Q Is for Quarry

You might try Directory Assistance –"
    "Dolan, this is what I do for a living."
    "Oh, right. Sorry."
    "I'll go down to the lobby and find a public phone. You want anything while I'm there?"
    "I don't suppose they sell Camels in the gift shop."
    "I don't suppose they do." When I got to the door, I hesitated. "What was Rickman in prison for?"
    Lieutenant Dolan picked up his magazine and wet his index finger. He turned the page, paying close attention to a full-page ad for a fuel additive that required the presence of a blonde in a bathing suit. "Well, let's see. Molestation, sodomy, oral copulation, lewd and lascivious acts with a child. I'm surprised he wasn't killed in prison. As a rule, inmates don't have a lot of tolerance for guys like that."
    Geez, I'd been picturing a bit of B&E. I took the elevator down and made my way through the maze of corridors to the lobby. I found a bank of public phone kiosks outside the front entrance, sheltered by a marquee that extended from the lobby door to the passenger loading ramp. While I looked on, a young nurse's aide helped a new mother out of a wheelchair and into a waiting van.
    I couldn't see the baby's face, but the bundle wasn't much bigger than a loaf of bread. I scrounged around in the bottom of my bag and came' up with a handful of coins. Lompoc was in the same area code as Santa Teresa, so I knew it wasn't going to require much. I dialed directory , assistance while the young husband loaded flower arrangements into the back of the van, along with a cluster of bobbing pink and silver helium balloons. I got C. K. Vogel's number and made a note of it before I dialed. When he picked up on his end, I identified myself. Judging from the sound of his voice, he was in his eighties and possibly in the midst of an afternoon nap. I said, "Sorry to disturb you."
    "No, no. Don't worry about that. Arne called on Friday and said someone might be in touch. You want to know about the van I saw, is that correct?"
    "Yes, sir. It is."
    "Tell you the truth, I didn't say much at the time. I had a brother-in-law worked for the Sheriff's Department – this was my sister Madge's husband, fella named Melvin Galloway. He's since died. Two of us never did get along. He's a damn know-it-all. Had an opinion about everything and hear him tell it, he's always right. I couldn't abide the man. Might not sound Christian, but it's the truth. I told him twice about that van, but he pooh-poohed the idea, said if he stopped to track down every half-assed theory the John Q. Public volunteered, he wouldn't get anything else done. Not that he did much to begin with. He's the laziest son of a gun I ever came across. After 'while, I figured I'd done what I could and said to hell with him. What struck me afterward was not the hippie van so much as that other car I saw. Snappy-looking red convertible with Arizona plates."
    "Arne mentioned the red car, but I got the impression it was the van you thought was suspicious. Did I get that wrong?"
    "No, ma'am. I noticed the van on account of the paint job-peace symbols and that sort, in the wildest colors imaginable. It was parked right there in that fork in the road when I first became aware of it."
    "I know the location."
    "Reason the other car caught my attention was because I later read in the paper they recovered a stolen car matching that description."
    "You remember the make?"
    "I don't, but I saw that car on three occasions. First time near the quarry, just a little piece down the road, and the second time over town. I was driving to the doctor's office to have a cyst removed and passed the wrecker pulling it up out of the ravine, all banged up. Looked like whoever took the car let the handbrake loose and pushed it down a hill into a bunch of brush. Must have hit a goodly number of trees on the way, judging from all the scratches and dents. Wasn't spotted for a week, but the fella where I take my car for repairs was the one the Sheriffs Department called when they needed it towed. I saw it at the repair shop the next day when I was having work done on my carburetor. That was the third time. Never saw it again after that."
    "I remember mention of a stolen car. Was there anybody in it when you saw it the first time?"
    "No, ma'am. It was setting on the side of the road just inside the entrance to your grandma's property. Top down, sun beating hard on those fine black leather seats. I slowed as I went by because I wondered if someone'd had engine trouble and had