Assumption (9 page)

“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.

Ogden followed Interstate 25 to 40 to 17 and ended up in Tempe, he believed, without an FBI escort. The drive took him about ten hours. He took a nap along the way, at a rest area W
ITHOUT
F
ACILITIES
as the sign said. He took a room in a cheap motel outside town with the thought of getting some rest. In the telephone directory he found two columns of
Robbins,
see also Robins,
but no
Lester G.,
no
Lester,
no
L.G.
The one
L.
belonged to Linda Robbins and she liked the sound of Ogden’s voice, wanted to talk a little more.

The next morning Ogden drove to the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office and introduced himself, showed his badge to the grumpy officer at the desk, who was duly unimpressed. He told the man he was looking for someone and needed to see the phone company cross-­directory. The desk officer gave Ogden the book, dropped it on the table, and went about his business. Ogden looked up the number he’d found in Emma Bickers’s things. He jotted down an address.

Ogden thanked the man.

“What was your name again?” the desk officer said, pulling a pad in front of him.

“Ogden Walker. I’m a deputy of the Plata County Sheriff’s Department.”

The man at the desk gave him another look.

Ogden showed him the address. “How do I get there?”

“German Town,” the officer said. “I don’t think you want to go there.”

“Oh, but I do,” Ogden said.

The man shook his head. “No, you don’t.” He scratched his head and looked at Ogden. “I’ll draw you a map, but remember I told you.”

Ogden nodded. “Do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Will you run a name and tell me if there are any outstanding warrants?”

“What’s the name?”

“Lester G. Robbins. Lester Robbins.”

He typed the name into the computer and waited. “Nothing.”

“Can you run it through DMV and give me the address.”

“You’re a pushy little son of a bitch.” The desk officer groaned and did it. “Nothing.”

Ogden thanked him.

“What you want this guy for?”

“He’s the relative of a murdered old lady.”

“You should be careful over in that part of town. It’s kind of rough. Especially for someone like you. Being from out of town and,” he paused, “black like that.”

“Got you.”

Ogden found the address in a section of town that his mother would have called
seedy.
The city seemed to stop and start again with shotgun shacks and shotgun racks and, he assumed, shotguns. There were abandoned refrigerators at the side of houses, cars on blocks, and a sight that Ogden thought he might never shake, a three- or four-year-­old boy alone in a front yard bouncing on a trampoline. The boy stared at him as he drove by. A woman in another yard gave him a hard look as he turned a corner. Confederate flags were on the back windows and bumpers of pickups. Ogden stopped in front of the house and got out of his truck. His nerves were charged. He was both happy and dismayed that he was not wearing his sidearm. He knocked.

A short, round man opened the door. He wore a flannel shirt with breast pockets ripped off, jeans. He looked Ogden up and down.

“Mr. Robbins?” Ogden said.

“No.”

“Do you know Lester Robbins?”

“I ain’t never heard of him.” The man tried to push the door shut, but Ogden stopped it with his hand. The fat man smiled. It was a scary smile. “What?”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Who the fuck wants to know? You a cop?”

Ogden stared at the man’s milky eyes. “No, I’m from a bank in New Mexico. I have some business with Mr. Robbins.”

“You don’t look like you’re from no bank.”

Ogden nodded. This was true. “I can’t help that.” He glanced up and down the street. A few people had stepped out of their squat houses and were looking his way. “He’s got some money coming to him.”

“Good for him,” the fat man said.

“Okay, thanks for your time,” Ogden said.

“How much money?”

Ogden smiled at the man. “You have a good day.”

Ogden found his way out of German Town as quickly as he could without attracting even more attention.

He found a diner and sat with a cup of coffee and a doughnut, felt like a cliché. Perhaps old Lester’s phone number had been put back into the system. He would go to the library and look through old telephone directories. He would find Lester G. Robbins and the man would shoot Ogden in the chest. Mystery solved.

Ogden found the books. He started ten years back and worked forward. Six years earlier there was a listing for a Lester G. Robbins. Same phone number. He jotted down the address.

It was about noon. The sun was high, almost hot. Ogden rolled up his sleeves. The neighborhood was a far cry from the squalor of German Town. It had a kind of eerie, suburban safeness. He sat in his truck for a couple of minutes, watched the house. He wanted to have his routine down a little better than last time. He walked to the door.

A woman answered. “Yes?”

“Excuse me, ma’am, I’m trying to locate a Lester G. Robbins.”