Best Friends by Thomas Berger Page B

today.
    The officer who emerged from the driver’s side was Howie, whom Roy had met in the contretemps at Sam’s house the day before. The man leaving the navigator’s seat proved to be the chief of police, Jim Albrecht, who except on ceremonial occasions usually wore mufti. Today it was an open nylon golf jacket over a navy-blue T-shirt bearing the logo of the television program America’s Most Wanted.
    â€œHi, Jim,” Roy said, nodding at Howie. “I hope Doris doesn’t have a serious problem.”
    â€œNo, sir, Mr. Courtright.” Albrecht was almost as big as Sam, but a dozen years older and hard of body, and had served as a marine in both Grenada and the Gulf actions. As usual he was diffident when speaking with Roy. “I was wondering if we might have a word with you?”
    The chief looked especially uncomfortable, so Roy spoke with levity to lessen the man’s strain. “It’s not that coffee machine Howie caught me stealing from Sam Grandy’s house, is it?”
    Albrecht frowned briefly but otherwise disregarded the question. “Would you mind coming down to Central?”
    Roy had no clue as to what this was about, but he liked the chief and thought the department did a fine job of keeping civic order. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you fellows drop in at my place and have a cup of cappu—uh, fresh-made coffee—any way you like it.”
    â€œThat would be nice, Mr. Courtright, but I’d rather you come down to Central, if you don’t mind.”
    Roy suddenly understood the invitation bore more weight than a polite request and was extended by an officer of the law. “Why sure, Chief, any time.”
    Albrecht had yet to show the broad smile that he displayed so liberally on other occasions. “We’d like you to come right now.”
    Suspense was now in play, one of Roy’s least favorite emotions. “Jim,” he asked, “mind telling me what’s going on?”
    â€œI’d rather wait till we get to Central, Mr. Courtright. It makes more sense.”
    Which of course is what it definitely did not do, at least for Roy, nor did riding as a passenger in the police car, which the chief preferred him to do rather than follow in his own vehicle.
    Nobody said another word until he and Albrecht, joined by three other men in civilian clothes, sat in the chief’s office in the overcrowded municipal building, only a block and a half from Roy’s place of business.
    â€œMr. Courtright,” said Chief Albrecht, behind the littered desk in front of which was Roy’s straight, armless, hard wooden chair. “Will you tell us how you spent last evening and night?”
    Roy spoke levelly. “I want to know what this is all about.”
    Albrecht nodded with his jutting jaw. “Make a deal with you, Mr. Courtright. Soon as you tell us what you did last night, I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on. Now, you can’t say that’s not fair.”
    Another questionable theory, along with the one about making sense, but Roy proceeded to comply to the letter, even unto the little dust-up in the parking lot, which, as he was summarizing the incident, he recognized as surely the pretext for the matter at hand: Holbrook was charging him with assault and battery!
    â€œHe hit her, and then he was choking her. So I slugged him to get him to stop. I’d do it again. Any of you would have done the same.”
    Albrecht had listened without expression. The putative detectives stood somewhere behind Roy, where he could not see them.
    One now spoke up. “What did you do after the fight?”
    â€œIt wasn’t a fight. It was what I just described…. I drove back to town.”
    â€œWith Francine Holbrook?” The voice was of yet another man.
    â€œNo. She left in her own car, SUV. I was driving a vintage model from my inventory. I took it back to our showroom and