The Patrolman thought that over. "Hell, you've got the identity cards and stuff," he said at last. "Maybe you've got a reason to dress up. How would I know? I'm only a State Patrolman."
"Let's cut the monologue," Malone said savagely, "and get to business."
The Patrolman stared. Then he said: "All right, sir. Yes, sir. I'm
Lieutenant Adams, Mr. Malone. Suppose you tell me what happened?"
Carefully and concisely, Malone told him the story of the Buick that had pulled up beside them, and what happened afterward.
Meanwhile, the other cops had been looking over the wreck. When Malone had finished his story, Lieutenant Adams flipped his notebook shut and looked over toward them. "I guess it's okay, sir," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, it's justifiable homicide. Self-defense. Any reason why they'd want to kill you?"
Malone thought about the Golden Palace. That might be a reason—but it might not. And why burden an innocent State Patrolman with the facts of FBI life?
"Official," he said. "Your chief will get the report."
The Patrolman nodded. "I'll have to take a deposition tomorrow, but—"
"I know," Malone said. "Thanks. Can we go on to our hotel now?"
"I guess," the Patrolman said. "Go ahead. We'll take care of the rest of this. You'll be getting a call later."