"Q" is for Quarry by Sue Grafton Page A

saw the murder and nobody spotted him when he toppled her down the slope.”
    Johanson perked up. “Neighbor down the road—this is C. K. Vogel—I don’t know if you remember this, but C. K. seen a light-colored VW van on the particular morning of July 28 up along that road over there. Painted all over with peace symbols and psychedelic hippie signs. Said it was still there eleven o’clock that night. Curtains on the winders. Dim light inside. It was gone the next morning, but he said it struck him as odd. I believe he phoned it in to the Sheriff’s Department after the girl was found.”
    Dolan’s skepticism was unmistakable, though he tried to be civil—not an easy task for him. “Probably unrelated, but we’ll look into it.”
    “Said he seen a convertible as well. Killer could’ve drove that. Red, as I recollect, with an out-of-state license plate. If I was you, I’d make sure to have a talk with him.”
    I said, “Thanks for the information. I’ll make a note.”
    Johanson looked at me with interest. Suddenly, he seemed to get it: I was a police secretary, accompanying the good detectives to spare them the tedium of all the clerical work.
    The breeze shifted slightly, blowing Dolan’s smoke in my face. I moved upwind.
    “Something I forgot to mention about Miracle,” Stacey said. “When we went back to the impound lot and searched Frankie’s car, we found soil samples in the floor mats that matched the soil from the embankment. Unfortunately, the experts said it was impossible to distinguish this sample from samples in other quarries throughout the state. West Coast has the most extensive marine deposits in the world.”
    “I saw that report. Too bad,” I said. “What’d Frankie say when you questioned him?”
    “He gave us some long garbled tale of where he’d been. Claimed he’d been hiking in the area, but it was nothing we could confirm.”
    Dolan said, “He was higher than a kite the day they picked him up. Grass or coke. Arrest sheet doesn’t say. He’s a meth freak is what I heard.”
    “Everyone under thirty was higher than a kite back then,” I said.
    Mr. Johanson cleared his throat, having been excluded from the conversation too long to suit him. “Being’s as you’re here, you might want to see the rest of the property. This is the last ranch of its size. Won’t be long before they tear down the old house. Probably build subdivisions as far as the eye can see.”
    My impulse was to decline, but Dolan seemed to spark to the idea. “I’m in no hurry. Fine with me,” he said. He gave Stacey a look. Stacey shrugged his assent and then checked for my response.
    I said, “Sure. I don’t mind. Are we finished here?”
    “For now. We can always come back.”
    Johanson turned toward his Jeep. “Best take the Jeep. Road’s all tore up from heavy rains we had a while back. No point throwing up dust and gravel on that fancy car of yours.”
    I thought he was being snide. I checked for Dolan’s reaction, but he was apparently in agreement with the old man’s assessment.
    We piled in the Jeep, Stacey in the front seat, Dolan and me climbing into the rear. The seats were cracked leather, and all the glassine windows had been removed. Johanson started the engine and released the emergency brake. The vehicle’s shocks were gone. I reached up and grabbed the roll bar, clinging to it as we began to lurch and bang our way up the deeply rutted gravel road. Like me, Stacey was clinging to the Jeep frame for stability, wincing with pain from the jolts to his injured back.
    The grass on either side of us was rough. A hillside rose on our left and then leveled out at the top, forming a mesa where numerous pieces of heavy equipment sat. Much of the remaining ground was stripped and terraced, broad fields of rubble unbroken by greenery. “That’s the quarry,” Johanson said, hollering over the rattle and whine of the moving vehicle.
    I leaned forward, directing my comments toward the back