“Who are these folks?” the officer asked, indicating Ashbury and his daughter with a jerk of his head.
“They picked me up down the road a piece and asked me if I wanted a ride.”
One of the officers wore the uniform of the state highway patrol, and the other, I gathered, was a local officer.
“What do you want?”
“Didn’t you leave rather suddenly?”
“I’m working.”
“On what?”
“I’d prefer not to make any statements.”
“Did you know a man named Ringold?”
“I read in the paper about his murder.”