Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? Read Online Free PDF Page A

thinks Vikström is too loosey-goosey or goosey-loosey, he can’t recall which, but it means Vikström follows his intuition while Manny likes everything down on paper. That’s how it was at the start; then it got worse.
    Vikström wants to strip off his shirt to look for splotches. Instead he bends his features into a semblance of indifference. He’s pretty sure that Manny has done this business about not warning him on purpose, and he’s sure that Manny knows that he knows, which is Manny’s ambition.
    â€œI’m not saying the accident was premeditated,” says Vikström, as if nothing has happened, “but neither am I saying it
wasn’t
premeditated. The driver wasn’t telling the truth, or all of it, and I’d like to spend more time digging around.”
    â€œHow’d he know the Fat Bob was coming? How’d he time it?”
    Vikström shrugs. Manny hates it when Vikström says,
I just got a funny feeling about this one,
so he says, “I got a funny feeling about this one.”
    They walk back up Bank Street to where the trapped cars are being freed. Vikström furtively wipes the back of his shirt and then inspects his hand. Nothing. Two cops direct traffic. Cars honk. Soon the truck will be towed to a garage where its brakes, accelerator, and clutch will be checked. But right now the forensics guys are still picking up bits of Robert Rossi, and technically, as Vikström says, the truck should be sent to the morgue along with a good hunk of pavement. Manny doesn’t laugh; outside the confines of his home, he limits his humor to irony, sarcasm, and mockery. Both men have considered transferring to another section, but each wants to remain in the Detective Bureau, so each waits for the other to make the first move.
    Up ahead they see Fidget collecting spare change from people whose cars remain stuck. Fidget slaps at something behind him, level with his coccyx.
    â€œI bet he’s got fleas,” says Manny, who doesn’t want to get too close.
    â€œHey, Fidget,” calls Vikström, “hold up. I want to talk to you.”
    Without turning his head, Fidget hurries forward, but his knees are iffy and keeping them stiff makes him look as if he’s walking on stilts.
    Vikström catches up with him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Going deaf?”
    â€œJeez, Detective, this is prime picking time. If I don’t get these people now, they’ll be gone.”
    Vikström shakes Fidget’s arm. “What’d you see when the bike hit the truck?”
    â€œBike?”
    â€œThe motorcycle,” says Manny, “the motorcycle!”
    â€œYeah, I saw the Harley hit the truck. Is that what you’re talking about? It was awful. I got blood on my coat.”
    Vikström and Manny look at the multilayers of gray that cover the once-beige raincoat with an impasto effect. No bloodstains are visible, which doesn’t mean they aren’t part of the porridge.
    â€œI mean, did you see anything you should tell us about?” asks Vikström.
    Fidget swats a hand behind him to quiet his tail that’s flicking back and forth like a twenty-foot bullwhip. He knows what Vikström is saying, but he also knows if he has any chance to turn this event into cash, he has to keep quiet. “What’s to tell? I saw a Harley smash into a dump truck and a biker turned to splop. What’s more to say than that?”

THREE
    T he gravel access road to the Hannaquit Breachway is the victim of months of bad weather and resembles, to Connor’s mind, a long ravioli mold with indentations on either side. Half are filled with water, and Connor steers his Mini-Cooper around them as he heads toward the beach. At times he’s thrown against his seat belt; at other times he’s bounced up to bang against the roof. As protection he wears the black motorcycle cap from the accident. It helps a little.
    On a ridge above