Tough Love (12 page)

“"We have to let them on,”" Miller declared in a loud voice, folding up the warrant and stuffing it in his front jeans pocket, eyeing Ham as if he expected him to grab it or go for a weapon.

“"We’'ll walk,”" Grace said, checking with Ham, who nodded. “"Rhetta, you get in Butch’'s truck with the guys and drive slow. Ham and I can always hitch a ride in the bed if we get tired.”"

“"What if we don’'t find their truck?”" Rhetta murmured.

“"Then we’'ll have had a nice, long, leisurely canvass over their entire property,”" Grace replied, savoring the thought. “"It’'s a win–-win.”"

“"I’'ll walk across with you, then I’'ll get in with Butch,”" Rhetta said, moving closer.

Grace squinted at her. “"You okay?”"

“"Just a feeling,”" Rhetta replied. But she wasn’'t looking at Grace head-on. Holy shit, had someone told Rhetta there were tough times ahead?

Grace nodded at Tommy Miller. “"Open sesame,”" she tossed off. Miller scowled at her, but she was way past his bad temper. He couldn’'t do a thing to her and he knew it.

“"Spread the word that we got visitors,”" he said to Hunter. “"And tell the tits they are not to talk to anybody until they clear it with one of us.”"

“"The tits, nice,”" Grace said under her breath to Rhetta. “"They’'re running their organization like an outlaw motorcycle club.”"

“"Good to know,”" Ham cut in, with a faint smile. “"Maybe you and Rhetta can shake ’'em up.”"

“"If it shakes some information loose, all for it. Otherwise I don’'t see any point in bothering.”" Grace popped a stick of gum in her mouth and offered one to Rhetta. Rhetta shook her head.

The gate squealed open and Grace stepped onto the promised land. Miller and his buddies grouped around her and Ham, and Miller looked her and Rhetta up and down like pieces of meat, smirking.

Smirk away, asshole. I’'ll be smirking when I watch that needle go in.

There were elm trees—--elms, like her dream—--all over the place, and bushes and undergrowth. The road into the compound wasn’'t all that well maintained, maybe to keep undesirables out. It curved to the right, and Grace saw a jumbo-sized American flag drooping from a tall white flagpole. There was a wooden sign next to it that read SONS OF OKLAHOMA PRIVATE PROPERTY STAY OFF WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO SHOOT TRESPASSERS.

“"You don’'t want to be trying to sell Avon to these people,”" Rhetta drawled under her breath.

“"Or handing out pamphlets and asking them if they’'ve accepted Jesus as their personal savior,”" Grace replied.

Behind the flag was a wooden guard shack with another gate. A bald man came out of it, dressed not in a white T-shirt and jeans, but in cammies. And he was holding a rifle.

“"Time to put that away, sir,”" Grace called.

“"Stow it, White,”" Miller grunted. “"And let them through.”"

“"That’'s fitting, don’'t you think, a white supremacist named White?”" Grace asked Miller. “"Ku Klux Klan had a leader named Don Black. That’'s just plain ironic.”"

Miller stared at her as if she were speaking in a strange tongue. The men surrounding her and Ham remained silent, the leather of their gun belts making creaking noises that weren’'t unpleasant. Grace could hear Butch’'s truck rolling slowly behind them. If someone came upon the scene, they might think they were conducting some strange cowboy funeral.

White lifted the gate and the law sallied on through. They rounded a copse of elms, and Grace saw buildings. And trailers, abutting a chain-link fence—--the perimeter of the compound. A cat was climbing straight up, its quarry a bird that was perching on a newel post.

About seven women, tanned and heavily made up, had gathered on a slanted wooden porch attached to the ends of a couple of parallel-parked trailers. They were dressed in that biker slut look some men found so attractive—--cutoffs, halter tops, too much cheap jewelry. Four of the ladies had really shitty bleach jobs. All that peroxide had to hurt after a while.

Just like the fists of their ever-loving menfolk. There was one who stood a little apart, without makeup, with soft brown hair falling to her shoulders. She looked …... sweet. And underage. She was wearing a tank top and jeans slung low over narrow hips …... and a beauty of a shiner.

Beatup Girl lowered her eyes when she met Grace’'s gaze. Then she hefted a bottle of rubbing alcohol and tipped it upside down, soaking a wad of paper towels and pressing them against a fresh tattoo on her upper arm. It read HUNTER, and it looked infected.

“"Look at them,”" Rhetta said quietly. “"Look at that girl with the bad tattoo. How old do you figure, sixteen?”"

