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    Q Is For Quarry: A Kinsey Millhone Novel
    Q Is For Quarry: A Kinsey Millhone Novel
    Q Is For Quarry: A Kinsey Millhone Novel
    Ebook478 pages7 hours

    Q Is For Quarry: A Kinsey Millhone Novel

    By Sue Grafton

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Sue Grafton delivers an intensely gripping mystery based on an actual unsolved murder in this #1 New York Times bestseller featuring private investigator Kinsey Millhone.

    She was a "Jane Doe," an unidentified white female whose decomposed body was discovered near a quarry off California's Highway 1. The case fell to the Santa Teresa County Sheriff's Department, but the detectives had little to go on. The woman was young, her hands were bound with a length of wire, there were multiple stab wounds, and her throat had been slashed. After months of investigation, the murder remained unsolved...

    That was eighteen years ago. Now the two men who found the body are nearing the end of their careers in law enforcement—and they want one last shot at the case. Old and ill, they need someone to help with their legwork and they turn to Kinsey Millhone.

    Kinsey is intrigued by the cold case and agrees to take the job. But revisiting the past can be a dangerous business, and what begins with the pursuit of Jane Doe's real identity ends in a high-risk hunt for her killer.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateSep 30, 2003
    ISBN9781440620195
    Q Is For Quarry: A Kinsey Millhone Novel
    Author

    Sue Grafton

    #1 New York Times bestselling author Sue Grafton (1940-2017) entered the mystery field in 1982 with the publication of 'A' Is for Alibi, which introduced female hard-boiled private investigator, Kinsey Millhone, operating out of the fictional town of Santa Teresa, (aka Santa Barbara) California, and launched the bestselling Kinsey Millhone Alphabet Mysteries. In addition to her books, she published several Kinsey Millhone short stories, and with her husband, Steven Humphrey, wrote numerous movies for television, including “A Killer in the Family” (starring Robert Mitchum), “Love on the Run” (starring Alec Baldwin and Stephanie Zimbalist) and two Agatha Christie adaptations, “Sparkling Cyanide” and “Caribbean Mystery,” which starred Helen Hayes. Grafton is published in 28 countries and in 26 languages.

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    Reviews for Q Is For Quarry

    3.5/5

    672 ratings29 reviews

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    • 3/5
      I didn't realize I already read this one a few months ago (Before I discovered Goodreads!) and I really liked it. I read the early books in the series years ago, and this was sort of a reintroduction. Love Sue Grafton, she consistently top notch, it was like seeing an old friend.
    • 5/5
      Another one of my favorites. Stayed up till wee hours of the morning to finish.
    • 5/5
      This is my favorite Sue Grafton book so far. Probably because the plot of her book is based on a true case of a young woman murdered and her body left in a quarry. The homicide occurred in 1969 and the young woman has never been identified. There are artist sketches of the woman at the end of the book, hoping someone will identify her. Grafton did a great job developing a story about this woman and continued to build Kinsey’s story too. It’s interesting how she gains personal insight as she examines her relationships with friends and family.
    • 5/5
      I am so sucked into this series that I am beyond any rational thought. But, even so, I did think that this story was a little different. Better, maybe. I think you either like the series or you don't and I do. Not very insightful but there you have it.
    • 5/5
      Acquired this book Oct 27, 2017. Read again starting May 16/19 and finished July 16/19. Her books can be read in one seating but finding the time is the challenge. As always, a great read. Never a dull moment. I never tire of Kinsey Millhone, the main character in Sue Grafton's books. She is an independent young woman, self-employed, doing what she loves to do and is good at it. As a private investigator, she is a minority in her field. If you enjoy suspense, this book and series are for you.
    • 5/5
      I loved this one. I loved the cold case. I loved the interaction between Kinsey, Dolan and Stacey. You really get some insight and can see just how much more comfortable Kinsey is with people older than her versus closer to her own age. The other good thing in this one is how great the older characters are written. They are active, engaged, coherent, ornery and just in general not just cranky old people.

      The cold case is especially engaging and I loved it. The story leads Kinsey almost all the way to Arizona and Kinsey really shows us her ability to use multiple avenues of inquiry to try and find and answer. She and Dolan/Oliphant come at this case from many angles trying to get just one sliver of information to bring the cold case to an end.

      I really appreciated that Kinsey was working for Lt. Dolan in this one – you could tell he came to her because he truly respects her and knows she is good at her job. Stacey Oliphant is another old geezer that I just fell in love with like Henry. He is so adorable and intelligent – what a great addition to the story.

