I raised a “stop” palm and smiled. “Sit down and I’ll tell you what does impress me. Not your pitiful line-up of alibis. No. I’m talking about your Plan B, Vinnie. You don’t mind if I call you Vinnie, do you? It’s a better name for a murderer than ‘Vincent’—unless your last name is Price, maybe.”

He thought about it. Then he smoothed his jacket—Armani again, I’d wager—and sat. “Plan B…?”

“Yeah. That’s what the hit-and-run fakery was about. You really trained for that—getting into shape with a ten-degree black-belt sensei. Really going for it, learning techniques from an actual movie stunt man.”

“I don’t know any movie stunt man.”

“Sure you do. Oh, I admit I don’t have anything on those earlier kills—the secretary you undoubtedly raped and strangled, and the broker at your firm you ran down in that parking ramp. How many like them have happened over the years? Now, how you used the hit-and-run episode—that was cute.”

“Cute?”

I corrected myself: “Ingenious. You devised a Plan B that covers every murder since you had your personality-twisting concussion. You played it to the hilt, the whole Jekyll and Hyde bit—plenty of witnesses to your uncontrollable outbursts to contrast with your otherwise normal behavior. I saw it myself, more than once. All the time you logged with doctors, who assigned meds, which I bet you didn’t take, and constant psychiatrist visits… that’s the Plan B—the groundwork for the insanity plea from the best lawyers Daddy’s money can buy. Might take a year or two before convincing doctors you’re well. Maybe you’d stage another accident with a blow to the head that ‘cures’ you. Clever. Sicker than hell, but clever.”

Colby had started smiling halfway through my little speech. Then he stood and began to clap and laugh, the laughter sounding crazed to me, ringing off the brick walls.

He leaned toward me, hands on his thighs, his smile mocking. “I hear a bunch of theorizing, Hammer. I don’t see a scrap of evidence. And I haven’t confirmed a damn thing you’ve said, and why should I? You want a hundred k for that?”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing I don’t want, and it’s a hug. I know how that kind of hug can end up. Of course, the last time you tried it on me didn’t work out for you. You got flipped on your ass.” I gave him a nasty smile. “Here’s a tip—don’t wear a distinctive cologne to a killing. Detectives pick up on subtle little clues like that.”

But for the tiniest curl of his upper lip, he was expressionless. “You have nothing.”

“No, I have something.” I was nodding. “I really do.”

“Is that right?”