“"Hunter’'s tits? Scary-cool,”" Grace said. “"You should bring Mae out here.”"

Rhetta grunted.

The girl with the tattoo raised her gaze again. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, like maybe Get me the hell out of here, and there was something in her look, on her face, that alerted Grace to the possibility that she might be someone they should get to know. Tit-to-tit.

“"Rhetta,”" Grace said, without moving her head, “"I have to look around with Ham, but maybe you could try to get close to that girl, see if she’'ll open up. She’'s staring at us like she wants something. Like political asylum. Like she’'d swap information for a permanent change of scenery.”"

Rhetta nodded. “"I’'ll see what I can do.”"

“"Maybe once you get in the truck, Butch can drive real slow. She might figure out a way to meet up with you.”" On the other hand, Beatup might be too afraid of the consequences. A black eye was one thing. Missing teeth or broken bones were another.

“"Maybe I should take my own car. There’'ll be more of us to keep track of,”" Rhetta suggested. “"For their enforcers, I mean.”"

“"More targets, too,”" Grace countered, not loving the idea of her friend putting herself more directly in harm’'s way. “"I’'d say better to stick with Butch and Bobby.”"

“"Okay.”"

Sounding relieved, Rhetta moved off. Butch stopped and Bobby climbed down, opening the passenger door of the cab for Rhetta. With Bobby’'s heavy mustache and ponytail of raven-black hair, his Hispanic–-Native American roots were evident. His appearance elicited a ripple of reaction from their escort service.

“"I think they’'re more upset about letting Bobby on than us tits,”" Grace said to Ham, observing Tommy Miller’'s intense sneer in Bobby’'s direction as the detective got back in Butch’'s truck and shut the door. Behind the wheel, Butch made a point of talking on his cell phone, reminding the Sons of Oklahoma SOBs that a vest network of cops and other denizens of the Justice Department knew they were out here. If anyone wound up shot, there’'d be more than blurry security footage to back up the case.

The case. The blessed case. The three cases. If you had anything to do with Malcolm, or any of them, I want you dead, Grace thought as she kept pace with Tommy Miller.

They had aerial pictures of the compound; there were ten houses on the property, which was a total of fifty acres, most of that undeveloped land. They had a website for donations, but so far no law enforcement agency had been cleared to investigate their funding. The vehicles were usually parked around a barn within easy walking distance of the guard gate. Tommy Miller’'s house was the farthest away, about a mile from the main gate. If they didn’'t find the vehicle at the barn, Ham and Grace would climb into Butch’'s truck.

“"Tommy?”" one of the men said. He was holding out a cell phone. Miller grunted and moved away from Grace and Ham, leaving them a little bubble of privacy.

“"If we see the panel truck, we can’'t do shit,”" Grace reminded Ham. “"It’'s not on the warrant.”"

“"I know.”" He nudged her. “"Check it out.”"

On a hilltop, a big red barn stood like a poster for good farm living. Above it, a Confederate-style flag-red with diagonal blue bars containing single rows of stars—--was stretched between two poles that looked to Grace like lightning rods. In the center of the flag, surrounded by a ring of red and orange flames, a clenched white fist held an eagle feather. Bent around the top were the words 110% AMERICAN 110% WHITE 110% FREE. Beneath it, SONS OF OKLAHOMA.

“"That totals three hundred thirty percent crap,”" Grace said.

“"Well, they are free,”" Ham reminded her.

“"For now.”" A dry twig cracked under her boot, snapping like a rifle shot. “"How much you want to bet we’'re in some asshole’'s scope sight, and he’'s following every move we make?”"

“"Not taking that bet.”" Ham smiled as he scanned the area. “"But I’'m going to collect for the warrant.”"

She grinned, studying each plank of the barn, the bushes, the ground, the sky. And the six vehicles that came into view as they hiked up the rise. Blue truck, black car, black, black, gray truck. And one white truck. The same logo was painted on the side as in the minimart tape. She pulled out the phone and called Rhetta.

“"May have something for you,”" she said. “"At the barn.”"

“"I’'ll tell Butch,”" Rhetta replied.

Hunter Johnson moved in, taking Miller’'s place as Grace and Ham’'s guard. Grace got a weird vibe off him again but she kept her face neutral as she headed for the white truck. Johnson kept up. She thought about the girl with the hinky tattoo and wondered how she’'d gotten mixed up with these guys.

Then her heart sank. “"Ham, this is a Chevy Silverado 1500,”" she said under her breath. The truck on the tape was a 2500, nearly ten feet longer.

