Robert B. Parker
Page 19
“That would make things a lot simpler,” Croft said. “Friend might be an ex-football player, even, four, five years in the pros, something like that.”
“Yeah,” Vincent said, “that would be good. Now if that was the idea and then one day Karl heads up into the woods in West Overshoe, Maine, there’s the chance. So this guy and his buddy, say, they head up there and they began blazing away, but the buddy gets killed and now the guy’s in it alone, and there’s several tough hoods against him and he pulls it off.”
“And gets away,” Croft said. “And comes home and keeps his mouth shut and settles back into his life.”
“How’s that hypothesis sound, Mr. Newman?” Vincent said.
“Bizarre,” Newman said.
“Yeah,” Vincent said, “that’s a good word. It is bizarre. I don’t believe any of it for a minute. Neither does Bobby. Right, Bobby?”
Croft said, “Right.”
“Which is why I never mentioned your name to the Maine State Police,” Vincent said, “or any connection you might of had with Karl, or even that you lived near Hood. Far as the State of Maine knows, you don’t exist.”
“So,” Croft said, “if our hypothesis wasn’t so crazy, you might say you are clean. Except, of course, you are clean because you never could have done something like that.”
Newman didn’t speak.
“In a way it’s too bad,” Vincent said. “I wish you were the guy in my hypothesis, because if you were I could shake your hand”—Vincent put his hand out to Newman. Newman took it—”like this and say I think you’re a hell of a man.”
Newman shook Vincent’s hand. He said, “Hypothetically speaking, Lieutenant, shake her hand too.”
Vincent stood up and shook hands with Janet. “Thanks for the Scotch,” he said.
He and Croft went out to their car. Vincent got in the passenger side. Croft walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door to get in. With one foot in the car he looked back at Janet and Aaron Newman standing together at their back door. He raised his right fist and held it above his shoulder for a moment. Then he got in the car and drove away.