Free Cold Quarry by Andy Straka

day.”
    “Oh, right. No, sir. I guess the bird is still missing. That’s all I know.”
    “Did anyone talk to Dr. Winston?”
    “Dr. Winston? I don’t think so, why? Who is he?”
    “Veterinarian. He treated that bird for some kind of strange illness—paralysis, that sort of thing—just a couple of weeks ago. But the bird recovered.”
    “I didn’t know that. Maybe the conservation officer—”
    “Who’s running this investigation, Deputy Nolestar? Are you?”
    The deputy shifted in his seat. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that either,” the deputy said.
    “ ‘Cause I’ve got to tell you, this is sounding more and more like a federal operation with you just acting as a gofer.”
    “Sir, I’m going to have to respectfully request that you and your friend stand down on all this.”
    “And if I decide not to?” All this sir stuff was starting to make me nervous.
    “I’m sorry, but this conversation is over,” he said, pushing himself away from the table. “Please tell Mrs. Carew we’ll be in touch with her just as soon as we know anything definite about who shot her husband.”
    “The only thing definite I can see is you stonewalling me about what you’re doing to investigate the Stonewallers.”
    He snickered. “That’s good … I like that.”
    He left the table and threw the rest of his coffee in the trash. I finished mine as I watched him drive his unmarked cruiser from the lot.
     

8
     
    “Time to wake up, amigo.”
    It was Toronto, rapping on the door of the bedroom Betty Carew used to store her sewing machine and dozens of wintering garments. I looked at my watch—5:45 A.M.
    “Planning to shake the car dealer out of bed?” I asked.
    “Nope. But I hear he’s an early riser and I thought you wanted to check out those coordinates first.”
    “What time does the sun come up?”
    “About the time you drag your sorry butt out of the sack, we eat some grub, and get to wherever we’re going.”
    “Right. Bound to endear us to someone.” My mouth tasted like dry paste. I stretched and yawned, shaking the cobwebs from my head.
    “Your purloined GPS unit has a nifty little mapping feature. I’ve already localized the three way points this character stored in the memory. And guess what? One of them is up there on Chester’s land and another is smack dab in the middle of the used-car lot belonging to our Mr. Higgins.”
    “Sounds suspiciously like a clue. This Higgins guy going to be armed?”
    “That’s Lieutenant Colonel Bo Higgins, commander of the Stonewall Rangers Brigade, to you. But I doubt he’ll be hefting an M-16 around his lot. Tends to scare off the customers.”
    “Have you been there before?”
    “Not exactly, but Chester drove me by there before we went to the second meeting.”
    “Be interesting to see what’s at the third way point.”
    “I’ve got the address.”
    Two cups of coffee and Betty Carew’s sausage, biscuits, and honey had me awake enough to be following Toronto’s directions back down I-64 crossing the Kanawha into South Charleston, then along the north side of downtown Charleston to an exit within sight of the gold-domed state capitol. The sky had begun to brighten considerably as the new day dawned.
    “Where are we headed exactly?”
    “Other side of the interstate. Up the bill.”
    We climbed a ramp that curved back over the eight-lane highway up toward the steep heights that rose over downtown.
    “Turn left here. Then another left.”
    I gunned the engine and we drove up along a ridge toward an apartment complex of four or five high-rise buildings. What may have once been brick luxury apartments overlooking the city, balconies off the sides, now sported dusty glass windows, decaying trim and railings. A couple pieces of trash from an overflowing Dumpster blew across the parking lot. A sign read Roseberry Circle. We were waved through a guardhouse entrance by a droopy-eyed attendant.
    “It’s a HUD project.”
    “Well,