      I loved how at the end of the book the author explains the case that was her inspiration for this one and gives the reader some insight into how her story came together. This was definitely one of my favorites in the series.
    • 4/5
      BOTTOM-LINE:
      Team Dolan works surprisingly well together.
      .
      PLOT OR PREMISE:
      Dolan brings Kinsey a cold case -- an 18-year-old case of homicide for an unidentified Jane Doe.
      .
      WHAT I LIKED:
      The plot device Kinsey working with Dolan while helping out a retired old-timer who was one of the original detectives on the case is flat out awesome. Kind of like the series Cold Case that was on TV a few years after the book was published. And the teamwork of three of them is a nice twist on the traditional "go it alone" storylines of most of Kinsey's cases. As with some of the previous stories, she ends up in a small town where everyone knows everyone and the motives are all potentially interconnected. Finally, while there is some drama with Kinsey's extended family, for once it ends up being relatively positive overall.
      .
      WHAT I DIDN'T LIKE:
      Dolan and Stacey bicker like an old married couple, and it gets tedious. The story is also about 30% longer than most of the novels, and it does drag in a few places.
      .
      DISCLOSURE:
      I received no compensation, not even a free copy, in exchange for this review. I am not personal friends with the author, nor do I follow her on social media.
    • 4/5
      The plot for this novel was inspired by real murder in Santa Barbara, California. The body of a young woman was discovered in a quarry near Lompoc, CA. The victim was never identified and thus her killer never found. Grafton heard about the case and using many of the details learned from the detectives and police officers who had worked it created the plot of this novel.

      In it Kinsey joins forces with two retired detectives one being Con Dolan, her police contact in many of the previous novels to reopen the cold case of an unidentified teenage murder victim. Starting with little, the three investigators track down clue after clue while eating a lot of junk food which is something Kinsey is known for. Eventually they identify the girl and then close in on several potential individuals who could be the killer.

      Through Grafton's and the police officers' who had originally worked the case efforts, the real victim was exhumed and her skeleton given to a facial recognition artist who create a portrait of what the girl may have looked like. It is included in the back of the book in hopes that some reader may recognize her and bring closure for her family.
    • 5/5
      Grafton returns to form with this novel, believable and real, based on a real cold case.
    • 4/5
      In "Q" is for Quarry Kinsey Millhone is now 37 years old. She still lives alone without plants, animals, or family to speak of. In other words, she has plenty of time to devote to her newest cold case: the 18 year old unsolved mystery of who murdered an unknown teenager in 1969. She was found dumped in a quarry, hence the 'Q' for quarry. But, it could also mean prey as readers will discover deeper in the mystery. In truth, it's the case of Lieutenant Con Dolan and Detective Stacey Oliphant, the two police officers who were previously on the case. Retired and ailing both men need to see this case through before they die. Only they are too ailing to do any of the heavy lifting. Enter Kinsey Millhone. Together they make an interesting threesome.
    • 3/5
      I'd say that Grafton did a much better job with this book of the series all round. Especially in the mixing of Millhone's family history and the mystery. Usually the books seem a bit jumbled to me whenever personal stuff is thrown in, like she's cramming too much in and doesn't really know how to balance it. This was a much better read in my opinion.
    • 2/5
      This is part of a series of books following a female American detective.
      This particular book has her joining a couple of retirees looking at the unsolved murder of a young female many years before.
      I don't know if it was because it was a book I kept picking up and putting down so often that didn't build up a proper interest in the story, but I didn't find this book particularly engrossing.
    • 4/5
      One of my favorites in the series. I always enjoy these books more when we are learning about Kinsey and seeing her develop. This story has her tackling a cold case with two older detectives who are struggling with their health. They travel to a small town where they attempt to dig up the details from a murder that happened years before. I was also reading "The Stranger Beside Me" (a nonfiction book about Ted Bundy) at the same time, which was eerie. Some of the details of the girl's murder in Q is for Quarry lined up a bit too closely with Bundy's murders.
    • 2/5
      I love the Kinsey books, but this one is not the best.
    • 3/5
      Admittedly, I jumped into the middle of this series, so maybe I am missing some endearing background info on super sleuth Kinsey Millhone, but she just didn't do it for me. I liked her, but didn't love her. The sidekicks, crabby old guys, were pretty good. Humor was good. But the mystery just unfolded so slowly. Yes, it was a cold case, but still. Not sure how Grafton got so far into the alphabet with this series...just okay.
    • 5/5
      I first read this book several years ago and it has stuck in my mind ever since then. I think about it often. I was really happy to read it again when it came up this time in my reread of the series and it still has the same appeal it did the first time. When a book can keep you thinking about it for years, the author is definitely doing something right!

      Kinsey is contacted by Con Dolan, a police detective that has come up in many of the previous books, to help him with a cold case. He has a friend, one of his early mentors as a detective, who he believes is dying of cancer and needs an interest to keep him alive. He wants to reopen a Jane Doe murder case that they had first investigated 18 years ago. Kinsey is intrigued and joins the investigation.

      I don't want to give spoilers but the investigation trail is fascinating to me. How they pick up clues from 18 year old police reports and follow them to the end is really intriguing! The cast of characters they encounter feel like people you know in your everyday life. The settings in the book like the small town and the abandoned condominium development are can be pictured as clearly as if you'd been there yourself. The murderer is unexpected.

      Most of this story happens out of Santa Teresa. I don't find myself missing Henry and Rosie though, because the story is so engrossing.

