Land of Entrapment (14 page)

World Church of the Creator.”

“When did he come here?”

“That I don’t know. At least two years ago, which is when he started showing up on our watch lists.”

“So is he still doing Creator crap?”

“No, he started a chapter of Hammerskins but it’s not very well-organized. Not like in other states.”

“Does he have a criminal record?”

“Probably.” Judy took a sip of her coffee. “We just try to track them locally and maybe find out where they came from if they’re not from here. We don’t have the resources to get more extensive than that.”

I nodded and reached for my coffee. I’d have Chris check him out, now that I had a name for him.

“Any other kind of group?”

“Not that I know of, but the tattoos on this young man look neo-Nazi. Nothing about the Hammerskins, though.”

“Do you recognize him?”

Judy was looking at the photos of Cody. “He does look familiar. Maybe because he hangs out with Whistler. What’s his name?”

“Cody Sorrell.”

Judy shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. But that doesn’t mean anything. He might use a different name for different things that he does.”

“Have you heard anything about any local groups preparing for the end?”

“Aren’t they all?” She laughed, though not necessarily because it was funny.

“True.” I smiled wryly. “Anything along the lines of what The Order did?”

She thought about it. “Hold on. Whistler’s Skins were having some kind of meetings last year. We found a couple of flyers of theirs and they did mention buying some land in the East Mountains to get ready for ‘the big one.’ ” She took another bite of her bagel.

“The big one? You think it’s the usual apocalypse crap or is this Whistler a little more action-oriented?”

Judy regarded me over the lip of her cup. “I honestly don’t know. But he is a charismatic leader-type and I can see people following him no matter what kind of schemes he puts together.”

“Charismatic like Bob Mathews was with The Order?”

Judy paused, thinking. “He does have that way about him. He’s very soft-spoken and because he’s older, younger guys seem to really gravitate toward him as an older-brother type. And, like Mathews, Whistler leads by example. He’s one of those who will start digging the ditch, showing that he’s one of the guys.”

“Then he’ll Tom Sawyer you into painting the fence.”

She laughed. “Exactly.”

“So have you heard of any new groups that might have moved into the area?”

“Since last year, there have been three neo-Nazi groups. One is an offshoot of Butler’s Aryan Nations.

They had maybe ten members and haven’t had a meeting since December last year. The other is home-grown. They call themselves the Aryan Desert Rats.

I’d never heard of them and they don’t seem to be affiliated with any parent organization. This one I’m uneasy about. We can’t figure out how many members there are but they have meetings at least once a month, according to APD. From their reports, there are at least twenty members at any one meeting.”

“Is Whistler part of that group?” Desert Rats, huh?

“I don’t know. You might check with APD.”

I flipped through the pictures and found the one of Cody that showed the tattoo I didn’t recognize on his bicep, showed the picture to Judy. “Is this their logo?”

“Yep.”

“What about the third group?”

“It seems to be an offshoot of Hale’s group.

There’s Creator literature associated with that one and they haven’t had a meeting since March of this year. Last we heard, they were calling themselves Blood of the Creator.”

“How special.” I slipped the print-outs back into the manila folder. “What else can you tell me about the Desert Rats?”

She sat back. “We started finding flyers about a year ago. What’s interesting is that they don’t specifically say who they are, though they’ll use the logo. They refer to cornered rats and fighting to the death quite a bit. They talk about that standard Aryan pride stuff and taking a stand for the white race. You know, the usual.”

“So how do you know they call themselves the Desert Rats?”

“APD raided one of their meetings. One of the members had a parole violation and APD got a tip and did a bust. The officers heard them say that the meeting of the Aryan Desert Rats was about to come to order. Now it’s official, as everybody there was fingerprinted and checked.”

I thought for a bit. Cody was part of this group. It had neo-Nazi overtones, seemed fairly well-organized, and might be planning to buy some land.

If Roy Whistler was hanging around Megan’s place, chances were he and Cody ran in the same groups, which meant that Whistler might be part of the Rats as well. He might be on file at APD and I might be able to find some pictures of his tattoos. If I found Whistler, maybe I’d find Cody. And if I found him, Megan might not be far. “Any idea when their next meeting is?” I glanced over at Judy.

“No. They move times and locations quite a bit.

