Q Is for Quarry

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 fruitcake, minus the dried Maraschino cherries. He was also snacking on a plate of poppers: batter-fried jalapeno 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 jalapeno 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 day to day. His constant smoking didn't appeal to me, either, but there was nothing I could do about it so the less said the better. "How's Stacey doing? Have you talked to him yet?"
    "I called him at six and said we'd stop by to see him. Guy's sick of being poked and prodded, really wants out of there. I guess they'll release him tomorrow once the test results are back."
    "Did you tell him your idea?"
    "Briefly. I said we'd fill him in when we got there. What'd you think about the case?"
    "I really love all that stuff. I usually don't have the chance to see police reports up close."
    "Procedure hasn't changed that much the past twenty years. We're better at it now – more thorough and systematic, plus we got new technology on our side."
    The bartender ambled our way. "What can I get for you?"
    "I'm fine," I said.
    Dolan lifted his whiskey glass, signaling for a refill.
    "Aren't we on our way to see Stacey?"
    "Right now?"
    "Well, there's no point in getting into this if he's not going to agree."
    I could see Dolan debate his desire for the next drink versus his concern for his friend. He pushed his glass back, reached for his wallet, and pulled out a handful of bills, which he tossed on the bar. "Catch you later."
    I grabbed my bag and followed him as he headed for the door. "We'll take my car," he said.
    "What if you want to stay longer than I do? Then I'm stuck. Let's take both cars and I'll follow. That way, I can peel off any time it suits."
    We wrangled a bit more but he finally agreed. I was parked half a block down, but he dutifully waited, pulling out just ahead of me as I came up on his left. His driving was surprisingly sedate as we cruised out the 101 in our minimotorcade. I knew if he got stopped and breathalyzed, he'd easily blow over the legal limit. I kept an eye out for cops, half-forgetting that Dolan was a cop himself.
    Once close to St. Terry's, we found street parking within two cars of each other on the same block of Castle. It