Suddenly, from the shadows underneath the full trees in the middle of the block, Matlock heard the roar of an automobile engine, then the sound of swerving tires as the vehicle pulled out into the middle of the street and started forward. He rushed to the edge of the porch. The long black automobile plunged out of the darkness and sped to the corner. Matlock tried to see the license plates and, realizing that was impossible, took a step down to identify the make of the car. Suddenly he was blinded. The beam of a searchlight pierced the dimly lit spring night and focused itself on him. He pulled his hands up to shield his eyes and then heard the quiet slap, the instant rush of air he had heard minutes ago.
A rifle was being fired at him. A rifle with a silencer.
He dove off the porch into the shrubbery. The black car sped away.
5
He waited alone. The room was small, the window glass meshed with wire. The Carlyle Police Station was filled with officers and plainclothesmen called back on duty; no one could be sure what the killing signified. And none discounted the possibility that others might follow.
Alert. If was the particular syndrome of midcentury America, thought Matlock.
The gun.
He’d had the presence of mind after reaching the police to call Sam Kressel. Kressel, in shock, told him he would somehow contact the appropriate men in Washington and then drive down to the station house.
Until further instructions, they both agreed Matlock would restrict himself to a simple statement on finding the body and seeing the automobile. He had been out for a late night walk, that was all.
Nothing more.
His statement was typed out; questions as to time, his reasons for being in the vicinity, descriptions of the «alleged perpetrator’s vehicle,» direction, estimated speed—all were asked routinely and accepted without comment.
Matlock was bothered by his unequivocal negative to one question.
«Did you ever see the deceased before?»
«No.»
That hurt. Loring deserved more than a considered, deliberate lie. Matlock recalled that the agent said he had a seven-year-old daughter. A wife and a child; the husband and father killed and he could not admit he knew his name.
He wasn’t sure why it bothered him, but it did. Perhaps, he thought, because he knew it was the beginning of a great many lies.
He signed the short deposition and was about to be released when he heard a telephone ring inside an office beyond the desk. Not on the desk, beyond it. Seconds later, a uniformed policeman emerged and said his name in a loud voice, as if to make sure he had not left the building.
«Yes, officer?»
«We’ll have to ask you to wait. If you’ll follow me, please.»
Matlock had been in the small room for nearly an hour; it was 2:45 A.M. and he had run out of cigarettes. It was no time to run out of cigarettes.
The door opened and a tall, thin man with large, serious eyes walked in. He was carrying Loring’s briefcase. «Sorry to detain you, Dr. Matlock. It is ‘Doctor,’ isn’t it?»
«‘Mister’ is fine.»
«My identification. Name’s Greenberg, Jason Greenberg. Federal Bureau of Investigation. I had to confirm your situation… It’s a hell of a note, isn’t it?»
«‘A hell of a note’? Is that all you can say?»
The agent looked at Matlock quizzically. «It’s all I care to share,» he said quietly. «If Ralph Loring had completed his call, he would have reached me.»
«I’m sorry.»
«Forget it. I’m out-briefed—that is, I know something but not much about the Nimrod situation; I’ll get filled in before morning. Incidentally, this fellow Kressel is on his way over. He knows I’m here.»
«Does this change anything?… That sounds stupid, doesn’t it? A man is killed and I ask you if it changes anything. I apologize again.»
«No need to; you’ve had a terrible experience… Any change is up to you. We accept the fact that Ralph’s death could alter tonight’s decision. We ask only that you keep your own counsel in what was revealed to you.»
«You’re offering me a chance to renege?»
«Of course. You’re under no obligation to us.»
Matlock walked to the small, rectangular window with the wire-enclosed glass. The police station was at the south end of the town of Carlyle, about a half a mile from the campus, the section of town considered industrialized. Still, there were trees along the streets. Carlyle was a very clean town, a neat town. The trees by the station house were pruned and shaped.
And Carlyle was also something else.
«Let me ask you a question,» he said. «Does the fact that I found Loring’s body associate me with him? I mean, would I be considered a part of whatever he was doing?»
«We don’t think so. The way you behaved tends to remove you from any association.»
«What do you mean?» Matlock turned to face the agent.
«Frankly, you panicked. You didn’t run, you didn’t take yourself out of the area; you flipped out and started shouting your head off. Someone who’s programmed for an assignment wouldn’t react like that.»
«I wasn’t programmed for this.»
«Same results. You just found him and lost your head. If this Nimrod even suspects we’re involved …»
«Suspects!» interrupted Matlock. «They killed him!»
«Someone killed him. It’s unlikely that it’s any part of Nimrod. Other factions, maybe. No cover’s absolutely foolproof, even Loring’s. But his was the closest.»
«I don’t understand you.»
Greenberg leaned against the wall and folded his arms, his large, sad eyes reflective. «Ralph’s field cover was the best at Justice. For damn near fifteen years.» The agent looked down at the floor. His voice was deep, with faint bitterness. «The kind of goddamn cover that works best when it doesn’t matter to a man anymore. When it’s finally used, it throws everyone off balance. And insults his family.»
Greenberg looked up and tried to smile, but no smile would come.
«I still don’t understand you.»
«It’s not necessary. The main point is that you simply stumbled on the scene, went into panic, and had the scare of your life. You’re dismissible, Mr. Matlock… So?»
Before Matlock could respond, the door swung open and Sam Kressel entered, his expression nervous and frightened.
«Oh, Christ! This is terrible! Simply terrible. You’re Greenberg?»
«And you’re Mr. Kressel.»
«Yes. What’s going to happen?» Kressel turned to Matlock, speaking in the same breath. «Are you all right, Jim?»
«Sure.»
«Well, Greenberg, what’s happening!? They told me in Washington that you’d let us know.»
«I’ve been talking to Mr. Matlock and …»
«Listen to me,» interrupted Kressel suddenly. «I called Sealfont and we’re of the same opinion. What happened was terrible … tragic. We express our sympathies to the man’s family, but we’re most anxious that any use of the Carlyle name be cleared with us. We assume this puts everything in a different light and, therefore, we insist we be kept out of it. I think that’s understandable.»
Greenberg’s face betrayed his distaste. «You race in here, ask me what’s happening, and before you give me a chance to answer, you tell me what must happen. Now, how do you want it? Do I call Washington and let them have your version or do you want to listen first? Doesn’t make a particle of difference to me.»
«There’s no reason for antagonism. We never asked to be involved.»
«Nobody does.» Greenberg smiled. «Just please let me finish. I’ve offered Matlock his out. He hasn’t given me his answer, so I can’t give you mine. However, if he says what I think he’s going to say, Loring’s cover will be activated immediately. It’ll be activated anyway, but if the professor’s in, we’ll blow it up a bit.»