Myles had no idea. He’d been to Disneyland once with Marley and that was it.
“Ron Howard” began to limp toward him. Myles had been stalling, hoping to hear from dispatch before going back to the truck, but there’d been no word in the past ten minutes. Knowing his open door could act as a shield should there be trouble, he stood but remained behind it. “Tow truck’s on its way.”
“You don’t have a bottle of water or somethin’ else to drink in there, do you?” “Ron,” the tattooed man, asked.
Myles didn’t have any food or drink. “Sorry.”
A nod acknowledged his response, then “Ron” headed back but got only ten feet or so before doubling over and cursing aloud.
“You okay?” Myles called out.
The guy seemed to be in pain; Myles couldn’t help being concerned. “Should I call the paramedics?”
“No, there’s…nothing they can…do,” he ground out.
“Do you need aspirin or something? I don’t have any of that, either, but the tow truck driver might.”
“Aspirin won’t…make any difference.”
“Then you must have a prescription for stronger meds.”
“It…fell in the river…with Peter’s wallet.”
Myles was just about to leave the safety of his car to help the man to his truck when the radio sparked to life. Dispatch was trying to reach him. “Hang on.” Ducking back inside, he grabbed the mic. “What have you got for me?” he asked the dispatcher.
“That plate you gave me is registered to Quentin J. Ferguson from Monrovia, California.” It was Nadine Archer. Myles had spoken to her so many times since coming to this area, he recognized the voice.
“Has it been reported as stolen?”
“No, sir.”
He looked up. “Ron” had managed to straighten and was dragging his foot as he made his way back to the truck. “Does Quentin J. Ferguson of Monrovia have any outstanding warrants?”
“Not a one.”
“When was he born?”
“In 1964.” That meant Quentin, Peter’s brother, was forty-six, quite a bit older than Peter was. But…it was possible. Quentin could even be a half brother.
When “Ron” climbed into the truck, he seemed to instigate an argument but, given the situation, that didn’t strike Myles as unusual. It was hot, they were stranded far from home and one of them was in pain and had lost his meds. “Can I get clearance on a Ron Howard?”
“Also from Monrovia?” Nadine asked.
Myles figured that was as good a guess as any. “Sure, give that a try.”
He had to wait a few minutes before she came back on the line. “There are several Ron Howards, but I don’t show any outstandings.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“Anytime, Sheriff.”
“Good to know,” Myles muttered as he returned the mic to his radio. Apparently his intuition was a little off today. Maybe. He still didn’t like these two.
The men stopped talking the moment he drew close. He sensed some unease, but knew there could be a lot of reasons for that. Perhaps they’d had some run-in with the law in the past. In any case, there was nothing he could do. He didn’t have any reason to detain them. He might as well get to the autopsy before he missed it entirely.
“Your tow will be here any moment,” he explained as he returned their documents. “I’ve got business in the next town, so I’m going to head out.”
The boy sat taller. “Really?”
“You don’t mind waiting alone, do you?”
“No, no problem at all. Thanks for your help, Sheriff.”
The man who’d said his name was Ron Howard didn’t speak. He merely rested his head against the back window and closed his eyes.
“Your friend going to be okay?” Myles asked.
“He’ll be fine,” Peter assured him. “It’s chronic pain. Nothing anyone can do.”
“He should contact his doctor, have him call in a new prescription. There’s a drugstore right across from Harvey’s Tow.”
The boy nodded. “We’ll do that. Thanks.”
“Good luck,” he said, and walked back to his car. He probably would’ve continued to wait, just in case “Mr. Howard’s” condition worsened and he ended up needing emergency care, but Harvey radioed to say he was five minutes away.
He could leave them, couldn’t he? As odd as they were, these boys hadn’t given him any trouble. He couldn’t imagine they’d give Harvey any trouble, either. It wasn’t as if he carried money on him. The only thing he’d have to steal would be his truck, but if they were going to do something that rash, they would’ve tried to take his cruiser.
Relieved to be free, Myles informed Harvey that one of the men had a medical problem. Then he drove off. With any luck, he could still make the autopsy.
8
“Shit, that was close!” Ink muttered as he watched the sheriff leave.
L.J. shoved the gun—which he’d hidden beneath an old shirt—back under the seat. “Good thing I didn’t shoot him. What if I’d blown him away like you told me to?”
Ink didn’t bother opening his eyes. He’d exaggerated his condition to entice the sheriff out of his cruiser and away from his radio sooner rather than later, since they didn’t need any other cops to join him. But he felt pain almost all the time. That was no act. “Then he’d be dead. And there’s nothing wrong with a dead cop. I like that kind better than any other.”
“I wouldn’t cry over it, either. But we can’t be stupid, or we’ll wind up back in prison. I still can’t believe he didn’t bust our asses. I was sure he was planning to.” He adjusted the rearview mirror.
“Tow truck comin’?”
“Not yet.” L.J. started searching for a station that played music to his liking, but Ink couldn’t tolerate the static, which was about all they were getting, so he reached over and turned off the radio. His back pain was giving him a headache. When he’d broken out of prison, it wasn’t as if he could take the nurse and her meds with him. Now he was trying to manage with the recreational drugs he’d gotten from various gang members who’d helped them once they hit the outside, and what he could buy over the counter.
“What do you think changed his mind?” L.J. asked.
“You mean the sheriff?”