      Two more things add a deeper level to this entry in the series. The first is that Kinsey re-encounters her mother's family in a big way. The murder dump site is actually on her family's property and her mother's sister comes to visit her bringing stories and providing photos. The second is that this mystery is based on a true story that Sue Grafton heard about at a dinner party. The sad end to that is, however, that the Jane Doe she heard about has still never been identified or the murderer brought to justice. This kept running through my mind as I was reading and I'm sure it's why this story is so much more poignant than the other stories in the series. This is definitely the best Kinsey yet.
    • 4/5
      Really, for a character with more than 18 books written about her, we don't know a heck of a lot about Kinsey Millhone. This one brings out her family in more detail, and I suspect by the time we get to Z there's going to be a mushy reconciliation with them. I hope not. A lot of the stories in this series are really good, and it would be a shame to finish them all out with mush.

      Take this one for instance. Based on an unsolved true story of a young girl murdered in California, Grafton paints a lovely picture of small town America - the interrelationships, the unhappiness, the expectations, and comes up with an elegant and plausible plotline explaining the girl's death. Kinsey partners up with two old, sick cops who worked the murder, and the characterizations of the two are touching, and the relationships between the three are gently funny.

      Grafton tries to push ahead some of the subplots of the other characters, but I'm not too sure what you can do with a romance involving a 90-year-old. I suspect it was put into the series as a bit of comic relief, and now she's going to have to write her way out of it. I'm looking forward to seeing how it all gets put together.
    • 4/5
      The mystery itself was quite engaging as bits of evidence are gradually uncovered by Kinsey and her the two elderly cohorts she is assisting. The somewhat average rating is due to the fact that the story spends too much time sidetracked on side stories not essential to the mystery -- Kinsey's relationships with her extended family and the health issues and eating, smoking, and drinking habits of the detectives she is working with.
    • 3/5
      This book seemed very different than the previous 16 novels. Although she was 'hired' by a retired cop, it never felt like she was under retainer. It turns out the plot was inspired from a true cold case.

      She begins the book bringing back her mother's family (again), but then moved away from that plot thread without backwards glance. I wish she would either embrace them or divorce them once and for all.
    • 5/5
      PI Kinsey Milhone finds herself dragged into an investigation of a cold case with two sickly police detectives. Grafton uses for her storyline a true cold case from Santa Barbara in 1969 with her spin on it.
      This one Grafton seems to have really come back. Better storyline, less unexplained side plots and good characterization. I love that Kinsey meets her match in junk food gorging. I got a little tired of the two old sickly men she dragged around. Kinsey definitely needs a friend or two. She seems to be considering more about her family as they force themselves on her. Plot is pretty decent with multiple characters and multiple suspects. Grafton does an excellent job of pulling out the small town relationships.
    • 5/5
      Ms. Grafton seems to have gotten backon track after the "P" book. In this installment of Kinsey's cases, she works with her old STPD buddy Lt. Dolan and one of his dept buddies to try to crack an old case that's been around for 20 years. Kinsey pulls the pieces all together for the case, mostly by ther dogged interview style - harass the heck nd be a nuisance until people tell you what they know to shut ya up ;-). We also get MUCH more on Kinsey's family, and the rift in it, background on her parents, aunts, and Grand. All in all a very challenging few weeks for Kinsey,and with the typical unexpected twist that Ms. Grafton is so well known for.
    • 4/5
      Liked: 1) finding out Kinsey’s pretty–she looks like her late mom who was considered pretty 2) the paeans to fast food burgers. I don’t eat them but she writes about them so well I want to! 3) the fact that Sue Grafton based this on an actual unsolved murder. Was wondering how she keeps this ‘new’ & thought maybe you don’t have to when you are Sue Grafton & people know what they want from you… but still she did find this way & it’s incredible. The reconstruction of the actual dead/unknown person is at the back of the book & it would be so great/sad but wonderful if, as a result, she gets her identity back!
    • 4/5
      Q is for Quarry is the Qth book in the Kinsey Millhone Alphabet series. Kinsey is back and suffering from Spring Fever and Lieutenant Dolan offers to hire her to help him and his retired friend try to identify a murdered girl in a case 18 years old. Much fast food consumption ensues.

      Not a bad book, it is another standard Kinsey book, the plot follows same slow buildup with a bunch of running around until the last quarter of the book where it starts to go somewhere and the last %10 where things are really moving along. These are fun easy books that generally just keep you interested enough on who did it to keep reading, but never enough to consider it a must read. I like them and generally read one when my other reading has been a little heavy and I need a little break.
    • 4/5
      Another excellent plot from Ms Grafton with the addition of background information on the true crime it was based on. One has to hope this poor girl has been identified. It was a good idea for Kinsey to have partners in the form of Dolan & Stacey as it lent the book unexplored characters and storylines. This is definately one not to miss.
    • 3/5
      In an unusual twist, Sue Grafaton based this tale on a real Jane Doe, liberally sprinkling with her own imagination. Kinsey works with two retired detectives, reopening an old case and tracking seeming obscure and unrelated clues through small California desert towns to eventually find the killer. Rather formulaic, sometimes long on description, an easy read for those who like quick series.
    • 4/5
      Con Dolan and Stacey Oliphant are reaching the end of long careers in law enforcement and are keen to solve a case of a "Jane Doe" that has gone unsolved for 18 years. Stacey is fighting cancer and Con has a dodgy heart and both friends think the other needs something to focus on. They were the two men who found the body of a young girl, bound, stabbed and dumped. No-one ever claimed the body even after months of investigation. Con approaches Kinsey Millhone to work freelance with them on the investigation. Con belives the guilty party is one Frankie Miracle, already convicted for the murder of his girl friend. This is #17 Sue Grafton's "Alphabet" series. This is quite a long book and I must confess that, towards the end, I was in danger of losing track of what the original investigation was about, especially after the murder of one of those Kinsey had interviewed. Sue Grafton based this on the real unsolved homicide case that happened in Santa Barbara in 1969.
    • 4/5
      I had already read this Kinsey Millhone, too. But unlike P is for Peril, I remembered more of the details of the book and enjoyed them less.