And dates. It was luck that APD tracked them in February. We’re hoping to get a handle on their patterns.”

“How do you know they’re still active?”

“Internet activity. Chat rooms. We’ve got a couple of interns who have infiltrated. But they use a code of some kind to schedule meetings and we can’t figure out what it is, yet. Our interns claim they’re in Texas, so nobody wonders why they’re not coming to the meetings.”

“Do the Rats have their own Web site?”

“No. But they frequent a local link through a Klan chapter based in Missouri.”

Which made it hard to track individual users. I thought back to Megan’s bookmarks. I’d have to check and see if any of them were that Klan chapter.

Judy checked her watch. “Sweetie, I have to go.

Call me if you need anything else. And if you find anything out...”

“Definitely. I’ll update you.” I stood and hugged her.“It’s good to see you, Kase. Next time get me caught up on your personal life.”

“Please.” I laughed. “What personal life?”

She smiled and waved as she left. Almost eleven-thirty. I’d swing by Cody’s aunt’s house.

I CRUISED SOUTH on Juan Tabo, a main boulevard that paralleled the base of the Sandias in the Far Northeast Heights. I turned right on Claremont and left on Tippet and slowed down, watching the addresses on the houses until I found 11593. It looked like it had never seen better days, not even when it was built sometime in the 1970s, by the looks of it. What little grass made up the front lawn was yellowed and probably gasping for help. A battered lawn chair stood on the covered front stoop, strips of plastic hanging off the frame, and a raggedy Chinese elm tree stood near the street, looking as forlorn as the chair. One of the front windows had a crack in it and dingy, once-white drapes hid the inside from the outside. I caught a glimpse of a chain link fence in the back, surrounding a yard that looked like it hadn’t been visited in months. A few weeds that stood about three feet tall lined the gate that led into the back.

I shut my car door and locked it. Half the houses on this stretch of Tippet looked like Aunt Terry’s. The other half seemed well-kept. I noticed a beat-up blue Ford Taurus in the driveway. Would Terry be home? I stepped onto the porch and pressed the doorbell. I heard it echo inside, setting off a chorus of small-dog yaps. Somebody yelled at the dogs to shut up but it didn’t do much good. I heard motion within, along with what sounded like dog claws on the door.

Lovely. The door opened a crack. “Yeah?”

Stale cigarette smoke wafted to my nostrils. Could this be any more stereotypical?

“Hi, I’m lookin’ for Cody. He around?” I affected a thick Texas drawl, the kind my cousin Luke had.

She opened the door a little more. “Who the hell are you?” She wore a tattered robe and dirty slippers.

She looked to be about forty-five, but maybe a life hard-lived had wrung extra years from her. She glared at me with watery red-rimmed eyes. A beat-up New York Yankees baseball cap clutched her head.

Nice. “I’m Sandy, from Dallas. My cousin went to high school with Cody and I met him a few years back. We kep’ in touch and he told me to stop by if’n I was ever around.” I tried a smile. “So here I am.”

“He ain’t here.”

I tried to look downcast. “Will he be back later? I really would like to see him. My brother and him got along real good and Jimmy’s gonna go huntin’ up here and he’d like to see Cody.”

“Huntin’?”

“Yeah. Didn’t Cody talk about Jimmy? He an’

Cody went huntin’ up in Colorado a coupla times.

Didn’t get nothin’ but had a good time.”

She opened the door a little wider. “What’d you say your name was?” Three pairs of buggy chihuahua eyes stared at me from just above her ankles.

“Sandy. You must be his Aunt Terry.”

She held a cigarette in her right hand. She took a drag, blew it out. I fought an urge to cough. “Cody done skipped out on me two months ago. Little shit never paid no damn rent, never paid no damn bills. I told his sorry ass to get a job, but he wanted to go play fuckin’ war games with his damn friends.”

“War games?” I tried to look confused.

She made a disgusted noise. “Loser skinheads. Sit around and do nothin’ but talk big and watch TV.

And drink alla my goddamn beer.” She took another drag, then looked thoughtful. “I’ll give him that,” she said grudgingly. “Cody never touched the stuff. But he didn’t do nothin’ ’round here. Hooked up with some pretty little thing and didn’t come home most of the time.”

“I didn’t know he had a girlfriend. Jimmy didn’t say nothin’ about that.”

