Assumption

~ ~ ~

Fragua was eating piñon nuts like crazy, cracking and chewing and brushing the empty shells onto the floor of Ogden’s truck. Ogden looked at him and then at the mess.

“You’re going to clean that up, right?” Ogden asked.

“Clean up what? This is natural waste, bio-stuff. You should be happy to have it in here. They’ll break down naturally and contribute to the ecosystem that is your truck.” He looked out the window. “I love early morning.”

“I need to tell you, I found out something about José Marotta’s body,” Ogden said.

“If you know, that’s fine,” Fragua said. “Let’s keep it just the way it is.”

“You know.”

Fragua looked ahead through the windshield.

“How’d you find out?”

“You told me. When you noticed the Marottas are Penitentes. Pretty much when the mother faked fainting when we told them their son’s body was missing. They never even called the station to find out if we’d found him.”

“Mr. Detective.”

“Enough said,” Fragua said.

“Enough said.”

“You say the Bickers land is up Niebla Canyon.”

“The trail leads all the way to Mount Wheeler. My father and I used to hike it.”

“You say somebody paid those boys to break windows?”

“Yep.”

“But not slash tires,” Fragua said.

“That’s right.”

“Pot farm,” Fragua said.

“My guess.”

After a couple of hours of hiking, Ogden stopped and looked at the rough trail. He pulled a topo map out of his pocket and studied it. “Okay, we leave the trail here.” They walked a half mile and then crossed an old logging road.

“This ain’t on the map,” Ogden said.

Fragua took a knee and studied the road. “Somebody uses it, though.”

They followed the road about a mile and came to a clearing. “This could be it,” Ogden said.

“Look at this,” Fragua said. He pointed to a hole that had been shoveled out, the dirt left in a pile beside it.

“Here’s another one,” Ogden said. “And another.”

There were dozens of small holes, two or so feet deep and the same across.

“This is creepy,” Fragua said.

“You think?”

“Somebody’s looking for something?”

Ogden said nothing. He wended his way through the holes and mounds.

“What do you say we get out of here?” Fragua asked.

“Okay.”

They walked back along the logging road, then cut cross country back to the trail. The sky remained clear. The air was cold.

“I have a question,” Fragua said. “To whom do we tell what?”

“That’s a damn good question.”

Ogden dropped off Fragua at his house, then drove home. There was a sedan parked in his front yard. There were two men in suits under open parkas knocking on his door. They turned as he set his brake and stepped out.

“Help you?” Ogden asked.

“You Deputy Walker?”

“I am.”

“I’m Special Agent Clement and this is Special Agent Howell.”

Howell nodded.

“Special agents,” Ogden said, weighing the words.

“We’re the FBI,” Howell said. He was the taller man.

“FBI,” Ogden repeated.

“We’d like to talk to you, “ Clement said.

“And so here you are,” Ogden said. He stepped past them, turned the knob, and opened the door. “I never lock it.”

The men followed him inside.

Howell zipped up his parka.

“Have a seat,” Ogden said.

The men sat at the little kitchen table.

“So, what can I tell you about what?” Ogden asked.

“Emma Bickers.”

“I’m going to make some tea,” Ogden said. “You want some tea?”

They said they didn’t.

“Mrs. Bickers,” Ogden said. “You know she’s dead.”

“Yes,” Clement said. “We read in the report that you recognized a dead man from another recent murder as someone you’d seen in a photograph belonging to Emma Bickers.”

Ogden turned the flame on under the kettle.

“That man was an FBI agent. His name was Terry Knoll.”

“I see.”

“Knoll was undercover. We hadn’t heard from him in a month and some days,” Clement said.

“Okay. What do you want from me?”

“Anything you can think of,” Clement said. Ogden looked at Howell. “Do you have the photograph?”

“It’s in the file,” Ogden said.

Clement looked at Howell, then said, “Cowboy, it ain’t there now.”

The kettle started to rattle. “I put it there.”

“It’s not there now,” Clement repeated.

“What kind of undercover work?” Ogden asked.

“We’re not at liberty to discuss that,” Howell said.

“All right. Well, I’ve told you all I know. Sorry the photo got lost, but the last time I saw it, it was in the folder.”

“He was investigating hate groups,” Clement said. You know, KKK, neo-Nazis, good folks like that.” Clement took an envelope from his inside suit jacket pocket, opened it, and pulled out several photographs.

Ogden looked at the pictures. The first was of a man tied to a cross, his body split wide open and empty.

