Q Is for Quarry

library, I went straight to the reference room and pulled the city directories for 1966, '67, '68, and '69. I took the phone book from my shoulder bag and turned to the yellow pages under the heading "Dentists." There were ten listed. I checked the current names against those of dentists in practice during the years in question. Two past dentists, Drs. Towne and Nettleton, had disappeared, which I was guessing meant they'd retired, died, or left the area. Four names carried over and six were new. Most seemed to be generalists, judging from their full-page ads, which trumpeted crowns, dentures, fillings, periodontal work, bridges, root canals, cosmetic dentistry, and oral surgery. With my dental phobia, this was making my palms sweat.
    Already I favored the fellow who offered "Nitrous oxide: Dentistry while you sleep." I wouldn't be opposed to postponing my next appointment 'til I was dead.
    Of the carryovers, the fourth dentist, Dr. Gregory Spears, had listed himself twice, once under the general heading and again under the listing for orthodontists, of which there was one, namely him. The word "straightening" had been added in parentheses for those who didn't know what an orthodontist did. I jotted down the four names and addresses, returned to the city map, and charted my route. Given the size of the town, it was no big deal to walk from the library to the first dentist on my list.
    Spears's office was located in a storefront on Dodson. There was no one in the waiting room. His front office "girl" was in her sixties, a Mrs. Gary, according to her name tag. Her desktop was orderly and the surrounding office space was laid out with efficiency; charts filed on the vertical. A random band of color-coded labels formed an irregular line across the flaps. A small sign in cross-stitch hung on the wall: PLEASE PAY AT TIME SERVICES ARE RENDERED. I was sure she'd be sympathetic when she heard your front cap came off in the middle of a ladies' lunch, but she probably wouldn't take any guff from you if your check should bounce.
    When she opened the sliding glass window that separated her office from the waiting room, I placed a copy of my PI license on the counter. Dolan had given me the file containing Jane Doe's dental chart, showing the number and location of her fillings. I placed that on the counter as well. In the background, I could hear the high-pitched squealing of a drill, a sound that was sometimes sufficient to cause me to pass out. I ran a dampened palm across the seat of my pants and said, "Hi. I'm hoping you can give me some information."
    "I can certainly try."
    "I'm currently working with two Santa Teresa homicide detectives on a Jane Doe case that's been on the books since 1969. This is a chart of her dental work. There's an off chance she lived in this area and we're wondering if she might have been a patient of Dr. Spears's. She was most likely a minor when the work was done."
    She glanced at the file. "He's with a patient right now. Can you come back in half an hour?"
    "It's easier if I just wait," I said. "How long have you worked for him?"
    "Since he opened his practice in 1960. What did you say the patient's name was?"
    "I don't know. That's the point. She was never identified. She had numerous fillings and the forensic odontist who examined the maxilla and mandible thought the work was probably done in the two years before her death. It's a long shot, I know."
    "I doubt we'd have a chart on someone we haven't seen in nearly twenty years."
    "What happens to the old charts? Are they destroyed?"
    "Usually not. They're put on inactive status and retired to dead storage. I'm not sure how far back they go. You're talking about hundreds of patients, you know."
    "I'm aware of that. The charts are here in town ?"
    "If you're suggesting a hand search, that's something you'd have to talk to Dr. Spears about. I'm not sure he'd agree to anything without a court order."
    "We'll only be in town for two days and we were hoping to avoid delay."
    "Wait and see what he says. It isn't up to me."
    "I understand."
    I took a seat in the corner, where I sorted through the magazines. I chose the current issue of Architectural Digest and entertained myself trying to imagine a color spread on my studio apartment, all eight hundred and fifty feet of it.
    Fifteen minutes later, a woman with a puffy lip emerged, pausing at the desk while she wrote out a check for services. I waited until she'd left and then set the magazine aside