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 WITHOUT FACILITIES 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.