“He was field-dressed,” Howell said.

Ogden looked at all the photos. All were of the same man from various angles and ranges. He handed back the pictures. “Well, that’s scary.”

“He’s a marker,” Clement said. “Some very bad people staked that poor bastard out on the Mexican side of the border to warn people to stay in Mexico.”

Ogden didn’t know what to say. He tried to press the image of the man out of his head.

“Hate group,” Ogden said. “Are they around here? What’s the name of this group?”

Clement sighed. “It’s a very violent, very secret club. They like to kill people. They don’t want to get caught killing people. Rumor has it that a lot of upstanding citizens are members. Call themselves The Great White Hope.”

“Not much for subtlety,” Ogden said. The kettle whistled and Ogden got up to pour his water.

“These are not your everyday, run-of-the-mill, lunatic-fringe bad people,” Clement said.

“What did your undercover agent have to do with Mrs. Bickers?” Ogden asked.

“You tell us.”

Ogden just looked at them.

“Tell us what you know about Emma Bickers,” Clement said.

“You read my report.”

“We want to hear it from you.”

“The report is from me,” Ogden said.

“You were the last person to see Emma Bickers alive?” Clement asked.

“No, that would be the killer.”

“But you sneaked back into her house after your visit.” Clement looked at his notepad. “Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because something seemed wrong,” Ogden said.

“Do you always sneak into houses when something seems wrong to you?” Clement asked.

“The woman seemed scared.”

“Did you know about the trapdoor in the living room?”

“No.”

“So, you crept back into the old woman’s house,” Clement said. “You said in your report that you found the old woman’s cat dead under the bed. Did you knock before you entered the old woman’s bedroom? Did you call out?”

“I don’t much like this,” Ogden said.

“Neither do we, Deputy Walker.” Clement leaned back in his chair. “One of our agents is dead.”

“Did you ever meet or see Terry Knoll before his death?” Howell asked.

“No.”

“Never even glimpsed him from a distance?” Clement asked.

“This is crazy.” Then, in as calm a voice as he could muster, he said, “Why don’t you two just get the hell out of here.”

The agents stood up. “Perhaps we can talk again later,” Clement said.

Ogden watched the door close and exhaled. He thought he might faint.

At the station, Ogden paced in Bucky Paz’s office. “So, what are you telling me, Bucky? That the FB-fucking-I is out to get me for the murder of one of their agents?”

“Don’t run to the outhouse before the hole is dug.”

“What?”

“Just a saying I heard,” Bucky said. “Like it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just relax.”

“You didn’t hear how they sounded. Asking me if I always sneak into people’s houses when they sound scared and strange.” Ogden fell into the chair in front of the desk. “Leave it to the FBI, though. They lose a man investigating the fucking KKK and they hunt down the only black man in a five-hundred-mile radius. And where is that photograph?”

“We’re looking for it.”

“Jesus.”

“Go home. Go fishing.”

Felton leaned into the office. “Ogden, your lady friend is on the phone.”

Paz pointed to the phone on his desk and stepped away to talk to Felton.

Ogden picked up the phone. It was Jenny Bickers.

“That man called me about the land again.”

“You should tell him it will be awhile before you can sell it.”

“He just sounds so pushy.”

“Did you ask him how he knows about the land?”

“No.”

“What’s your address?” Ogden asked. Ogden wrote it down. “I want you to stay there.” He hung up and looked at Paz. “Do me a favor. Call the police in Tempe and see if there’s anything to know about a Lester G. Robbins.”

“Okay. You’ll be back tonight?” Paz asked.

“Don’t know.”

Ogden made the two-hour drive to Santa Fe and was parked in front of Jenny Bickers’s apartment complex at five. He found her door and knocked. Jenny was towel-drying her hair when she opened the door. She wore a thick white robe.

“Come on in,” she said.

Ogden didn’t look directly at her. “Jenny.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.” She walked away down the hall. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“No traffic.”

“There’s some coffee on the counter and soda in the fridge. Make yourself at home.”

Ogden sat on the sofa and leafed through a Newsweek.

Jenny came out dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. She walked into the kitchen and poured herself some coffee. “You’re sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m sure,” Ogden said. “The guy who called about the land, did he leave a number or a way to reach him?”

“Yes.” She grabbed her purse from the counter and went through it. “Here it is.”

“Did he say how he knew about the land? How he knew your mother? How he got your number?”

“That would be no, no, and no. What’s wrong?” She handed the paper with the number to Ogden.

