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?”