Carefully and concisely, Malone told him the story of the Buick that had pulled up beside them, and what had 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 O.K., 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."
"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. O.K.?"