“And your license?”
The boy lifted his cap and resettled it on his head. “Sorry, sir. Lost my wallet in the river yesterday.”
That sort of thing happened often enough, and yet Myles couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He turned to the other man. “What about you?”
“Didn’t bring any ID. Considering I’m such a cripple, it’s better if I don’t drive.”
Neither man could provide proof of identity? “Why don’t we start with your names?” Myles tilted his head at Tattoo Guy, who grinned from ear to ear as he answered.
“Ron Howard.”
Myles stiffened. “Like the director?”
“What director?”
Was he for real? No way. This guy knew exactly who Ron Howard was. “How’d you get injured, Mr. Howard?”
“Fell off a ladder while working construction. Hurt my back.”
Myles had a feeling he might have to arrest these two. Something wasn’t right… “I hope it’s only a temporary condition.”
“’Fraid not.”
The pain seemed real. “Sorry to hear that.”
Bitterness contorted his features, making those gargoyles on his face dance. “Yeah, so was I.”
“Ron Howard,” if that was really his name, was as fascinating as he was repulsive. With some effort, Myles pulled his gaze away and indicated the Toyota truck. “You the owner of this vehicle?”
“Nope.” He angled his head toward Blue Eyes. “His brother is.”
“What’s your name?” Myles asked the driver.
“Peter Ferguson.” He pointed to the registration. “Quentin is my brother. The
Myles wished he could believe what he’d been told. He also wished he didn’t have to present his back to these two in order to return to his car. But he couldn’t stand there all day. “I’ll get that tow truck coming.”
The crunch of his boots on the gravel shoulder sounded loud, probably because he was so aware of every step. Pat’s murder, combined with the disconcerting appearance of Tattoo Guy and his younger sidekick, had made him skittish, as skittish as everyone else in Pineview. He strained to hear movement behind him, any indication of impending danger, but reached his car without incident.
Leaving the door hanging open so he could get out quickly if necessary, he called dispatch with the plate number instead of entering it into the computer—and was told what he’d learned before—California’s Motor Vehicle Division was down.
Shit… “Call me as soon as it goes up,” he told the dispatcher.
He used his radio to call Harvey’s Tow. Then he stayed in his car, studying the documents he’d been given. The address on the registration indicated the owner of the vehicle lived in a place called Monrovia, California. Was that northern or southern California?
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