      This books is a fairly straightforward murder mystery, with the only significant twists, the murder happened 18 years ago and it is being investigated by two former cops, both in advanced states of physical decline. They hire Kinsey to help them. She enjoys the company of older men, certainly more than I do.

      The best part of the book, again, are the physical descriptions. You can smell the high desert and see the homely features of the middle class families whose lives she turns inside out. A home made quilt features as a significant clue.

      I will keep reading books in this series, but this one is not a favorite.
    • 3/5
      Murder. Kinsey is called in by two old friends/ex policemen, to help "provide some legwork" in the investigation of an unsolved, and unidentified body 17 yrs ago. The emphasis is again on small town america from long ago, and how the community sticks together against outsiders. Well developed plot helps keep the fast food descriptions from becoming too annoying.

      Random Subplot: Henry's love life. WHy? we really don't care.
    • 4/5
      I really liked this crime detective novel. She used a true story to put this one together and it read well.

    Book preview

    Q Is For Quarry - Sue Grafton

    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.

    He was in his early sixties and his cardiac problems had left his complexion looking sour. The usual bags under his eyes had turned a dark smokey shade, making his whole face seem sunken in circulatory gloom. He was apparently marking the time away from the department by shaving every other day, and this wasn’t the one. His face had tended to be pouchy in the best of times, but now his mouth was pulled down in a permanent expression of malcontent. Just my kind of guy.

    I could tell he was still smoking because his raincoat, when he moved, smelled of nicotine. The last time I remembered seeing him he was in a hospital bed. The visit had been awkward. Up to that point, I’d always been intimidated by the man, but then I’d never seen him in a cotton hospital nightie with his puckered butt on display through a slit down the back. I’d felt friendlier toward him since. I knew he liked me despite the fact his manner in the past had alternated between surly and abrupt.

    I said, So what’s up? I can’t believe you walked all the way over here to give me decorating tips.

    Actually, I’m on my way to lunch and thought you might join me—if you’re free, that is.

    I glanced at my watch. It was only 10:25. Sure, I could do that. Let me get my bag and my jacket and I’ll meet you out in front.

    —

    We took off on foot, walking to the corner, where we turned right and headed north on Santa Teresa Street. I thought we’d be going to the Del Mar or the Arcade, two restaurants where guys from the PD gravitated for lunch. Instead, we soldiered on for another three blocks and finally turned into a hole-in-the-wall known as Sneaky Pete’s, though the name on the entrance sign said something else. The place was largely empty: one couple at a table and a smattering of day drinkers sitting at the far end of the bar. Dolan took a seat at the near end and I settled myself on the stool to his left. The bartender laid her cigarette in an ashtray, reached for a bottle of Old Forrester, and poured him a drink before he opened his mouth. He paused to light a cigarette and then he caught my look. What?

    Well, gee, Lieutenant Dolan, I was just wondering if this was part of your cardiac rehabilitation.

    He turned to the bartender. She thinks I don’t take very good care of myself.

    She placed the glass in front of him. Wonder where she got that?

    I pegged her in her forties. She had dark hair that she wore pulled away from her face and secured by tortoiseshell combs. I could see a few strands of gray. Not a lot of makeup, but she looked like someone you could trust in a bartenderly sort of way. What can I do for you?

    I’ll have a Coke.

    Dolan cocked his thumb at me. Kinsey Millhone. She’s a PI in town. We’re having lunch.

    Tannie Ottweiler, she said, introducing herself. Nice to meet you. We shook hands and then she reached down and came up with two sets of cutlery, encased in paper napkins, that she placed in front of us. You sitting here?

    Dolan tilted his head. We’ll take that table by the window.

    I’ll be there momentarily.

    Dolan tucked his cigarette in his mouth, the smoke causing his right eye to squint as he picked up his whiskey and moved away from the bar. I followed, noting that he’d chosen a spot as far from the other drinkers as he could get. We sat down and I set my handbag on a nearby chair. Is there a menu?

    He shed his raincoat and took a sip of whiskey. The only thing worth ordering is the spicy salami on a kaiser roll with melted pepper jack. Damn thing’ll knock your socks off. Tannie puts a fried egg on top.

    Sounds great.