Ham pursed his lips. “"Game’'s not over yet.”"

“"Hey, we’'re looking for a 2500,”" Grace told Johnson. He chuckled breathily, like he was laughing, and shook his head.

“"Don’'t think we have one of those,”" he replied.

“"We’'ve got it on tape,”" Grace said. “"With your logo on the side.”"

“"Not ours,”" he insisted. “"It could be …...”" He blinked and trailed off, as if he had stopped himself from saying something incriminating.

“"Could be what? Someone impersonating you? They painted up their truck so they could go on a rampage and blame you?”" She walked up to him. He was wearing Beckham and he smelled great. She was taken aback.

“"Or maybe they put on a magnetic sign, you know, like small businesses use? Real estate, things like that?”" She waited, crossing her fingers that he would take the bait. His cheeks went a little pink, but maybe he was simply displaying one of the telltale signs of lying because he was pissed off. Body language was a lot more complicated than most people realized. That was because the truth could be a relative thing. A person could both believe he was being honest and fear that he was lying. Plus there were all kinds of lies: bald-faced lies, half lies, white lies, kind lies. And bullshit.

“"We don’'t sell real estate,”" he said.

“"No, you just kill black kids,”" she bit off.

This time, no pink rose to his cheeks. So, there was the truth. Or it could also simply mean that he was tired of dealing with her. You could pass a lie detector test by detaching. She’'d seen it done. Basically, if you didn’'t give a shit if anyone believed you, you were home free.

She shielded her eyes as the sound of an engine caught her attention. It was Butch’'s truck, kicking up dust as it headed her way. She was about to call Rhetta back and tell her to hold her horses when she caught Johnson staring at the back section of the barn. There was something there that interested him.

Let it be a 2500, Grace thought.

Ham had noticed, too. The partners ambled on, nothing passing between them except one blink. Grace’'s heart quickened; she was a bloodhound with a scent. Johnson walked a little faster.

Butch’'s Ford pulled abreast of them and Butch himself leaned out the window. He didn’'t say anything. Neither did Grace. Then her cell phone went off. She checked the faceplate. It was Rhetta.

“"Do you want me to get out of the truck?”"

Rather than verbally reply, Grace texted NOT YET.

Rhetta hung up. Everyone kept walking toward the barn. Grace turned to Johnson and said, “"We hear you’'re going to start cleaning up the city.”"

He raised a brow. “"Where’'d you hear that?”"

“"Who made the announcement, you or Tommy?”" Grace asked in a low voice, glancing around. Fearless Leader was still offstage, talking on his cell phone. “"Because from where I stand, looks like you want to be the boss. He’'s in your way.”"

He scratched his chin. And—--bingo—--his cheeks went pink. “"I don’'t know what gave you that idea, Detective. But then, you have some pretty crazy ideas. About us. And what we stand for.”"

“"White power,”" Ham said.

“"See, that’'s exactly what I’'m talking about.”" Johnson pulled a long face, aggrieved. “"How come when they talk about black power or Hispanic power or, I don’'t know, gay power, that’'s okay, that’'s good? But if we want to celebrate our heritage, we should be locked up?”"

“"I’'m sure you’'ve debated this a million times,”" Grace said. “"C’'mon, it’'s hot and I’'ve got to take a piss. Can you just show us the goddamn 2500? Maybe in return we can help you out with your organizational situation.”"

Johnson blinked, hunched his shoulders, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Grace tried to read him, see if he thought she was being serious. Since he believed that cops were corrupt pieces of shit he probably believed her.

And …... it was a thought. If she could make him feel undervalued and exploited, and offer the hope of a better situation such as in becoming leader of the Sons, maybe she could flip him. That was how cops transformed criminals into CIs—--with a little pixie dust and a lot of sleight of hand—--playing to their egos, making them feel important. A gang beat you down and scared you into submission. Everything hinged on carrying out orders—--on obedience. But CIs went against the code of their group—--and they did it to either escape punishment, avoid suspicion, or feel special.

We could do some damage, Grace thought, warming to her subject. Pit him and Tommy Miller together. Get them to have a civil war. That’'d keep ’'em busy …... maybe make them show their hands.

As they reached the barn, Grace smelled cow manure, and hoped it didn’'t mean her musings were bullshit. Did the Sons actually own livestock? The lowing of a bovine answered her question, and she and Ham traded glances. White supremacists and survivalists. Could be a bad combination, if they thought they were going to stir up so much trouble that they were going to have to slaughter their own food.