"Fine," Malone said. "Trace those hoods, and any connections they might have had. Get the information to me as soon as possible."
Lieutenant Adams nodded. "You won't have to leave the state, will you?" he asked. "I don't mean that you can't, exactly—hell, you're FBI. But it'd be easier—"
"Call Burris in Washington," Malone said. "He can get hold of me—and if the Governor wants to know where we are, or the State's Attorney, put them in touch with Burris too. Okay?"
"Okay," Lieutenant Adams said. "Sure." He blinked at Malone. "Listen," he said. "About those costumes—"
"We're trying to catch Henry VIII for the murder of Anne Boleyn,"
Malone said with a polite smile. "Okay?"
"I was only asking," Lieutenant Adams said. "Can't blame a man for asking, now, can you?"
Malone climbed into his front seat. "Call me later," he said. The car started. "Back to the hotel, Sir Thomas," Malone said, and the car roared off.
7
Yucca Flats, Malone thought, certainly deserved its name. It was about as flat as land could get, and it contained millions upon millions of useless yuccas. Perhaps they were good for something, Malone thought, but they weren't good for him.
The place might, of course, have been called Cactus Flats, but the cacti were neither as big nor as impressive as the yuccas.