A guy walking past his table nodded politely on eye contact. Then he noticed the glossy photos of Jenkins’s award-winning mid-nineties IndyCar Team. “Doing a magazine piece on Dick Jenkins or something?” he said curiously.
“Something like that,” Bob said.
“Great man, great guy. Big man in this town.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Paid for my brother’s rehab when he was working over at their shop. Didn’t have to do that.”
“True.”
The man could sense Bob’s reticence towards a conversation. “Well, good luck to you,” he said.
“Same.”
The race fan wandered off. Bob furrowed his brow. He hadn’t met anyone yet who thought Dick Jenkins was much less than a saint. Maybe Sharmila and Mel Feeney were onto something when they said his involvement wasn’t possible.
The four blocks back to the car were pleasant, the day unseasonably cool and overcast, temperatures in the seventies.
It felt almost like work, or a job, anyway. He’d missed his routines from Tucson, even contemplated getting another driving job. But that was for later, when he’d figured himself out and freed Marcus.
He was still a block away when he realized the police cruiser idling ahead was right next to the Buick.
That doesn’t bode well.
If the police had helped to set up Marcus, it stood to reason they wouldn’t mind slowing down anyone helping the kid, Bob knew. He wondered how far they’d go.
The cruiser pulled away.
He didn’t see the ‘boot’ locking his rear wheel and axle until he was almost at the old beater.
There was a ticket on the windshield. ‘Parked beyond time allotted’ was scrawled on it, along with a two-hundred-dollar fine.
Bob gazed over at the curb. Just ahead of his car, a small sign said ‘loading zone, no parking beyond thirty minutes.’
“Goddamnit,” he groused. Bob looked down at the ticket again. At the very bottom, in red ballpoint, the issuer had scrawled “Have a nice day!” along with the signature “J. Fowler.”
Did he actually follow me around just to give me a ticket?
Jeb Fowler wasn’t much of a physical specimen, but Bob had seen a little mad dog in the man’s eye.
Yeah. Yeah, I’m guessing he would.
21
Sharmila gripped her coffee nervously. She wasn’t expecting much out of the meeting, but she figured she had an ‘in’, and that meant she had to try.
The coffee shop door jingled. Officer David Czernowitz entered, Stetson in hand. He was dressed in civvies and had a nervous expression.
Does he still have a crush on me? She hadn’t encouraged him at all in high school, breaking off their nascent friendship ostensibly because he was friends with Jeb Fowler, a bully. But in reality, it was that he just wasn’t very bright.
He hadn’t gotten mad or anything, unlike Jeb, who’d slapped his girlfriend around and only given her a reprieve when her family moved out of town. Witty was nice to everyone back then.
And now he arrests them.
He made his way past the other raised tables.
“Sharm,” he said with a nod. “Can I sit?”
“I invited you, David. Of course.” She’d never called him his nickname, at least not to his face. It was just cruel, even if he never really saw it that way.
He sat down. “I suppose you want to talk about your pops.”
She nodded. “I don’t want to waste your time—”
“That’s okay, Sharm. We’re friends. I mean, it’s been a long time—”
“It has, and I just want to stick to business, David, if that’s okay with you?”
“Okay. I mean, I understand, I guess.”
“You signed off on Jeb’s report.”
He stared at the tabletop. “Uh huh. Yeah. I mean, yes. I did.” His right hand drifted to his left wrist, fidgeting with his watch strap.
“So you saw him take the gun off the boy?”
“I… I mean, if Jeb says that’s how it went down, then that’s what happened.”
