“Why?” he said. “Who the hell’s after you?”
I nodded. He rattled open another drawer. Pulled out a Greyhound schedule. Riffed it open and ran a long brown finger down a page. This was a very thorough guy. He looked across at me.
I just nodded again. I understood his position. I’d been in his position plenty of times myself.
“Run the prints again,” I said. “I’m serious, Finlay. Get Roscoe to do it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I mean it. You worked hard to help me out.”
“Nothing you can do,” I said. “You’ve been told to keep your mouth shut, so you keep it shut. Don’t tell anybody what’s going on. Ever.”