We’ll be taking the Ducati.”
7
Myles knew he shouldn’t push it with Vivian. She was too dodgy. Chasing someone so mysterious and closed off was asking for trouble. And yet…she attracted him like no one else. He hadn’t seen it coming, not initially, at least not the way it was currently playing out. He’d assumed he’d date her, see whether or not it went anywhere, and probably wind up moving on to the next candidate. He had no real hope he could meet someone he loved as much as Amber Rose.
But Vivian wouldn’t let their mutual interest travel along that well-worn path. She was so different from anyone he’d been with, so different from the kind of woman he’d married. Amber Rose had been a safe bet. Trusting, warm, sunny. Vivian, on the other hand, was complicated and full of shadows. That made her a definite risk. And he had no business taking a risk at this point in his life. Not with a daughter who’d already lost her mother…
So why couldn’t he seem to back away and forget his pretty neighbor?
Because he wanted her too badly. It was that simple. He’d been trying to engage her without climbing in too deep—get to know her better before deciding whether or not to lower his defenses. This was part of the reason, aside from the fact that she’d had too much wine, that he’d refused her last night. But she wouldn’t allow him to play it safe. He’d have to jump in over his head if he wanted to get wet at all.
Which was a stupid thing for him to do, right?
Of course. When he presented it to himself like that, he could see the danger easily enough.
He should call her and cancel…?.
But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he wouldn’t. Last night had lit a fuse. Now it burned quickly toward detonation and he was actually looking forward to the explosion. For the first time since Amber Rose died, he felt some positive emotion about life in general and his neighbor specifically—excitement, eagerness, arousal, curiosity. If Vivian offered him another opportunity like last night, he’d take it. Even if he wound up mired in regret, at least he’d escape the numb emptiness that had replaced the pain of losing Amber Rose.
He glanced at his watch. Pat’s autopsy was scheduled for three. He’d expected to have plenty of time to make it back, but lunch with Marley had taken longer than expected. He’d also stayed at Vivian’s too long. He needed to hurry if he wanted to observe the procedure.
The needle on his speedometer edged up to seventy-five as Pineview faded in his rearview mirror. Like his office, the morgue was in Libby, thirty minutes away. But less than five miles down the road, he spotted a vehicle broken down on the shoulder.
Because he was so intent on reaching the morgue, he almost left the driver to work it out on his own. Two men were with the car. But there wasn’t any cell service here, so they couldn’t call for help, and when he saw one of them limp around the vehicle to reach the engine, he slowed.
The man had an awkward gait, as if one leg was shorter than the other. Maybe the second guy, who was sitting in the driver’s seat, wasn’t any more mobile and that was why he hadn’t gotten out.
Flipping on his lights to warn other motorists to give them a wide berth, Myles pulled in behind the economy-size truck and cut the engine. Then he ran the California plate, only to learn that the computer system was down and had been for the past twenty minutes.
“No big deal,” he muttered. These boys just needed a hand. If he got them on their way soon enough he could still make the autopsy.
As Myles got out, the handicapped man leaned around the hood. “Afternoon, Officer.”
“Looks like you got trouble.” A red bucket of bolts, the truck probably hailed from the early nineties.
“Radiator’s busted,” came the response.
Camping and fishing gear filled the bed, not unusual for this time of year. The person inside the cab stared at Myles through his open window but stayed put. He seemed young. Not young enough to be the driver’s son, but maybe a nephew or brother.
The lame guy leaned heavily on his hands, as if it pained him to support his own weight. Although dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a ball cap, which didn’t expose a lot of skin, what skin Myles could see as he drew closer was covered with ink, even his face. The images of snakes and gargoyles were off-putting enough to make Myles wish he’d been able to run the license plate. He dealt with a lot of tourists, mostly men, some of them pretty rough. But this guy went beyond anything he’d seen since his days on the force in Phoenix. His appearance and lack of relief at the prospect of having help, not to mention the way the fellow behind the wheel pulled his ball cap down and sank lower in the seat, set Myles’s cop instincts abuzz.
He immediately thought of Pat’s murder and wished he could find out if they were driving a stolen vehicle or had outstanding warrants. “Engine’s hot, huh?” he said.
“Too hot to drive without cracking the block.” A jug of water sat on the ground next to the speaker. Obviously he’d done what he could to remedy the problem.
Judging by the burned smell, Myles thought it was too late to save the engine. “If that’s true, it can’t be driven. Why don’t I call for a tow? Harvey can come out, pick you up and take you and your vehicle into town.”
Tattoo Guy fidgeted with the change in his pocket, then squinted at him. “How much will that cost?”
“Can’t say for sure, but I’m guessing it’ll be around eighty bucks.”
“You hear that?” He banged on the truck to attract his friend’s attention. “’Cause of you, we need a tow.”
The door cracked open. When the young man poked his head out, dark eyebrows met over vivid blue eyes. “I’m the one who said we had to stop!”
“No, you didn’t!”
“Yes, I did!”
“If you need a tow, then you need a tow,” Myles interrupted. These two didn’t seem to be getting along so well. The boy was definitely sulky and Tattoo Guy barely seemed able to contain his irritation.
“Go ahead an’ give ’em a call,” Tattoo Guy grumbled.
Myles offered them both a bland smile. “Will do, but first I need to see your license, registration and proof of insurance.”
Blue Eyes sat up straight. “Why? We haven’t done nothin’ wrong.”
Because he was outnumbered and had no idea whether or not these men possessed firearms, Myles kept his voice and expression calm. He didn’t want to spook them. “It’s nothing to worry about.” Unless they had something to hide… “Just standard procedure.”
The kid couldn’t be older than nineteen or twenty. Although he didn’t seem to have had a shower recently, and his clothes were wrinkled and dirty, he wasn’t bad-looking. Tall and thin, he had a good build. It was the furtive air about him, and the sweat popping out on his forehead, that made Myles nervous.
“Just because our radiator broke?”
His reluctance to provide the requested documentation rang another warning bell in Myles’s head. This wasn’t a situation he wanted to be in, not without backup or some assurance that these guys were law-abiding citizens. There wasn’t much traffic on the road today, which put the odds even more in their favor. Only one vehicle had passed since he’d stopped, certainly not enough to act as any type of deterrent. These men could easily shoot him, drag his body into the woods and steal his cruiser.
“Like I said—” Myles left his hand by his side so he could grab his gun if need be “—standard procedure.”
“Get it for him,” Tattoo Guy barked, as if he made the decisions.
Tension coiled in Myles’s chest. This was the most anxious moment of any traffic stop—when the driver reached across the seat to open the jockey box. He could pull out a gun instead of his registration. That wasn’t something Myles worried about when dealing with folks in Pineview. But these were total strangers.
Fortunately, there was no blast. Easing his stance, Myles breathed an internal sigh of relief as the younger man handed him registration and proof of insurance, all of which appeared to be in the name of one Quentin J. Ferguson.