    Tannie appeared with my Coke. There was a brief time-out while Dolan ordered our sandwiches.

    As we waited for lunch, I said, So what’s going on?

    He shifted in his seat, making a careful survey of the premises before his gaze returned to mine. You remember Stacey Oliphant? He retired from the Sheriff’s Department maybe eight years back. You must have met him.

    Don’t think so. I know who he is—everybody talks about Stacey—but he’d left the department by the time I connected up with Shine and Byrd. Morley Shine had been a private investigator in partnership with another private eye named Benjamin Byrd. Both had been tight with the sheriff’s office. They’d hired me in 1974 and trained me in the business while I acquired the hours I needed to apply for my license. He must be in his eighties.

    Dolan shook his head. He’s actually seventy-three. As it turns out, being idle drove him out of his mind. He couldn’t handle the stress so he went back to the SO part-time, working cold cases for the criminal investigations division.

    Nice.

    That part, yes. What’s not nice is he’s been diagnosed with cancer—non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. This is the second time around for him. He was in remission for years, but the symptoms showed up again about seven months ago. By the time he found out, it’d progressed to stage four—five being death, just so you get the drift. His long-term prognosis stinks; twenty percent survival rate if the treatment works, which it might not. He did six rounds of chemo and a passel of experimental drugs. Guy’s been sick as a dog.

    It sounds awful.

    It is. He was pulling out of it some and then recently he started feeling punk. They put him back in the hospital a couple of days ago. Blood tests showed severe anemia so they decided to transfuse him. Then they decided while he was in, they might as well run more tests so they can see where he stands. He’s a pessimist, of course, but to my way of thinking, there’s always hope.

    I’m sorry.

    Not as sorry as I am. I’ve known him close to forty years, longer than I knew my wife. Dolan took a drag of his cigarette,reaching for a tin ashtray on the table next to us. He tapped off a fraction of an inch of ash.

    How’d the two of you hook up? I thought he worked north county. You were PD down here.

    "He was already with the SO when our paths first crossed. This was 1948. I was from a blue-collar background, nothing educated or intellectual. I’d come out of the army with an attitude. Cocky and brash. Two years I knocked around, not doing anything much. I finally got a job as a pump jockey at a gas station in Lompoc. Talk about a dead end.

    "One night a guy came in and pulled a gun on the night manager. I was in the backroom cleaning up at the end of my shift when I figured out what was going on. I grabbed a wrench, ducked out the side door, and came around the front. Guy was so busy watching to make sure my boss didn’t call the cops, he never saw me coming. I popped him a good one and knocked him on his ass. Stacey was the deputy who arrested him.

    He’s only ten years older than me, but he’s the closest thing to a mentor I ever had. He’s the one talked me into law enforcement. I went to college on the G.I. Bill and then hired on with the PD as soon as a job opened up. He even introduced me to Grace, and I married her six months later.

    Sounds like he changed the course of your life.

    In more ways than one.

    Does he have family in the area?

    No close relatives. The guy never married. A while back, he was dating someone—if that’s what you want to call it at our advanced age. Nice gal, but somehow it didn’t work out. Since Grace died, the two of us have spent a fair amount of time together. We go hunting and fishing any chance we get. Now that I’m out on medical, we’ve done a lot of that of late.

    How’s he dealing with all of this?

    Up and down. Too much time on his hands and not a lot to do except brood. I can’t tell you how many times I heard that one: guy retires after thirty years and the next thing you know he gets sick and dies. Stacey doesn’t say much about it, but I know how his mind works. He’s depressed as hell.

    Is he religious?

    "Not him. He claims he’s an atheist, but we’ll see about that. Me, I always went to church, at least while Gracie was alive. I don’t see how you face death without believing in something. Otherwise, it makes no sense."

    Dolan glanced up just as Tannie appeared with two large plates loaded with freshly made sandwiches and fries, plus two orders for the other table. Dolan interrupted his story to have a chat with her. I occupied myself with banging on the ketchup bottle until a thick drool of red covered the southeast corner of my fries. I knew he was leading up to something, but he was taking his sweet time. I lifted the top of the kaiser roll and salted everything in sight. Biting in, I could feel the egg yolk oozing into the bun. The combination of spicy salami and snappy pepper-hot jack cheese turned out to be the food equivalent of someone hollering Hot Damn! on the surface of my tongue. I made one of my food moans. Embarrassed, I looked up at them, but neither seemed to notice.

    When Tannie finally left, Dolan stubbed out his cigarette and paused for an extended bout of coughing so fierce it made his whole body shake. I pictured his lungs like a set of black cartoon bellows, wheezing away.

    He shook his head. Sorry about that. I had a bad cold a month ago and it’s been hard to shake. He took a swallow of whiskey to soothe his irritated throat. He picked up his sandwich and continued his story between bites, taking up exactly where he’d left off. While Stacey’s been laid up, I’ve been doing what I can to get his apartment cleaned. Place is a mess. He should be out of the hospital tomorrow and I didn’t want him coming home to the sight of all that crap.

