Shadow Ridge by M. E. Browning

Author:M. E. Browning
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

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The county’s fleet maintenance yard occupied half a block on the road out of town. A boxy tan building, it squatted in the shadow of the county jail. Four bays marked the front, and all four doors were down. During the week the place buzzed with activity, but on a Saturday the yard was empty except for Garibaldi’s patrol car and the flatbed with Ronny’s wrecked truck strapped on the back. The tow truck driver, Owen, stood outside the cab holding an A&W can and talking with Garibaldi.

Jo pulled into the lot and killed the engine. For a moment she merely stared at the crushed cab of the pickup. Ronny’s truck had started life as a dingy blue 1970 Dodge ranch truck that belonged to his grandfather. From the time he could hold a wrench, Ronny had helped with the maintenance. When his grandfather passed, the truck became his. By the time he turned sixteen, he’d rebuilt the engine, restored the interior, and painted it cherry red with wide black stripes down each side. The V-8 sucked gas, but the truck hauled ass. Just ask any of the cops who’d chased him over the years.

That truck no longer existed. Pry marks revealed where the fire department had used the Jaws of Life to cut away the driver door, exposing the interior. A McDonald’s bag hung trapped between metal and the seat.

“I hope it was quick.” She flung open her door and approached the standing men.

“Don’t know what you’re expecting to find.” Garibaldi nodded to Jo and shook hands with Squint. “But as soon as you’re done poking around, Owen’s going to take it to their yard to store until Xavier sees fit to claim it or scrap it.”

“Thanks for holding on to it for us,” Jo said. “Hey, Owen.”

He touched the soda can to his lower lip and spit tobacco juice into it. “Hey.”

Squint reached up to the grab bar on the protective screen and swung himself onto the flatbed as easily as if he were mounting a horse. His Carhartt jacket looked as if it had scraped more than one garage floor. He took a pair of leather work gloves out of his pocket and slipped them on.

“What are you looking for?” Garibaldi asked.

Squint ran his hand over the battered side of the cab. “Won’t know till I find it.”

From the ground, Jo watched him work. She followed his path as he skirted the outside of the truck, examining the dents and scrapes that told the story of its trajectory down the mountain. Both sides showed damage, but it was the crushing slant of the roof that made her wince. To Jo’s reckoning, the driver’s front tire had gone off first and rolled a complete revolution. Squint would know. He read collision damage as easily as a road map. Which, in a way, she supposed it was.

Squint muscled the hood open, and it gave way with a tortured creak. He leaned into the cavernous maw of the truck.

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