“Oh, she’s a looker. And sweet. What she sees in him I’ll never know. Lazy sumbitch.” She sucked on her cigarette again and the smoke oozed out around her words. “I ain’t seen him. You might check over at that Roy’s house. Roy what’s-his-name. Whistle or something faggy like that.”

“Roy Whistler?”

“Yeah, that’s it. He’s over on San Pedro and Coal.

Those shithole apartments. ’Cause he’s a loser like the rest. Me, I own my home.” She dared me to challenge her.“Well, I sure am sorry I bothered you. I was hopin’ to get his number so’s Jimmy could call him.”

“Hell, I can give you that. Hold on.”

I waited as she moved away from the door, leaving it mostly shut. One of the dogs shoved its nose into the gap and sniffed noisily. A couple of minutes later she returned. “Here. He figgered hisself some big man, got hisself some fancy cards.” She opened the screen door just a bit and slid the card to me. I took it.

“Thank you, ma’am. Do you want me to tell him anythin’ if I can get a hold of him? Maybe tell him he shouldn’t be disrespectin’ his aunt?” Validation always built rapport.

She studied me for a moment before replying.

“Yeah. You tell that sorry-ass sumbitch he owes me money and he’d better not come showin’ up lookin’

for a handout without it. And my advice to you, Sarah—” I didn’t bother to correct her—“you steer clear of Cody. He ain’t right. Bad temper on that boy.”

And with that she closed the door and locked it.

I returned to my car and looked at what she had given me. A standard-sized business card. On the front Cody had listed his name, phone number, and e-mail address, which I already had. The back was blank. I turned the card over and read his name again.

Underneath his name was the title Lieutenant-at-Arms. His rank in the Rats, however they figured it.

Or he might just be blowing his own horn.

I pulled away from the curb and headed back to Megan’s. As I drove, Melissa called.

“Hey,” she said. “Allison e-mailed me back. She gave me her number and told me to call her tonight at eight when she’s off work. Can you be around when I do that? I think you should talk to her.”

Melissa was right. I probably should. “Sure. Why don’t you come by around seven-thirty?”

“I can’t. I have a meeting until six-thirty and then I have to get home to meet a handyman. Can you meet me at my place? I told Allison to call me there.”

A cold chill wrapped around my guts. “I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

“She’s out of town until tomorrow.” Melissa’s tone was as cold as my innards.

“Uh,” I scrambled for a save. “Sure. Where’s the house?”

She told me the address and the main streets. She was in a ritzy part of Albuquerque, where the old money lived. North on Rio Grande Boulevard about ten miles outside of town. An area where horse ranches and low-slung adobe hacienda-style homes recalled a Spanish past.

“Thanks. Come by around seven. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“Okay. Bye.”

She hung up and I groaned. “Fuck.” What now? It was probably best not to go by San Pedro and Coal looking for Roy, since I didn’t know who he might have hanging out at his place and if he was the guy who tried to break in the other night, he might recognize my car. Besides, meeting Aunt Terry had left a bad feeling in my stomach. I opted instead to go back to Megan’s and write down my findings, get something to eat, and maybe look through more of her files, which would help me not think about tonight as well. I turned left onto Comanche, which would take me west, away from the Heights, and the bad vibes at Aunt Terry’s.

Chapter Nine

“HEY—ANYBODY HOME?”

I emerged from the kitchen, wiping my hands on a towel. “Hi, Sage. C’mon in. Door’s open.”

She tried, using her elbow to knock the handle on the security door. Too late I realized she had a beer bottle in each hand. I rushed to open the door. “Geez, sorry. I didn’t realize you came bearing gifts.”

She laughed and held up two bottles of Fat Tire.

“It’s five o’ clock somewhere,” she said, quirking an eyebrow. I glanced at the clock on the wall above the kitchen doorway. Three-thirty. I took one of the bottles.

“True enough. Thanks. Have a seat.”

She flopped onto the couch. It must’ve been a ritual with Megan when Sage visited. That was nice, I thought, that Sage had cultivated a friendship with Megan. I tried not to let my gaze hang on her more than what might be considered normal, but I knew I was going to fail a few times. Today Sage wore baggy grey shorts, a white tee, and her sport sandals. She was even more attractive in the daylight. Damn.