Ogden nodded. “That’s pretty quick. Who is it?”
“His name is Brockway. He called me and said he’d be back in touch.”
“That’s fast,” Ogden repeated. He shook his head. “No will, a murder. The sale won’t happen quickly, I can tell you that. Probate and all that stuff.”
“Really?”
“We can go over to the county clerk’s office and look up the parcel, get an idea what it’s worth anyway.”
“You’d help me with that?” Jenny asked.
“I’ll help.”
“Try the melon balls,” Ogden’s mother said.
The land registry was in the new courthouse, a large fake adobe affair. It was set right next to a fake adobe McDonald’s. Ogden looked at the young faces in the waiting area, couples holding hands, waiting for marriage licenses. Down a wide corridor, then a narrow one, and they were in the registry office.
“Hello, Deputy.” The short woman behind the counter said. “What can I do you for?”
“I need to know where a piece of land is,” Ogden said.
“It’s out there somewhere,” the woman said, nodding toward the window.
“I need to be more precise,” Ogden said and smiled. “I’ve got the description right here.” He read it off the deed.
“May I?” The clerk asked to see the paper. She then walked away to a stack of flat drawers with plat maps. She pulled open a low drawer and fingered through the huge squares of paper. She pulled one free and brought it back, laid it on the counter. “You’re right here.” She put her finger on the spot.
Ogden looked. “Is that Route 3?”
“Yes. And that’s Arroyo Hondo, if that helps.”
“You’re sure this is land?”
The woman gave him a look.
“Sorry,” Ogden said. He looked at Jenny.
“What is it?” Jenny asked.
“Nothing,” he said. To the clerk, “Thank you, ma’am.”
Ogden drove Jenny back to her car at his mother’s house. “We’ll take a ride next week if you want to come up and you can see your property.”
“Okay,” she said. “Is everything all right? You hardly said a word all the way back.”
“I’m exhausted, that’s all.”
Ogden left there and drove to Fonda’s Funeral Home. He found Emilio sweeping off the loading dock in back.
“Emilio?”
The man jumped. “Jesus, man, you scared the shit of me.”
“Sorry.”
“Go away.”
“I just want to ask you a couple more questions. Won’t take long. I promise.”
Emilio leaned on the broom. “Go.”
“What was José into?”
“I told you, man, I don’t know nothing.”
“Who took his body?”
Emilio looked away.
“I think, I’m not sure, but I think you told me last time that you scored some drugs at some point. That’s probable cause. I can go search your house right now. Do you think I’ll find anything there?” Ogden stared at the man.
Emilio shifted his weight. “It was his father.”
“What?”
“His father. José’s father came and took the body. I let him in. You gonna arrest me?”
“I don’t know,” Ogden said. “Why’d his father do that?”
“He thought they were going to do an autopsy on José and that family, well, they’re like super religious.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I know I shouldn’t have let him in. You gonna arrest me?”
“Not for that, no.”
“But you’re going to arrest me,” Emilio said.
“I don’t know. Were you two into drugs? Just tell me. Off the record. I’m not going to arrest you. I promise.”
“No drugs. We were getting paid to smash cars.”
“Excuse me?”
“José and me were supposed to hang out up in one of them canyons up there and smash anybody that parked there.”
“Just the two of you?”
“There were some other guys, I guess. We had our own hours, you know. Anyways, we only had to smash four or five. No one ever came up there.”
“Who paid you to do this?”
“I don’t know. José got paid and he paid me. I was helping José.”
“What canyon?”
“I don’t know what it’s called.”
“Niebla?” Ogden asked.
“That sounds right.”
Ogden started to walk away, then stopped. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
~ ~ ~
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.”