    He set his sandwich down to light another cigarette, rolling it over to the corner of his mouth while he pulled out a cylinder of papers he’d tucked into his breast coat pocket. Yesterday, I went through a pile of papers on his kitchen table. I was hoping to come across the name of a friend I could contact— somebody to cheer him up. Stace could use a little something to look forward to. Anyway, there was nothing of that nature, but I did find this.

    He placed the curling sheaf on the table in front of me. I finished my sandwich in one last bite and wiped my hands on a napkin before I reached for the papers. I knew at a glance it was a copy of a Sheriff’s Department file. The cover page was marked 187 PC, indicating it was a homicide, with a case number following. The pages were held together with fasteners, sixty-five or seventy sheets in all, with a set of handwritten notes inserted at the back. I returned to the cover page.

    —

    Victim: Jane Doe

    Found: Sunday, August 3, 1969

    Location: Grayson Quarry, Highway 1, Lompoc

    —

    Under Investigating Officers, there were four names listed, one of them Stacey Oliphant’s.

    Dolan leaned forward. You can see he was one of the original investigating officers. Stace and me were the ones who found the body. We’d taken a Jeep up there and parked off the side of the road to go deer hunting that day. I guess there’s a gate across the road now, but the property was open back then. The minute we got out, we picked up the smell. We both knew what it was—something dead for days. Didn’t take us long to find out exactly what it was. She’d been flung down a short embankment like a sack of trash. This is the case he was working when he got sick. It’s always bugged him they never figured out who she was, let alone who killed her.

    I felt a dim stirring of memory. I remember this. Wasn’t she stabbed and then dumped?

    Right.

    Seems odd they never managed to identify her.

    He thought so, too. It’s one of those cases really stuck in his craw. He kept thinking there was something he’d overlooked. He’d go back to it when he could, but he never made much progress.

    And you’re thinking what, to have another go at it?

    If I can talk him into it. I think it’d make a world of difference in his attitude.

    I leafed through the photocopies, watching the progression of dates and events. Looks like just about everything.

    Including black-and-white prints of the crime scene photographs. He had another couple of files but this is the one caught my eye. He paused to wipe his mouth and then pushed his plate aside. It’d give him a lift to get back into this and see about developing some information. He can act as lead detective while we do the legwork.

    I found myself staring. You and me.

    Sure, why not? We can pay for your time. For now, all I’m suggesting is the three of us sit down and talk. If he likes the idea, we’ll go ahead. If not, I guess I’ll come up with something else.

    I tapped the file. Not to state the obvious, but this is eighteen years old.

    I know, but aside from Stacey’s interest, there hasn’t been a push on this since 1970 or so. What if we could crack it? Think what that’d do for him. It could make all the difference. It was the first time I’d seen any animation in his face.

    I pretended to ponder but there wasn’t much debate. I was sick of doing paperwork. Enough already with the file searches and the background checks. Stacey still has access to the department?

    Sure. A lot of folks out there think the world of him. We can probably get anything we need—within reason, of course.

    Let me take this home and read it.

    Dolan sat back, trying not to look too pleased. I’ll be over at CC’s from six until midnight. Show up by eight and we can swing over to St. Terry’s and bring Stacey up to speed.

    I found myself smiling in response.

    2

    I spent the early part of the afternoon in my new office digs, hammering away on my portable Smith-Corona. I typed up two overdue reports, did my filing, prepared invoices, and cleaned off my desk. I started in on the bills at 3:00 and by 3:35 I was writing out the final check, which I tore from my checkbook. I tucked it in the return envelope, then licked the flap so carelessly I nearly paper-cut my tongue. That done, I went into the outer office and moved all the unpacked boxes back into the closet. Nothing like a little motivation to get the lead out of your butt.

    My supper that night consisted of a peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwich, accompanied by Diet Pepsi over ice. I ate in my minuscule living room, curled up on the sofa tucked into the window bay. In lieu of dinnerware, I used a fold of paper toweling that doubled as a dainty lip wipe when I’d finished my meal. With spring on the move, it was not quite dark out. The air was still chilly, especially once the sun went down. Through the partially opened window, I could hear a distant lawn mower and the occasional fragment of conversation as assorted people walked by. I live a block from the beach on a side street that provides overflow parking when Cabana Boulevard gets jammed.

    I slid down comfortably on my spine, my sock feet on the coffee table, while I settled in to work. I went through the file quickly at first, just to get the lay of the land. A detective named Brad Crouse was lead investigator on the case. The other investigating officers, aside from Stacey Oliphant, were Detective Keith Baldwin, Sergeant Oscar Wallen, Sergeant Melvin Galloway, and Deputy Joe Mandel. A lot of manpower. Crouse had typed the bulk of the reports, using multiple carbons, which Stacey had apparently then photocopied from the old murder book. Judging from the number of strikeovers, I had to guess Detective Crouse had not been first in his class in secretarial school. I fancied if I put my ear to the page, I’d pick up the churlish echoes of his long-ago curses embedded in the lines of print.

