Read "Q" is for Quarry for Free Online

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 was now fully dark and the hospital was lit up like a lavish resort. We went in through the rear entrance and took the elevator to 6 Central, the oncology floor. The lights had been dimmed, and the wide, carpeted corridor muffled our footsteps. Three spare IV poles and two blood pressure monitors were clustered against the wall, along with a linen cart and a multitiered meal cart filled with trays from the dinner served earlier. I caught sight of a few visitors, but there was none of the lively interplay between patients and family members. Getting well takes work and no one wants to waste energy on superficial conversation. Passing the nurses’ station, Dolan gave a nod to the clerk at the desk.
    Stacey was in a private room, looking out on a darkened residential street. He seemed to be sleeping, his hospital bed elevated at a forty-five-degree angle. Poking out from under his red-knit watch cap were wisps of ginger-colored hair. Two get-well cards were propped upright along the wide windowsill, but there was nothing else of a personal nature. The television screen was blank. On his rolling bed table, there were a pile of magazines and a paper cup filled with melting ice.
    Dolan paused in the doorway. Stacey’s eyes came open. He waved and then pushed himself up on the bed. “I see you made it,” he said, and then to me, “You must be Kinsey. Nice to meet you.” I leaned forward and shook his hand. His grip was strong and hot, almost as though he were metabolizing at twice the normal rate.
    While Dolan went about the business of rounding up chairs from opposite corners of the room, I said, “I believe you knew the guys who trained me—Morley Shine and Ben Byrd.”
    “I knew them well. Both good men. I was sorry to hear about Morley’s murder. That was a hell of a thing. Have a seat.”
    “Thanks.”
    Dolan offered me one chair and settled in the other. While the two of them