RED, GREEN, OR MURDER - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

8 Steven F. Havill
“Nah, you say an hour, that means two,” he countered. I
knew that arguing was a waste of breath. George Payton didn’t
do casual in his daily schedules, even though he had nowhere
special to go, nothing special to do. In his world, lunch was noon,
straight up. Predictable and comforting. “Look, I don’t feel all
that great anyway. And you got things to do, Billy,” George said,
the only human being on the planet who could get away with
calling me that. “Catch you next time around.”
“Your call,” I said.
“You be careful,” he said, his habitual parting shot.
The next time I glanced in the rear-view mirror, I saw sunshine
wink on chrome. I paid attention to the highway as we hit the
curve leading to the concrete bridge across the Rio Guigarro, a
gravel arroyo that tasted running water maybe once a season. In
another minute, the vehicle had caught us—and sure enough, the
light bar blossomed on the roof of the sedan. I didn’t slow, but
reached for the phone. I think dispatcher Gayle Torrez was expecting
my call. The first ring hadn’t finished when she picked up.
“Hey, sweetheart. This is Gastner again. We’re north on 56,
looking for the ambulance, and I’ve managed to collect one of
your young hot rods. You want to fill him in? He needs to leave
us alone.”
“The EMT’s are on the way, sir,” Gayle laughed, and in a
couple of seconds the red lights went out behind us. The Crown
Victoria backed off my bumper a discreet distance. “Deputy
Collins wants to know if you need an escort.”
“I’m sure he has better things to do, thanks. Oh, and there’s
a blue Chrysler on the way as well. That’s Herb Torrance. He’s
coming in to the hospital with us.”
“Can you hang on a second, sir?”
“Sure.”
I heard radio traffic in the background, and in a moment
Gayle came back on the phone. “The ambulance is just coming
up on Moore, sir.” The remains of that little ghost town lay eight
miles ahead, and at the rate the ambulance was closing with us,
we’d meet in less than four minutes.