    It’s odd going through an old file, like reading a mystery novel where you spoil the ending for yourself by peeking ahead to the very last page. The final document, a letter from a soils expert in San Pedro, California, was dated September 28, 1971, and indicated that the sample submitted by the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department would be impossible to distinguish from samples taken from similar deposits across the state. Sincerely. So sorry. End of the line for you, bub. I went back to the beginning and started reading again, this time taking notes.

    According to the first officer at the scene, the girl’s body had been rolled over the edge of an embankment, coming to rest about fifteen feet down, some fifty feet from the highway. Con Dolan and Stacey Oliphant had spotted her at approximately 5:00 P.M. on that Sunday—1700 hours if you’re talking military time, as this report did. She was lying on her left side on a crumpled canvas tarp, her hands bound in front of her with a length of white plastic-coated wire. She was wearing a dark blue Dacron blouse, white cotton pants with a print of dark blue daisies with a dot of red in each center. There was a leather sandal on her right foot; the matching sandal was found in the brush a short distance away. Marks in the dirt suggested she’d been dragged across the grass near the road.

    Even from the top of the slope, Dolan and Oliphant could see numerous stab wounds in her chest. It was also apparent her throat had been slashed.

    Oliphant had made immediate CB contact with the Lompoc PD. Because the location was in the county, two on-duty sheriff’s deputies were dispatched to the scene. Deputy Joe Mandel and Sergeant Melvin Galloway arrived twenty minutes after the initial call. Photographs were taken of the decedent and of the surrounding area. The body was then removed to a Lompoc mortuary, pending arrival of the coroner. Meanwhile, the deputies searched the vicinity, took soil samples, bagged the tarpaulin along with a nearby broken shrub and two pieces of shrub stem that appeared to be stained with blood.

    On Tuesday, August 5, 1969, Mandel and Galloway returned to the crime scene to take measurements—the distance from the highway to the spot where the body had been found, the width of the blacktop, the location of the stray sandal. Sergeant Galloway took additional photos of the various areas, showing the embankment, damaged shrubs, and drag marks. There were no crime scene sketches, but perhaps they’d become separated from the rest of the file in the intervening years.

    I took a minute to sort through the photographs, which were few in number and remarkably uninformative: eight black-and-white prints, including one of the roadway, one of an officer pointing at a broken shrub, one of the embankment where the body was found, and four of the body from a distance of fifteen feet. There were no close-ups of Jane Doe’s face, no views of her wounds or the knotted wire with which her hands had been bound. The tarp was visible beneath her, but it was difficult to judge how much of the body, if any, had been covered. Times have changed. Current practice would have dictated fifty such photographs along with a video and a detailed crime-scene sketch. In the same envelope, I found an additional five photographs in faded color showing the girl’s sandals, pants, shirt, bra, and panties laid out on what looked like a sheet of white paper.

    The autopsy had been performed on August 4, 1969, at 10:30 A.M. I squinted, inferred, surmised, and otherwise faked my way through the report, deciphering enough of the technical talk to figure out what was being said. Because her body was in a state of advanced decomposition, the measurements were estimates. The girl’s height was calculated at 63 to 65 inches, her weight at 120 to 125 pounds. Her eyes were blue, her hair dyed a reddish blond that showed dark roots. In the left earlobe she wore a thin gold-wire circle with a horseshoe configuration. In her right earlobe she wore a similar gold-wire loop with a bent clip in its lower end. Her facial characteristics were indistinguishable due to skin slippage, gas crepitation, and decomposition. Examination of the body showed eight deep stab wounds in the middle of the back below the shoulder blade area; two stab wounds at the base of the neck on either side; five stab wounds between her breasts; and a large stab wound under the left breast, which had penetrated the heart. There was considerable maggot activity. Because of decomposition, the pathologist was unable to ascertain the presence of any scars or identifying marks. There were no skeletal fractures or deformities, no visible injuries to the external genitalia. Her fallopian tubes and ovaries were unremarkable and her uterine cavity was empty. Cause of death was listed as multiple stab wounds of the neck, chest, heart, and lungs.

    At the conclusion of his exam, the pathologist removed Jane Doe’s fingers, the nails of which she had painted with silver polish. These were tagged by an officer and turned over for shipping to the FBI Identification Division in Washington, D.C. Films taken of her upper and lower jaws showed multiple metallic restorations. She also suffered from what is commonly referred to as buckteeth, with one crooked eyetooth on the left side. A dentist, consulted later, suggested that extensive dental work had probably been done in the two years before her death—that being 1967 through 1968. He judged her to be in her late teens to early twenties. A forensic odontologist, examining the maxilla and mandible at a later date, narrowed the girl’s age to fifteen years, plus or minus thirty-six months, noting that she probably died before she reached the legal age of eighteen.

    On Wednesday, August 6, Sergeant Galloway submitted the following clothing and evidence to the deputy in charge of the property room:

    1. One navy blue, full-length, puffed-sleeve blouse of Dacron-voile material—make unknown—blood-stained.

    2. One pair home-sewn female white pants with blue flowers with red centers—size unknown.

    3. One pair bikini panties, pink—size medium, Penney’s label.

    4. One black bra, size 38A, Lady Suzanne label.

    5. One pair female brown leather sandals—buckle type, with four brass links on leather straps. Size 7½. With gold letters MADE IN ITALY on inner sole.

