was a big federal cheese, and that’s why she’d tried to excuse herself,
tried to justify herself. What was he going to do?
Detective Morales smiled and shook Thomas’s outstretched
hand. “Hector Morales, Mr. Matlock. And this is Detective Gordon.
We didn’t realize she had any relatives other than her mother.”
“Yes, she does, detectives,” Thomas said. “There’s still some drug
in her system, so she’s not really completely back yet, but if you
would like to speak to her for a couple of minutes, that probably
wouldn’t hurt. But you need to keep it low-key. I don’t want her
upset.”
“Look, sir,” Detective Gordon said, pumping herself up, knowing
that she should be the one giving the orders here, not this
man, this stranger who was with the government. “Ms. Matlock
ran away. Everyone was looking for her. She is wanted as a material
witness in the shooting of Governor Bledsoe of New York.”
Thomas Matlock merely arched a very patrician brow at her and
looked intimidatingly forbearing. “Fancy that,” he said mildly. “I
can’t imagine why she would ever want to leave New York what with all the protection you offered her.”
“Now see here, sir,” Detective Gordon said, and tried to shake
off Hector Morales’s hand on her arm, but he didn’t let go, and she
looked yet again into that man’s face, and she shut up. There were
words bubbling inside her, but she wasn’t about to say them. He
was a Big Feeb, and she saw the power in his eyes, something that
flashed red warning lights to her brain, an ineffable something that
shouted power, more power than she could imagine, and so she
kept her mouth shut.
“There is a lot we do not understand, Mr. Matlock,” Detective
Morales said, his voice stiff, with a slight accent. “May we please
speak to your daughter? Ask her a few questions? She does look
very ill. We won’t take long.”
The thing of it was, Letitia Gordon thought as she walked to the
bed where the young woman lay staring at her with dread, her
dyed hair tangled and dirty about her face, she wanted to stand very
straight in front of that man, perhaps salute and then do exactly
what he told her to do. And here was Hector, acting so deferential,
like this guy was the president or, more important, the police commissioner.
Whatever he was, this man wore power like a second
skin.
“Ms. Matlock, in case you don’t remember, I’m Detective Gordon
and this is Detective Morales.”
“I remember both of you very clearly,” Becca said, and concentrated
on clearing the sheen of tears out of her eyes. These people
couldn’t hurt her now, Adam and her father wouldn’t let them.
And she wouldn’t, either. She’d been through enough now that a
couple of hard-assed cops couldn’t intimidate her.
“Good,” Detective Gordon said, then she caught herself looking
over at Mr. Matlock, as if for approval of her approach. She cleared
her throat. “Your father said we could ask you a couple of questions.”
“All right.”
“Why did you run, Ms. Matlock?”
“After my mother died and I’d buried her, there was no reason
for me to stay. He found me at the hotel where I was hiding, and I
knew he would get me. None of you believed me, and so I didn’t
think I had a choice. I ran.”
“Look, Ms. Matlock,” Detective Gordon said, coming closer,
“we still aren’t certain there was a man after you, calling you,
threatening you.”
Adam said mildly, knowing until he and Thomas had discussed
it, Krimakov’s probable identity would remain under wraps to the
NYPD, “Then who do you think kicked her out of a moving car
at One Police Plaza? A damned ghost?”
“Maybe it was her accomplice,” Detective Gordon said, whirling
on Adam, “you know, the guy who shot Governor Bledsoe.”
Becca didn’t say anything. Thomas saw she was pulling away,
even though she hadn’t moved a finger, trying to draw into herself.
She looked unutterably tired.
“Also,” Detective Gordon added, not looking at Mr. Matlock,
“our psychiatrist reported that he believed you have big problems,
Ms. Matlock, lots of unresolved issues.”