“Dial it,” Ogden said.

Jenny did, then hung up. “Have to dial one first.” She dialed again. “Best Bet Autos,” she said to Ogden.

“Address?” he asked.

“El Cerrito and Norte.”

“That’s Albuquerque,” he said. “Ask them what time they close,” Ogden said. He stepped closer to her.

She hung up. “Nine.”

“I’m going to drive down there.”

“Ogden?”

Ogden looked at her. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but I have to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“A man from the FBI was here.”

Ogden said nothing.

“He asked me questions about my mother and he asked me about you.” She sat on the sofa with her coffee.

“What did he ask about your mother?”

“The same things you did.”

“And what did he ask about me?”

“He asked if I knew you before this, if I’d ever seen you before my mother’s death. He asked if you asked me anything strange.”

“Did he tell why he was asking those questions?”

Jenny shook her head. “No.”

“What was the agent’s name?” Ogden asked.

“He left his card.” Jenny pointed to it on the tray with pencils and hair clips on the coffee table.

“Howell,” Ogden said. “Quiet guy?”

“Not really. What’s going on, Ogden? Are you in trouble?”

He shrugged.

Ogden left her apartment, understanding finally that he really had to be an investigator now. Maybe his ass was on the line, maybe not, but he at least wanted some answers, one answer.

Ogden was not so lucky with the traffic on the way down to Albuquerque. At least the place was on the north side of town. He parked on the busy street and walked onto the car lot. He walked past a Volkswagen 411 and a blue Camaro with wide ties. A man walked out of the modular office.

“Looking for a new set of wheels?”

Ogden nodded.

“My name is Ernie Kettle.” He shook Ogden’s hand. “What’s your name?”

“My business,” Ogden said.

Kettle stiffened.

“How much is the VW?”

“Only $2999.”

Ogden laughed.

“It’s a classic.”

“Is Brockway around?” Ogden asked.

“Who?”

“Joel Brockway. He told me if I was down this way, he’d cut me a deal.” Ogden glanced at the office, didn’t see anyone.

“No one named Brockway here.”

“No?”

Kettle shook his head. “Two grand for the VW?”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Kettle walked back toward the office and entered. He watched Ogden through the blinds. Ogden walked back to his truck and fell in behind the wheel.

Ogden stopped at a diner on his way north. He found the phone book at a pay phone. He didn’t find a listing for Joel Brockway or Joe Brockway or J. Brockway. He called Jenny Bickers.

“What did you find out?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Ogden leaned his head against the wall. “Listen, Jenny, do you have a friend you can stay with tonight?”

“What’s going on?”

“Probably nothing. I’ve got a bad feeling, that’s all. Can you stay with a friend?”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

“But why?”

“It’s probably nothing, but do it.” Ogden hung up. He was scared and he didn’t know why and that made him more scared.

It was three in the morning when Ogden got back to his trailer. He showered, had tea, worried for a while, and then drove to work.

“Bucky’s already here,” Felton said.

Ogden walked into Paz’s office.

“So?”

“Nothing. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Wouldn’t know it if it bit me.”

“I called Tempe like you asked, but I haven’t heard back. I really don’t think the FBI will give us anything.”

“Maybe I should go look for him,” Ogden said.

“I think you’re probably wasting your time, but I won’t tell you not to go.”

“Thanks, Bucky.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the FBI.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“They have no evidence. No motive.”

“They have opportunity, Bucky. That’s enough for me.”

Ogden was sick of driving, but he didn’t have the spare cash for a plane ticket. There was a knock while he packed. It was Clement and Howell.

“Going someplace?” Clement asked.

“Trip.”

“Where to?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Don’t be cute,” Howell said.

Ogden smiled at him. “Arrest me.”

The agents said nothing.

“Okay, you can leave now.”

Howell looked down at Ogden’s tying table. “I always wanted to try this.” He picked up a duck feather and let it drop.

“Probably too boring for you,” Ogden said.

“I like boring,” Howell said. “Fishing help you relax?”

“Listen, you two girls are more than welcome to stick around if you like. Get comfy.” Ogden picked up his bag. “Like I said, I never lock my door.”

“You didn’t tell us where you’re headed,” Clement said.

“You’re right.”

“We could follow you,” Clement said.

“You could try.” Ogden walked away to his truck. He heard his door slam behind him. “Come on, follow me.” He fell in behind the wheel and gave the men a final look, started his engine, and kicked up gravel as he left.