“We still don’t know for sure this is the car he saw. It could’ve been something similar; some guy stopping near the quarry to take a leak. Don’t be so quick off the mark.”

“But suppose this was the car, doesn’t it seem safe to assume it was used to move the body?”

“Where do you get that, unless they find trace evidence?”

“Oh come on, Lieutenant . . .”

“I’m serious. Even if we’re right about the car, it still doesn’t prove the girl was from Quorum. Killer could have picked her up and stabbed her when he was on the road.”

“Okay, I’ll grant you that one. So what now, we just sit?”

“Yep.”

“But it could take days.”

“I can put you on a bus and send you home,” he said mildly.

“That’s not what I’m getting at.”

“Then what?”

“Why don’t you do the sitting while I start nosing around.”

He shook his head. “There’s no point going off half-cocked.”

“How about this? I’ll work with the meter off, but keep a running tab of my hours. If I manage to track her down, pay me, and if I don’t, oh well.”

Dolan thought about it, taking up his finger tapping as he studied the street ahead. “Maybe.”

“Come on, Dolan. Please, please, pretty please with sugar on it? Let me take a crack at it. I’ll be good. I swear.”

“Begging’s unbecoming. You’re not the type.” He stopped tapping. “I suppose I could borrow your typewriter and catch up on the paperwork. I want to get some of this down while the details are fresh.”

“Good. I’m glad. Makes it a lot more fun.”

Once in my room again, I opened the bed-table drawer and took out the pint-sized Quorum phone book, looking for the address of the public library. The Quorum Branch of the Riverside County District Public Library was on High Street. According to the minimap in the front of the directory, it was only five blocks away. I tucked the book into my bag, left my typewriter with Dolan, and then headed off on foot.

At the 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.”