Stone Quarry
S.J. Rozan
Acknowledgements
my agent, Steve Axelrod my editor, Keith Kahla what a pair
Emily Horowitz, who first told me I was writing a novel the experts
David Dubai, Joe Karas, Pat Picciarelli, Carl Stein and Harvey Stoddard
the critics
Betsy Harding, Royal Huber, Barbara Martin, Jamie Scott (and her damn owls), and, on this one, Becca Armstrong and Steve Landau
Steve Blier, Hillary Brown, Max Rudin, Jim Russell, and Amy Schatz
the muse Richard Wilcox
the genius Deb Peters
and
the goils Nancy Ennis and Helen Hester
Chapter 1
It can be a treacherous road, State Route 30, especially rain slick in the twilight of late winter, but I know it well.
I sped along its badly banked curves faster than legal and faster than necessary. I was heading for Antonelli's; I had plenty of time. I drove that way just for the charge, pushing the road, feeling its rhythm in my fingers, its speed in the current in my spine. Water hissed under my tires and my headlights reflected off the fat raindrops that splattered the blacktop in front of me.
Years ago, 30 carried a fair amount of tourist traffic, but even then it was people on their way to somewhere else. Now that the state highway slices through the northern part of the county and the Thruway wraps around it, no one passes through Schoharie anymore unless they mean to stop, and not many have a reason to do that. The tourist brochures call this countryside picturesque. If you look closely, though, you'll see the caved-in roofs and derelict silos, the junked cars and closed roadside diners with their faded billboards. These rocky hills were never good for much except hunting and dairy farming. Farming's a hard way to make a living, getting harder; and hunters are men like me, who come and go.
The hiss of water became the crunch of gravel in the lot in front of Antonelli's. I swung in, parked at the edge.
I had Mozart in the CD player, Mitsuko Uchida playing the B-flat Sonata, and I lit a cigarette, opened the window, listened as the music ended in triumph and the exhilaration of promises fulfilled.
Then I left the car and strolled over to look across the valley. I was early. City habits die hard.
Hands in my pockets, I let my eyes wander the far hills, asked myself what I was doing. Work wasn't what this place was about, for me. But on the phone, when Eve Colgate had called, I'd heard something: not her words, clipped and businesslike, but the long, slow melody under them. Raindrops tapped my jacket; a tiny stream ran through the gravel at my feet, searching for the valley.
Unexpectedly, I thought of Lydia, her voice on the phone when I'd called to tell her I was coming up here, would be away awhile. There was music in Lydia's voice, too; there always was, though I'd never told her that. She wasn't surprised or bothered that I was leaving. Over the four years we've known each other she's come to expect this, my sudden irregular disappearances and returns. In the beginning, of course, I never told her when I was going, didn't call when I got back. Then, we just worked together sometimes; if she needed someone while I was gone, there were other people to call. But at some point, and I couldn't say just when, I'd started calling, to let her know.
The rain was ending. Wind rolled the high black clouds aside, revealing a sky that was still almost blue. The air was full of the smell of earth and promise, everything ready, tense with waiting. Soon spring would explode through the valley and race up the hills, color and noise engulfing the sharp silence I stood for a while, watched tiny lights wink on in the windows of distant homes. When the sky was dark 1 turned and went inside.
The crowd in Antonelli's was small and subdued. A golf tournament, all emerald grass and blue sky and palm trees, flickered soundlessly from the TV over the bar. A couple of guys who probably thought golf was a sport were watching it. A few other people were scattered around, at the bar, at the small round tables. None of them was the woman I had come to meet.
I slid onto a bar stool. Behind the bar, Tony Antonelli, a compact, craggy man whose muscles moved like small boulders under his flannel shirt, was ringing up someone's tab. He looked over at me and nodded.
'Figured you were up,' he said, clinking ice into a squat glass. He splashed in a shot of Jim Beam and handed it to me. 'Saw smoke from your place yesterday.'
'Big help you are,' I said. 'Whole place could burn down, you'd just watch.'
'Happens I drove down to make sure your car was there, wise ass. I oughta charge you for the gas.'
'Put it on my tab.' I drank. 'How's Jimmy?' I asked casually.
Tony turned, busied himself with glasses and bottles. 'Still outta jail.'
I said nothing. He turned back to me. 'Well, that's what you wanna know, ain't it? Make sure all your hard work ain't been wasted?'
'No,' I said. 'I knew that. How is he?'
'How the hell do I know? He don't live with me no more; he moved in with some girl. If I see him I'll tell him you're askin'.'
I nodded and worked on my bourbon. Tony opened Rolling Rocks for two guys down the other end of the bar. He racked some glasses, filled a couple of bowls with pretzels. Then he turned, reached the bourbon bottle off the shelf. He put it on the bar in front of me.
