“Damn,” he said peevishly. “If you can tell what a guy’s like from his friends, like they say, then old Newell must be a grade A, prime-beef, award-winning asshole.”Not actually starting the car, Sam rolled her window down to let in some fresh air. She consulted her notes.“Four down, two to go.”“Screw it,” he said. “I’m sick of these jerks. All red-white-and-blue on one side, and all fuck-you-cop on the other. We know Newell is clean, Sam. He made sure of it. Let’s give it a rest.”“Be nice to know they’re all on the same page. Maybe one of them’s willing to rat the others out.”Willy slapped the dashboard in frustration. “What’s to rat? The son of a bitch was in Frankfort, like he says. We called the places they ate at and stayed in, we compared four of their stories with each other, and we even looked at those stupid pictures the last one showed us, so conveniently stamped with the time and date. I mean, okay, fine, so maybe they’re all in it together, but if they are, they were also in goddamn Frankfort when they said they were.