    6. One soiled canvas tarpaulin with blood and miscellaneous stains.

    The dead girl’s earrings, a clipping of her hair, and the plastic-coated wire taken from her wrists were also booked into evidence.

    The Sheriff’s Department must have sent the essential information about the deceased to other law enforcement agencies, because a series of follow-up reports over the next several weeks covered all manner of missing persons believed to match the description of Jane Doe. Three stolen automobiles were recovered in the area, one containing assorted articles of women’s clothing in the rear seat. This turned out to be unrelated, according to handwritten notes entered at a later date. The second vehicle, a 1966 red Mustang convertible with Arizona plates, reported stolen from an auto upholstery shop in Quorum, California, was subsequently returned to its rightful owner. The third stolen vehicle, a red 1967 Chevrolet, was tied to a homicide in Venice, California. The driver was subsequently arrested and later convicted of that crime.

    A vagrant was picked up for questioning but released. There was also a report of a twenty-five-year-old employee who’d absconded with $46.35 in currency and change stolen from a service station owner outside the town of Seagate. The caretaker at a nearby state beach park was contacted and questioned about any persons he might have seen in the area. He reported nothing unusual. In three separate incidents, hitchhikers were picked up for questioning, but none of them were held. This was the summer of 1969 and there was a steady stream of hippies migrating north along this route. Hippies were generally regarded with suspicion, assumed to be high on drugs, which was probably the case.

    At 10:30 A.M. on August 6, 1969, Detective Crouse interviewed a clerk named Roxanne Faught, who worked at a minimart on Highway 101. She’d contacted the Sheriff’s Department after reading about the murder in the papers and reported that on Friday, August 1, she’d seen a young girl who matched the description of Jane Doe. Miss Faught stated that the girl had helped herself to coffee and a doughnut, which she was unable to pay for. Faught paid for them herself, which is why the incident stuck in her mind. Earlier she’d noticed this same girl hitchhiking north, however she was gone when Faught left work at 3:00 P.M. The girl in the minimart carried no luggage and had no wallet or purse. Several other people contacted the department with leads, but none of these panned out.

    As the days went on, calls came in reporting vehicles of various makes, models, and descriptions that had been seen near the quarry both before and after the body was discovered. As with any investigation, delving into the one crime seemed to bring a number of peripheral crimes into focus: loitering, trespassing, public drunkenness, petty theft—all of which turned out to be immaterial to the case. It was clear that many local citizens were busy remembering odd and freakish incidents that had occurred in the weeks prior to the homicide. For all anyone knew, one of these reports might hold a vital clue about the girl who’d been murdered or the person, or persons, who’d killed her.

    Every phone call, every out-of-state inquiry, and every rumor was dutifully tracked down. At the end of each report, there was a list appended, giving the names, addresses, and phone numbers of those who’d been interviewed. The managers of the JCPenney stores in Lompoc and Santa Teresa were contacted with regard to the article of clothing that bore the Penney’s label, but it was learned that the item was available at any store in the chain. In the end, the girl remained unidentified, and as autumn rolled into winter, new leads diminished. The stained canvas tarp bore no identifying labels.

    The plastic-coated wire was submitted to the crime lab for analysis. The lab determined that wiring of that nature would most probably be utilized in low-voltage-amperage conditions where little or no tension would be exerted on its length and where maximum protection from abrasion and moisture was required, perhaps an auto light system, or small low-voltage lighting equipment. By December of 1970, the intervals between reports had lengthened and new information had dwindled.

    Stacey had worked the case at various times during the following years. He’d consolidated the list of witnesses, and it looked as though he’d arranged them in order of their importance, at least from his perspective. Many had been eliminated because the information they’d provided was too vague or their suggestions too far-fetched. In some cases, it was clear from later file entries that their questions and concerns were not relevant to the investigation. He’d followed up on every call in which a missing girl had been reported. In one instance, dental records were not a match for Jane Doe’s. In another, the police advised the Sheriff’s Department that the girl in question was a chronic runaway and had returned home within days. In a third case, the mother of the subject called and informed investigating officers her daughter was alive and well. Stacey had even tried using telephone numbers listed in the reports in hopes of contacting persons whose information seemed pertinent, but many numbers were out of service or had been reassigned to other parties. Having reached the last of the reports, I went through again, consigning the pertinent dates to a stack of blank index cards, converting the facts from their narrative form to disconnected bits of information that I’d analyze later.

    When I finally closed the file and looked at my watch, it was only 7:15—still early enough to catch up with Dolan at CC’s. I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my jacket and shoulder bag, and headed out to my car.

    —

    The Caliente Café—or CC’s, as it’s known—is a neighborhood bar that offers an extensive menu of American dishes with Spanish surnames. The food was probably the management’s attempt to keep the patrons sufficiently sober to drive home without incurring any DUIs. The surrounding property had undergone a transformation since my last visit two years before. The restaurant is housed in an abandoned service station.

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