The Last Quarry by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page B

on soon,” I said. “You could probably buy this cottage from the guy who owns the lodge.”
    Green flicked his gaze my way.
    I continued: “Of course, if you do move in, for a summer home? Every time you look out at this lovely lake, you’ll be looking at those numbnuts who grabbed your kid.”
    He wasn’t studying the lake, anymore; his eyes were on me. “Why moving on?”
    “You know where I live, Mr. Green.” I shrugged and smiled. “Even if I do do this job, I’m out of here.”
    Eyes narrowed to slits, Green said, “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Quarry. I swear to you I was discreet about finding you. I used a number of people, and no single investigator was—”
    “Sure. Fine.”
    Green sighed. “ Will you do the job?”
    I nodded.
    Relief flooded his features. “How do I make my payment?”
    “I’ll give you the offshore banking info. When $125 K hits the account, I go to work. When I deliver, put the rest in.”
    Green frowned. “You trust me to do that?”
    “Sure.” I grinned at him. “I’m kinda my own collection agency.”
    He didn’t allow himself to be frightened by that; instead he again stared out at the hauntingly beautiful lake.
    For the first time, I heard a genuine melancholy in the mogul’s voice. “She’s...she’s already dead.”
    I nodded. “It just hasn’t made the obits yet.... Coffee?”

Six
    The Homewood Library seemed modern to me, but only because of my age—it dated to the ’70s and you walked into a big high-ceilinged area with wide steps leading up to a surrounding second floor that was like a landing that got out of hand.
    The place was all cheerful oranges and greens and yellows, dotted with oppressively cheerful posters encouraging reading and featuring lots of Asian and black faces, though everybody I saw in there was white. What had once been open and spacious was now a little cluttered, with an area obviously intended for seating given over to portable bookcases of NEW RELEASES and AUDIOS , and various computer stations.
    It didn’t remind me much of the austere churchlike libraries of my youth—hardwood floors and institutional green walls and endless shelves of anonymous dustjacket-less books overseen by cold-eyed old-maid librarians with their hair in gray buns and their bodies in gray dresses that a nun would’ve considered needlessly unflattering.
    And Janet Wright didn’t remind me of those old-maid librarians, either, though her white blouse andblack skirt were a little stark, at that. Her dark blonde hair was pinned up (though not in a bun), attractive stray curls of it struggling free to give her heart-shaped face unbidden decorative touches. Her reading glasses were wireframe and merely serviceable, like the touches of lipstick and eyeliner that appeared to be her only makeup. She seemed to have a nice shape, too, though her wardrobe played it down.
    But there was no getting away from that nice, creamy complexion and eyes so brown they almost looked black from a distance, and she had a very nice smile that she flashed generously at the grade-school kids—third-graders?—who were sitting on the floor in the Children’s Section staring up adoringly at her, lost in the story she was reading...a book called The Glass Doorknob , something or other about a sock monkey.
    I was impressed—not one of these kids was fidgeting or squirming or looking to need their Ritalin dosage, even if their laughter did seem unnecessarily shrill. Of course, eight kids who were spending their Friday after-school time at the library probably weren’t the type to be fussy; plus, the six girls probably wanted to be Janet Wright when they grew up, and the two boys probably wanted to marry her when they did (although right now they had no idea why).
    As she sat in the chair, her audience gatheredaround like little Indians, it was obvious she related well to the tykes, stopping to ask them questions, involving them, really looking at them and even listening to their