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.
“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 J stands for Joe—” he squinted into the bright sun to read Myles’s badge “—Sheriff King.” Now that he was on the spot, he’d gone from trying to avoid notice to putting on a show.
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?