“I didn’t know you two were so serious,” I said, ignoring the question.
“Like it’s any of your goddamned business what we are.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“No, but you seem really interested, so let me tell you what you wanna hear,” she said. “He’s great in bed. Unfuckingbelievable, really.”
I shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Jesus Christ,” she said, her hands coiling into fists at her sides. “Are you nine years old? When do you break out the sticks-and-stones line?”
I felt the blood rush to my face, a mixture of anger and embarrassment.
And jealousy.
“I gotta go,” I said, turning to leave.
“No. Wait.”
I turned back around to face her.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she said. “You can’t keep getting angry with me over this.”
I stood there silently.
“I said to call me because I wanted you to,” she said, looking me right in the eye. “I started thinking that maybe I was wrong in bailing out on us last time. But now I’m not so sure. You act one way one minute and another the next. I have no idea what is going on with you and, honestly, it’s getting old.”
She grabbed a file off her desk and walked toward me. She stopped in the doorway, our faces inches apart. “If you want me back in your life, say it out loud.”
I swallowed hard, feeling claustrophobic under her gaze. “I want you back in my life.”
“Then quit acting like such an asshole.”
She turned and walked out of the office and down the hallway, leaving me to figure out how to do that.
Twenty-four
I left before I could embarrass myself any further.
Liz’s words echoed in my head as I walked to the Jeep. For all the yelling and swearing she’d done, she’d left the door open for something between us. Now I just needed to step through that door without getting it slammed in my face.
I called the number Wellton had given me for Professor Famazio and got a voice-mail message that told me he held daily office hours from two to three in the afternoon. That gave me just enough time to stop at Filipi’s on India for a slice of pizza and work my way over to USD.
While San Diego State was large and impersonal, USD was cozy and welcoming. The campus sat atop a bluff looking out over Mission Bay, the Pacific, and Sea World. White stucco Spanish-style buildings dotted the bright green lawns on top of the hill. The center of the Catholic university was the Immaculata, a cavernous church built in the shape of a cross and topped with a pale blue dome. San Diegans referred to the school as Notre Dame West.
The sociology department was located in Founder’s Hall just past the Immaculata and I found Professor Famazio’s office on the second floor at the end of a long hallway.
The door was closed halfway. I knocked lightly and a voice beckoned me in.
The small office looked larger than it actually was because everything in the room was precisely placed. The books on the pine bookshelves were lined up evenly and the papers on the desk were stacked so that not a single corner stood out. A small window on the far wall showcased a portion of the afternoon sunshine and brightened the already light room even more.
Professor Gerald Famazio sat in an oversized leather chair behind the desk. He was somewhere in his early forties, and the closely cropped black hair on his head was flecked with gray. Wire-rimmed glasses magnified small, intense brown eyes that matched the color of his skin. The navy polo shirt on his athletic frame and brown corduroy jacket hanging on the back of his chair were standard issue in academia.
“Can I help you?” he asked, pushing back a little from the desk, his deep voice filling the room.
“I hope so,” I said, handing him my card. “My name’s Noah Braddock. I’m an investigator. Detective John Wellton gave me your name.”
He glanced at the card, then back at me. “You work for the police department?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m private, but Detective Wellton and I are looking at some things that seem to overlap. He said you might be able to help me.”
He eyed me for a moment, not bothering to hide his apprehension. He set my card on his desk, stood, and offered his hand. “Gerald Famazio.” We shook hands and he gestured at a wooden straight-backed chair next to the desk. “Have a seat.”
I slid into the chair.
“John has been generous to me,” he said, lowering himself back into his chair. “Letting me rummage through his files and whatnot, answering numerous questions when I know he had other things to do.” He paused for a moment. “So I’ll repay the favor if I can.”
“I guess I’m mainly looking for a place to start,” I said. “With something called National Nation.”
A tight smile formed on his lips. “Unfortunately, then, I’m your man.”
“That’s what he said.”
“What do you know about the group?”
I explained to him the basics of my involvement with Linc, Peter, Lonnie, and Mo.
He raised an eyebrow when I finished. “That’s surprising.”
“Which part?”
“That they let you live.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Normally, their assaults result in death.”
I thought of Peter Pluto lying in the canyon and how close I had probably been to joining him, but said nothing.
“But maybe you are a novelty for them,” he said. “An opponent who can fight back.”
“Let’s just say I’m on guard.”
“A good thing to be with these guys,” he said. “Because they aren’t rational and they are very persistent.”
“I’m starting to get that impression.”
He adjusted the glasses on his face. “National Nation is an offshoot of Aryan Nation. They have roots here in San Diego. They became organized and active about ten years ago.” Something flashed through his expression and disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “So they are still young in terms of their history. Are you familiar with White Aryan Resistance?”
I nodded. You didn’t grow up in San Diego without having some awareness of the group that had formed in the northern suburb of Fallbrook. A television repairman had started the group in the early eighties and gained some national prominence with his antics. At the time, Fallbrook-a small, rural, almost entirely Caucasian community that wasn’t entirely open to change-had been the perfect place for his base.
But as the demographics of the county changed, Fallbrook went from rural outpost to a suburb with million- dollar properties amid the avocado groves. The town was now doing the best they could to distance itself from the racist label.
“This group you’re talking about split from them,” Famazio said.
“Are they involved in gun trafficking?”
“At some level. But if you’re referring to an organized business operation to make money, then no.” He shook his head. “They don’t have the discipline to put together something of that order. They refuse to commit their time to something that, in a perverse way, would legitimize them.”
I could hear something in his voice that he was trying to hide. Disdain or disgust, maybe. I assumed that much of what he saw in his work offended him personally.
“Are they opposed to everything outside of the white race?” I asked.
“Yes and no, and that’s what distinguishes them right now,” Famazio answered. “They believe that whites
