Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhouse Mysteries)
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Quarry, n. An open excavation.
Quarry, v. Transitive: To dig or take from. Intransitive: To delve into.
Quarry, n. An object pursued or hunted; prey.
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, both nearing the end of long careers in law enforcement, want one last shot at the case. Old and ill, they need someone to help with their legwork and they turn to Kinsey Millhone. They will, they tell her, find closure if they can just identify the victim. Kinsey is intrigued and agrees to 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.
Dolan said, "Great. I'll set that up for tomorrow." Chapter 3 * * * 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
Justine sailing toward me. With her pale flyaway hair and her icy pale green eyes, she looked like a banshee sweeping out of the dark. Cornell must have left her to stand watch, acting as a sentinel in case a horny pack of teenyboppers showed up at the Tuley-Belle for a midweek Screwfest. Maybe I hadn't been as quiet as I'd thought. Perhaps, given the peculiarities of desert acoustics, she'd heard my every step and simply waited for me. She had the shovel in her hands. I saw her lifting her
and saw the local towing company with a flatbed truck idling at the curb. Chilton whistled to catch the driver's eye and then gestured him in our direction with a series of arm rolls. The driver shifted gears, pulling the truck forward. He then backed into the driveway and eased up the long dirt lane toward the garage where we were standing. Dolan and I acted as sideline supervisers while the chain was attached to the Mustang's front axle and the car was winched up the ramp. Cornell's truck was
missing-persons reports. I'd ask him when I went to visit. I did a mental check of our list. The only item we hadn't covered yet was the issue of the tarp and whether one had been stolen at the time the Mustang was taken. I started the car and backed out of the slot, took a left on the Kennedy Pike, and returned to town. The McPhee's red-brick ranch house looked deserted when I arrived-doors shut, curtains drawn, and no cars in the drive. I passed the house, cruising slowly, and at the next
friends –in terms of its effect on you." "Charisse could do anything she liked. No skin off my back." She glanced at her watch, signaling time was up. She could have been a shrink, given her skill in silent communication. I held up a hand. "Just one other thing and then I'll let you go. Doesn't it seem a trifle coincidental that your father disappeared just about the same time she did?" Justine stared at me. "I don't get what you mean." "Come on, Justine. You're not that naive." "You're