On the way out to the Stewart home Frank got a buzz on his phone from Joe Weiser. I was behind the wheel working through late evening traffic. The SS 396 snarled and crackled, growled and groaned, feeling too pent-up running down the road hemmed in by anemic family sedans. I had the same feeling. We were in that gray area of any investigation where anything can happen. And usually did. Meaning things can happen that are least expected. Or erupts and throws the kitchen sink into your well laid out hypothesis on who did what to whom. Smashing them to smithereens and making you feel like an i***t in the process. Glancing at Frank, I waited for him to flip the phone closed and tell me the bad news.
“Okay, thanks Joe. Good to confirm your suspicions,” Frank said, frowning, before lowering the
