. The Wurlitzer was ancient, a chunky, round-bodied contraption with a revolving rainbow of hues, bubbles licking up along its seams.
    I turned my attention back to Dolan, trying to figure out how much he’d had to drink. He wasn’t slurring his words, but I suspected he was so conditioned by his own alcoholic intake that he’d show no signs of drunkenness even if he fell off his stool. I wasn’t sure if he’d been drinking continuously since lunchtime or had gone home for a nap between cocktails. A glance at the clock showed it was only 7:35, but he might have been sitting there since 4:00 P.M. I didn’t look forward to working with the man if he was going to be pie-eyed from